Page 85 of The Courtship Trap
Sebastian laughed, his heart lighter than it had been in years. He had gained his woman and his brother back, and it felt good.
When Harriet arrived,she found herself standing before the duke, her heart hammering in her chest. His sharp gaze settled on her, obscure as ever.
“I hear you wish to marry in Calais,” he said without preamble.
Harriet swallowed. “I …” She glanced at Sebastian, who gave her a small, reassuring nod. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The duke inclined his head. “Then allow me to offer my assistance. A wedding, even in Calais, requires proper arrangements. I will secure a special license and accompany you across the Channel to see it done properly.”
Harriet’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but no words came.
A lump formed in her throat as she stared at the man who had been so cold to her for so long. And yet now, he was offering her not just permission, but his blessing.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I …” She blinked them back quickly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head again. “You are to be family … Harriet … Philip is acceptable.”
“Yes, Your Gra—” Harriet curtsied, then stopped. Straightening up, she stepped forward and stood on tiptoes to press a kiss to the duke’s cheek. He was so tall, it landed on his jaw even as he leaned down to accept it. “Yes, Philip.”
She dropped back and the duke smiled. It was stiff, but it was an improvement, and she was more than willing to accept the olive branch he was extending.
Sebastian reached for her hand, squeezing it in support. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
His Grace hesitated only a moment before extending his own hand. Sebastian clasped it firmly, a silent understanding passing between them.
It was done.
Harriet was going to be his wife, and his family would support them.
She barely remembered leaving the duke’s townhouse, her mind a whirl of emotions too tangled to … well … untangle. The journey back to her own home passed in a haze, with Sebastian seated beside her in the carriage, his fingers wrapped around hers, anchoring her when she felt as though she might drift away on the tide of her own astonishment.
She had spent so long preparing for battle—for rejection, for scorn—that the sudden shift in fortune left her feeling weightless. It was done. Philip had accepted her. The duke—Sebastian’s formidable, unyielding brother—had given his blessing.
And she was going to be Sebastian’s wife. His partner. His travel companion. Her fingers tightened around his, and Sebastian glanced down at her.
“Are you well?” His voice was low, threaded with warmth and amusement.
Harriet exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I will stand beside you in Calais, repeating my vows with your family in attendance.”
Sebastian lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “That, my love, is every dream come true.”
Her heart clenched painfully at the tenderness in his voice, the devotion in his eyes.
When the carriage rumbled to a stop before her townhouse, Harriet allowed herself to be guided inside, her body and mind still reeling. Finch met them at the door, her shrewd gaze flitting back and forth between them before she gave a brisk nod, as though confirming an opinion to herself.
“Oi’ll get summat brought to the painted room,” she said.
“No need,” Sebastian interjected smoothly. “We shall retire upstairs.”
Finch’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, merely gave another nod before sweeping away.
Harriet barely had time to register the meaning of Sebastian’s words before he took her hand again and led her toward the stairs. Her pulse leapt. She climbed each step with growing anticipation, her fingers curled around his like a lifeline.
As soon as they reached her rooms and the door to her bedchamber clicked shut behind them, Sebastian turned to her, his eyes dark with desire. Harriet swallowed, heat coiling low in her belly as she reached for the buttons of her pelisse.
But Sebastian was faster, flicking them open. Then his hands came to her shoulders, slipping beneath the heavy fabric to ease it from her body. The wool slid down her arms, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric.
“You are wearing too much,” he murmured, his voice rough as he traced the line of buttons down the front of her gown.
