Page 38 of The Courtship Trap
Lord Hargreaves did not move. He merely turned his head, his sharp gaze piercing her like a blade.
“I am comfortable where I am,” he said, his voice deceptively mild.
Harriet tilted her head, meeting his stare without flinching. “Suit yourself.”
She crossed the room and lowered herself onto the settee, arranging her skirts with deliberate elegance. Sebastian’s attention never left her. Her father had come here in anger, that much was clear. But Harriet had learned long ago that anger was a tool—one men wielded to make others flinch.
She would not flinch.
And besides, she had Sebastian sitting just across from her, watching everything, weighing everything. A part of her—the girl she had been, the one who had once believed Sebastian could be her escape—wanted to turn to him and say,See?See what she had endured. See what she had been raised beneath.
But she said nothing. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, fixed a pleasant smile upon her face, and waited. Her father wanted something. She would find out what it was soon enough.
The rideback to Harriet’s townhouse had been suitably agreeable, though Sebastian remained keenly aware of the way she carefully sidestepped any mention of her evening the night before. He had asked again, rather casually, whether she had spent a quiet night at home, and she had responded with an easy smile and a vague confirmation that she had.
But he did not believe her.
Not for a moment.
It was the manner in which she said it—too smooth, too well-practiced. And it gnawed at him, because if Harriet had learned to lie so well, what else had she mastered hiding over the years?
Yet, despite the lingering irritation, he could not deny the satisfaction that came from spending the morning in hercompany. The familiar lilt of her voice, the quick wit that had once enthralled him so effortlessly—it was all too easy to forget the years that lay between them. Too easy to remember what it had been like when he had thought she would be his.
Sebastian had exhaled and forced his thoughts elsewhere, settling in with Harriet and Lady Wood to discuss the books they had ordered at Hatchards. He learned, in the course of their conversation, that Lady Wood’s late husband had met his end in a most spectacularly foolish way—breaking into another lord’s home over a card game dispute, pistol in hand, only to be shot for his trouble.
Sebastian had to admire Lady Wood’s composure as she had spoken of it, her voice light, as though she were discussing the weather. “It was a mercy, in truth. I would not have relished the alternative—him being hanged for trespass and attempted murder.”
Harriet had reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand in support. “You deserved better,” she had said quietly.
“And I have found better. A peaceful home. Good company. What more could I ask?”
The conversation had turned lighter after that, and soon, they arrived at Harriet’s townhouse.
As the footman opened the carriage door, Sebastian had stepped down first, offering his hand to Harriet, then to Lady Wood. Harriet’s fingers were steady in his grasp, but he could not help but remember how they had trembled, just slightly, when she had slipped from the ladder in Hatchards, right before he had kissed her.
The memory sent a rush of warmth through him, quickly followed by irritation at his own foolhardy weakness.
The door to the townhouse had opened before they reached it. Mrs. Finch, the formidable housekeeper, stood at the threshold, her expression as impassive as ever.
Harriet ordered tea, and Finch replied that a guest was waiting for her. Sebastian did not miss the way Harriet’s posture stiffened ever so slightly before she stepped inside. She had turned back to them and, with a smile too serene to be genuine, gestured toward the drawing room.
“Well, come in, then. No use lingering in the cold.”
Sebastian had followed, noting the slight tension in her shoulders as they entered the painted room.
And then he understood—Harriet’s father was in the room. Bertram Hargreaves stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the street with the rigid air of a man who disapproved of everything he saw. He turned only when Harriet stepped inside, his cold blue eyes raking over her before flicking to Sebastian.
Harriet took a seat and invited her father to join them for tea.
“Well,” Hargreaves eventually declared after staring at Sebastian for several icy seconds, his voice as smooth as silk, the menacing tone insidious. “Lady Slight, I see you are still keeping questionable company.”
Lady Wood, the viscount ignored completely; presumably, a lowly widow was too below his station to acknowledge even with a sneering insult.
Sebastian smiled, unruffled. “A pleasure as always, Lord Hargreaves.”
The older man ignored him, his gaze settling on Lady Wood next, and though his expression did not change, Sebastian sensed the slight curl of disdain that lingered beneath the surface. Hargreaves considered a spare to a duke beneath his notice. To make matters worse, Sebastian was no longer even the spare. His brother had sired his heir.
Harriet did not acknowledge her father’s comment. “You must have urgent business with me if you have taken the trouble to visit,” she said lightly.
