Page 87 of The Courtship Trap
Sebastian approached, caressing his hands down her spine and down to cup her rounded cheeks. Then she nearly swooned when his blunt tip nudged against her swollen, throbbing womanhood, before sliding inside her with one smooth motion.
She gasped out loud, stunned by the size of him, how much she could feel him in the position, how deep he was buried, as if they were truly one organism. As he began to rock his hips and thrust into her, the sensation mounted. Each thrust was so glorious, so overwhelming, that it took all her willpower to push back against him instead of collapsing in a moaning heap of mindless pleasure.
When his hand came sliding around, seeking the center of her pleasure to touch her exactly the way she liked it, she bucked, ecstasy shooting out through every nerve as she rode the white-hot waves to her peak. But even when she shrieked her surrender, her feet arching in tortured pleasure, he was not done.
As he gripped her hip firmly with his large hand, his pace grew more frantic. Pounding into her to seek his own summit, his stamina and his strength were to be admired for their pure, powerful masculinity. Until finally he surged into her with one last thrust, a loud groan, and froze, his shoulders arched back as she felt the warm wetness of him spending deep inside her. She moaned anew as she took his seed and thought of the children she would bear him. They would enjoy a true marriage, the kind she had been so envious of.
Then he wrapped a muscular arm around her waist and rolled them as one into the bed. There they lay together gasping for breath, wrapped in each other’s arms, and Harriet marveled at how close she felt to the wonderful man at her side. Her engaging in bed sport with the man she truly admired, whom she had revealed her inner secrets to, was beyond comparison to anything she had ever experienced. Even better than her first time with him years before because there were no more deceits between them.
They had laid their souls bare to one another and accepted the virtues and the flaws to form a true partnership. And maybe this was what fate had intended all along. To bring them back together where they belonged.
EPILOGUE
But vain the assistance that riches bestow,
The rapture that beauty imparts,
To soften the painful reflections of woe,
Or banish distress from our hearts.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
Sebastian stepped into the Scott townhouse, the sizable painting secure in his grip. Though it was not heavy in the conventional sense, it bore the full weight of his past, of his emotions, and of the mysteries it might reveal. He had no use for it—no desire to keep it—but the moment he had held it in his hands again, he had known precisely where it needed to go.
Lorenzo was already waiting in the library, his dark brows furrowed as he paced with restless energy. When he spotted Sebastian, his sharp gaze locked onto the painting, and hisentire posture shifted from impatience to barely contained exhilaration.
“You have it,” Lorenzo breathed, his voice thick with anticipation. He crossed the room in a few swift strides, barely sparing Sebastian a glance before reaching for the painting with near veneration.
Sebastian relinquished it easily, stepping back as Lorenzo cradled the wooden panel in his hands, tilting it toward the light from the tall windows. “Dio mio, Matteo’s brushwork … Look at the layering, the depth!” His fingers traced the edge of the frame, his eyes alight with admiration. “She is even more magnificent than I imagined.”
Sebastian folded his arms, watching as Lorenzo drank in every detail, his joy palpable.
The painting was a masterpiece of quiet legend, its rich pigments lending vibrancy to the scene. Painted on wood, the four-foot-square panel depicted a woman standing in a moonlit lake, her form half-shrouded in the silvery mist rising from the still waters.
She was the Lady of the Lake from Arthurian legend, timeless and ethereal. Dressed in flowing robes of pale silver, the fabric rippling as if caught in an unseen breeze. Her auburn hair cascaded in waves over one shoulder, glinting with golden highlights where the artist had captured the illusion of light. But it was her expression that drew the eye—an enigmatic, knowing smile that hovered at the corner of her lips, as though she held a secret she would never fully reveal.
One delicate hand was raised, her slender fingers pointing toward the dark water below. The lake’s surface was eerily smooth, reflecting the faint glow of a hidden moon, yet the shadowy depths hinted at secrets concealed beneath—secrets waiting to be discovered. Was it a treasure? A long-lost truth? The painting did not say, only invited the viewer to wonder.
The background was lush with flowers and verdant foliage, painted in exquisite detail. White lilies floated on the water, their pale petals luminous against the dark reflections. Wild roses climbed up a twisted oak on the right, their petals tinged with the same deep crimson as the Lady’s lips. Fireflies dotted the dusky air, casting faint golden specks of light against the cool twilight hues.
There was a sense of serenity, yet also an aura suggesting the unseen. A hidden depth. The longer one looked, the more it pulled, as though the Lady herself were issuing an invitation—to step closer, to peer into the darkness, to uncover whatever lay beneath the surface. Perhaps that invitation was more than symbolic.
“She reminds me of Harriet,” Sebastian murmured, half to himself.
Lorenzo, who had been studying the fine strokes of the Lady’s flowing gown, glanced up. His eyes flicked between the painting and Sebastian before one dark brow arched. “Ah,” he said knowingly.
Sebastian exhaled sharply. “Which is why I could not keep it years ago. But now it belongs with you, Lorenzo—Matteo’s masterpiece.”
Lorenzo studied him for a moment, then nodded, his fingers skimming over the delicate contours of the Lady of the Lake’s face. “I will treasure it,” he said simply.
Sebastian nodded, pleased with his accomplishment. But as Lorenzo continued his study, a slight frown tugged at the artist’s lips. Something was wrong. Lorenzo leaned in, his expression shifting from admiration to curiosity, then sharpened. His fingers brushed over a particular section of the paint, assessing.
Sebastian frowned. “What is it?”
Lorenzo did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned toward the doorway. “We need sunlight. Come with me.”
Without waiting for a response, Lorenzo strode through the house, carrying the painting as if it were a holy relic. Sebastian followed him through the back hall, out across the lawn, and into the garden shared with the miniature estate next door. The crisp winter air bit at his skin, and the midday light, though thin, would suffice.
