Page 12 of The Courtship Trap
Sebastian gradually realizedhe had not imagined the dismissive words.
Harriet was even more beautiful than he remembered, and it had left him distracted during their awkward exchange. Her auburn hair was elegantly coifed, her ice-blue eyes as riveting as the vision that visited his dreams, her delicate features perfectly sculpted, reminiscent of a masterpiece from ancient Rome. She had matured into a lovely young woman.
He had been watching her so closely that he caught the slight narrowing of her eyes, the shift from ice blue to frozen frost when he had posed his question, followed by her haughty dismissal.
Even after all these years, he could still read the transitions of her mood. She had always possessed a volatile temper, even in their youth, and he knew he had upset her—though in what way, he could not quite place his finger on.
Unfortunately, not nearly as much as she had upset him.
To learn that his most valued possession—the painting that had stoked his love of art, set him on his current career with Lorenzo, and remained his constant companion across countries and months of travel—was now gone?
The very piece he had treasured for years, until the memories it evoked had become too unbearable to face. Until he had made the agonizing decision to send it to the woman he had once loved, accompanied by a letter meant to close the door on a past that still tormented him.
Only to now be told she had given it away?
And in that moment … He hated her.
Hated her with the burning passion of a spurned lover who had never forgotten a single second of their time together.
Hated her with the fury of a bottomless ocean, bent on destroying the mortals who dared to traverse its depths during a violent storm. Much like the day he had sailed from British soils to begin a new life without her at his side.
Sebastian found he had nothing to say in response—nothing that would not leave him riddled with regret if he allowed the words to escape his lips.
So he turned and walked away.
As he sank into the well-padded squabs of the Scotts’ carriage, Sebastian’s mind churned with restless fury. Unfortunately, he needed to clear his head because he had made the greenhorn error of agreeing to meet with his brother immediately after this call on Harriet. There would be no time to cool the rage bellowing through his veins, no reprieve before facing yet another battle.
His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his knee as he forced his thoughts elsewhere—toward the things that made him happy.
He imagined walking the narrow streets of Florence, his boots clicking softly against centuries-worn stones, polished smooth by countless footfalls. The city would be alive with the hum of conversation, the distant trill of a violin, the scent of warm bread drifting from a bakery tucked beneath an ochre archway.
Yet it was not the bustle of the streets that drew him back again and again.
It was the art.
The soul of the city, immortalized in fresco and marble.
The Piazza della Signoria—where Perseus stood in defiant splendor beneath the Loggia dei Lanzi. How many hours had Sebastian spent here, sketchbook in hand, capturing thedramatic tension in the lines of Medusa’s lifeless form? He had gone there as a younger man, restless and searching, and found solace from the personal history pressing upon his shoulders.
In his mind, he turned toward the Uffizi Gallery, that hallowed temple of genius where Botticelli’sBirth of Venusstill stole his breath. He had studied her countless times—the delicate arch of her wrist, the ethereal way her golden locks curled about her shoulders, as if the wind itself were in love with her. It was here, beneath the soft glow of candlelight reflecting off gilded frames, that he had first understood the power of color, of form, of light and shadow whispering stories only the soul could hear.
Yet of all the places that belonged to him in this city, it was the quiet halls of San Marco that beckoned most.
Here, masterful frescoes adorned the cells of long-departed monks, each painting a private window into devotion.
He had stood in the silence of those narrow chambers, the scent of old plaster and incense clinging to the air, and traced his fingers just above the painted surface—never touching, only feeling.
Florence was a city of masterpieces, but it was also a city of discovery.
Of dreams he had once chased … and perhaps still did.
And though he had left, though his loyalty to Lorenzo had drawn him back to England, he knew that no matter where he wandered, Florence would always be waiting for him.
When the carriage drew to a stop, Sebastian opened his eyes, a small measure of peace restored.
He had traveled so far, yet he had never found another woman who captured his heart as Harriet once had.
But that was the past. A past he suspected, unfortunately, he would be forced to revisit when he spoke with Philip.
