Page 65 of The Courtship Trap
If she had not lied about the painting, perhaps she would be on her way to Italy with Sebastian at her side. Perhaps she would have joined him in his home, walked through the grand halls where he worked, seen the great Masters for herself. She had dreamt of Florence once, long ago—imagined the golden light over its ancient streets, the rolling hills of Tuscany, the warmth of a land so different from England.
But it was all gone now. Lost because of her own lack of wisdom.
Harriet pressed her lips together, struggling against the loss that compressed her chest. She could see it so clearly—the sun-drenched streets of Florence, the ochre rooftops glowing beneath a sky so blue it would put the finest sapphires to shame. She had imagined herself walking arm in arm with Sebastian through the bustling piazzas, past merchants hawking their wares, and perhaps observing sculptors chipping away at blocks of marble that would one day become masterpieces.
She had imagined the museums, the frescoed ceilings, the smell of oil paint lingering in the air, the feel of his hand at the small of her back as they moved through galleries filled with the work of Botticelli and Caravaggio. At night, she had picturedcandlelit suppers on a terrace overlooking the Arno, the warm Italian air carrying the scent of lemons and jasmine as Sebastian spoke passionately about his latest work, his deep voice full of the same excitement he had once shared with her in their youth.
And then, at last, she had imagined what it would be like to stand beside him in his home, to see where he lived, where he created, where he had built a life without her. She had imagined being a part of it.
And now, it would never happen.
She let out a broken laugh, wiping at her damp cheeks as the other women watched her in quiet concern.
“I thought I might go to Italy with him,” she said softly, her voice raw. “I …” She hesitated, then shook her head. “I thought we could see Florence together. Walk through the Uffizi, explore the ruins of Rome, stand in the shadow of the Duomo.” She gave a bitter smile. “But I have ruined everything.”
Evaline shifted in her chair, her delicate fingers tightening around her teacup as though she longed to say something, but for once, she seemed at a loss.
Finch made a dismissive sound. “Bah. If a man really loves ye, he don’t go abandonin’ ye over just one mistake.”
Belinda studied her carefully. “Did he say it was over?”
Harriet swallowed, glancing away. “He did not have to.”
Silence settled over the room.
And yet, as she sat there, surrounded by the women who had become her own unconventional family, the grief did not feel as suffocating as it had before. The ache in her heart remained, but it was tempered by the reminder that she was not truly alone.
She would grieve for what she had lost.
But she would endure. What choice did she have?
A small shift on the settee drew her attention. Jem had moved beside her, her small frame barely making a dent inthe cushion. Without hesitation, the girl reached out, her tiny fingers curling around Harriet’s hand in silent comfort.
Harriet’s heart turned over at the frailty of the gesture, at the simple kindness in the girl’s touch.
She squeezed Jem’s hand, finding solace in the realization that if she could not have Sebastian, at least she had helped these troubled women find a place in her home. At least she had done some good.
Richard sighed,rubbing the back of his neck before leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “It did not take long for Lady Slight to realize just how insidiously her father had embedded himself into her life,” he said, his voice grim. “The moment she started making changes, dismissing certain callers, altering her household expenses, it became apparent that nearly half her servants and retainers were being paid to report back to Bertram Hargreaves.”
Sebastian frowned, his arms still crossed. “Her own father was spying on her?”
Richard nodded. “Not just spying—controlling her. She was his possession, a pawn to be maneuvered as he saw fit. Lady Slight believes he intended her to make a second match that would benefit him. The servants, those she had trusted, were feeding him details of her daily life, ensuring he always knew what she was doing, where she was going, and with whom. He had his fingers in everything—her finances, her household, even her very freedom.”
Sebastian felt a fresh surge of anger flare in his gut. Harriet was a woman grown, a widow, and yet her father had treated heras though she were still an unwed debutante under his thumb. “So she dismissed them,” he guessed.
“Nearly all of them,” Richard confirmed. “It left her with a mostly empty household—no footmen, no maids save for a single scullery girl, no butler. Mostly just the men in the mews who do not access the house. But she did keep one person—her cook. An old woman who had served her since childhood and who she was certain had no loyalty to Hargreaves.” He shook his head. “But even with Cook, she still had problems. The woman could no longer go to market herself, so Harriet went in her stead when the scullery maid had her day off.”
Sebastian exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A viscountess forced to buy her own fish and bread.”
Richard gave a small shrug. “It was necessary. And while she was there, she found someone who would shape the course of her decisions going forward.”
Sophia, who had been watching them both in quiet patience, finally spoke. “This was when she met her first rescue,” she said knowingly.
Richard nodded. “Aye. That was the day she met the battle-axe herself.” He leaned back against his chair, his lips twitching with amusement. “Picture the scene—Lady Slight, dressed modestly, attempting to buy apples, when suddenly she hears a loud, no-nonsense voice berating a fishmonger for trying to pass off inferior haddock as fresh catch. And there stands a woman, built like a brigadier and twice as fierce, eyes sharp as bayonets, and utterly unimpressed by the poor man’s attempts to defend himself.”
Sebastian almost smirked despite himself. “You are speaking of Finch?” He had seen Finch in action. The description was all too fitting.
Richard smiled in assent at the guess. “She approached her, intrigued, and struck up a conversation. That was when shelearned Mrs. Finch’s story. She had been the wife of a tavern keeper—a successful one at that. It was she who had turned their business into a thriving establishment, managing the accounts, dealing with customers, ensuring the place remained respectable.”
