Page 17 of The Courtship Trap
His blond hair fell loosely around his face, like the mane of a proud jungle cat. His square face, bronzed by foreign suns, seemed somehow harsher than she remembered. The slash of a smile revealed white teeth as he contemplated her with an expression of mild fondness—a look that unsettled her far more than a glare would have.
His long, hard frame remained in excellent condition after all these years—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips—yet there were differences now. His legs were more muscular, hugged by form-fitting buckskins. And his style of dress had shifted. Gone were the rigid restraints of English nobility. Instead, his white linen shirt billowed slightly, his cravat loosely tied in a knot she did not recognize. Overall, he had the appearance of a man who had pursued the Grand Masters of the Continent—and been changed by them.
“It occurred to me that I was not particularly friendly when I called on you yesterday.” Sebastian’s deep voice was softer now, though it conveyed an intensity that made Harriet’s breath catch. “Seeing you after all these years … It took all my nerve to visit the girl I admired so ardently as a young man.”
The admission did unexpected things to Harriet’s equilibrium. Her stomach tightened; her hands grew restless in her lap. But most troubling was the sharp spike of guilt, a reminder of the lie she had told him. That wretched painting. Those planks of wood covered in oil paint, the brushstrokes of a skilled artist—they meant more to her than she cared to admit to anyone. Even Sebastian. Especially Sebastian.
“It … was unnerving for me too,” she finally managed, offering a peaceable response after her dismissive words the day before. “I was quite alarmed when Evaline told me of your visit. The … timing of it was …” Harriet’s mind wandered to the strange events of the past few months and to the sudden reappearance of the only person she had truly held dear.
If only she had realized the mistake she had been making all those years ago. If only she had eloped with him to Calais. Surely, she would not now be seeking redemption for the past five years. Years spent in the high-society prison of her own making. Her soul would still be intact, not broken into so many pieces that she no longer knew if they could ever be gathered again.
“… serendipitous,” she finished weakly, realizing that Sebastian had raised a quizzical eyebrow when she had failed to complete the sentence.
What would it be like to turn back the clock?
To be married now to the handsome gentleman seated across from her. Would they have had babes of their own by now? The mere thought of it made her eyes burn with unshed tears.
His arrival felt like fate toying with her for its own secretive amusements. Six months ago, she might have laughed it off, reaching for a bottle of wine to dull the ache. But now—now, when she was attempting to change the course of her life, when her emotions lay raw and her sobriety was so vital … It seemed as though the gods themselves had chosen to mock her, presenting her with a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been. She could almost hear them sneering from their lofty perch:See here, Harriet! See what you missed out on, you foolish girl!
Sebastian’s face broke into a devastating grin, and Harriet had to fight the urge to clap a hand over her heart, which had lurched painfully in her chest.
“Serendipitous?” His voice held a teasing note. “You mean, of things that are serendipity? You still remember that?”
Harriet blinked, struggling to recover her wits as she considered what he had just asked. “The anecdote you told … of the writer Horace Walpole?” Her voice remained steady, though it took all the courage she possessed to continue. “That heshared his coined word with his cronies at his literary clubs, your great-uncle included, in reference to the Persian tale,The Three Princes of Serendip? There is little I have forgotten of our time together.”
It cost her dearly to make such an admission. After so many years of glib nonchalance, it was almost painful to allow even a hint of her younger, more candid self to resurface. But she supposed she owed him at least a modicum of honesty, especially after pretending his gift had been of so little import just the day before.
“Serendipitous,” Sebastian repeated the word, his tone thoughtful, as if experimenting with its new form. “Walpole himself would be envious he did not think to use it in that manner.”
There it was—a hint of appreciation in his expression.
Harriet watched him carefully and guessed the hurt she had inflicted yesterday had now been undone. A relief, because there was no possibility she would relinquish her most prized possession, not even to make amends.
If she gave up the painting, she feared the last splinters of her soul would be scattered beyond redemption. Anything good she had done in the past five years—every sign she still possessed a heart—had been because of that painting. It represented reflection, remorse, and an iota of hope that she was not entirely lost, arriving during her darkest hours after she had wed a man as old as time himself, and it had served as salvation from the endless despair of not having accompanied the man she loved.
The mere knowledge that he still existed somewhere out in the world, that he still thought of her with any fondness after all that had transpired, meant more than she could ever confess to another living soul. It was all she had left of … them.
Her lips curled in response, though she struggled between joy and melancholy at being near him after so long apart.
“The thing is, Harry, it turns out the painting was done by my partner’s ancestor. The only painting we know of by Matteo di Bianchi, and Lorenzo is quite frantic to obtain it,” Sebastian declared.
But Harriet barely heard him. Her attention was fixed—utterly and completely—on a single word.Harry. No one had called her that since him. Surely it meant that he still held some fondness for their shared youth?
She was overpowered by memories. Walking through the woods at Avonmead. Exploring the great library within its walls. Routing through the treasure trove of art stored within the attics—paintings of far-off places, dreams captured in oil and canvas.
Spending time with Sebastian had been the happiest moments of her youth. Of her entire life. Why were the gods so cruel as to visit him upon her now?
And then it struck her—an overwhelming desire to experience it all again. To recapture even a moment of the girl she had been, racing about Wiltshire with Sebastian at her side. A time when she had truly believed that one day they would marry and then every moment would be the happiest of her life.
Sebastian rolled his shoulders, his expression clouded with concern, as though he were waiting for her to speak. When Harriet continued to stare back at him, caught in the maelstrom of her memories, he pressed on.
“Could you tell me whom you gave the painting to?”
Harriet tilted her head, the question pulling her back from the past. She went over his last words in her mind, gathering the threads of their conversation once more:“… Harry … the painting was done by my partner’s ancestor … only painting we know of … quite frantic to obtain it.”
The implication struck her. The painting must hold great value. He was determined to reclaim it.
And now—now, Harriet found herself equally determined. Determined to grasp even a glimmer of the joy she had once felt in his company.
