Page 78 of The Courtship Trap
Harriet could scarcely breathe. She had prepared herself for anger. For heartbreak. For the moment Sebastian would finally look at her and see someone unworthy of his love. But instead …
“You forgive me?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Sebastian exhaled, his broad shoulders rising and falling. “It is not my place to forgive you, Harry,” he said quietly. “I did foolish things when I was grieving us. You saw the error of your ways and have been making amends. I cannot hold these things against you when we were not together. I can only hold you to account for what you do moving forward.”
Harriet swallowed hard, searching his face, trying to make sense of the impossible grace he was offering her.
“We were together,” he continued, his voice rough. “And then we were not. I will not hold the last few years against you. I can only start afresh with you so we may continue our journey together.”
A sob built in her throat, but she pressed her lips together, forcing herself to hold it in.
He was giving her a future.
A chance.
A beginning.
And for the first time in her life, Harriet dared to believe she might just deserve it. With another sob, she ran into his arms, and this time he let her. Sebastian caught her, his strong arms closing around her, holding her as if he would never let go. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, at the fabric of his shirt, at anything solid—anything real—to anchor herself against the storm of emotion raging within her.
Then his head dipped, and his mouth claimed hers in a searing kiss. It was not gentle. It was not hesitant. It was everything—their past, their pain, their longing, their unspokenpromises—all poured into the heated press of his lips against hers. Harriet melted into him, grasping at his nape, drawing him impossibly closer as her body sang with the relief of his acceptance, his passion, his love.
She had spent years running from the truth, but there was no running from this. She belonged to him. She always had. And as he deepened the kiss, groaning softly against her lips, she knew this time, she would never let him go.
CHAPTER 17
If firm respect can merit claim,
And amorous passion true,
Oh! Let them plead to thee, fair dame,
For these I feel for you.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
It had been hard to listen to Harriet’s confessions, to imagine her with other men, to picture the pain she had suffered and the mistakes she had made. But now, standing here with her in his arms, he realized something vital—she had finally let him in.
She had not forced him to hear these hard truths from others, had not let him stumble upon them by accident. Instead, she had revealed them herself, laying her soul bare before him, trusting him with her deepest regrets.
And his very soul broke apart. Then reformed into something more resilient. Stronger.
Desire crashed into him, raw and unrelenting.
This time, when he kissed her, the depth of his passion was shocking even to himself. He pulled her hard against him, as if he could fuse them together, erase the years of separation and hurt.
The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest, her curves soft and yielding beneath his grip. Her hips nudged against his loins, sending fire through his veins, burning away all hesitation, all doubt.
He wanted her—had always wanted her—but this was different. This was need, aching and primal, fueled not just by desire but by everything that had come before.
His hands skimmed down her back, molding her to him, and when she moaned softly into his mouth, he lost the last of his control.
Sebastian had never kissed her like this before.
Not even when they had been young and reckless, tangled in stolen moments of passion.
Not even when he had held her in the dark, whispering his devotion against her skin.
His declarations were wild. Untamed.
