CHAPTER FOUR #2
The question surfaced before she could stop it, and once surfaced, would not sink again.
What if she set aside her pride, her principles, her seven years of carefully cultivated animosity, and simply.
.. accepted? He had said he would not have her that way, but what if she came to him willingly?
What if she proposed the arrangement herself, as her mother had suggested?
It would solve everything. The debts, the creditors, the threat to the estate.
She would be wedded to a man who was wealthy, titled, and…
she could admit this now, in the dark, where no one could hear, not entirely unhandsome.
Many women entered into matrimony for less.
Many women would consider themselves fortunate.
But she would know. She would always know that she had sold herself for money, that Sebastian had bought her with his fortune, that their matrimony was a transaction rather than a choice.
And Sebastian would know too. He would look at her across their breakfast table, their ballroom, their bed, and see a woman who had come to him out of desperation rather than desire.
Because I would not have her that way.
His words echoed in her memory, heavy with meaning she hadn't fully understood at the time. He had refused to wed her when she had no other choice. What did that say about what he wanted? About what he felt?
Nothing, she told herself firmly. It said nothing. Sebastian was honourable, that was all. He had principles, and he lived by them. His refusal was about his own conscience, not about any particular feelings for her.
And yet.
I would not have her that way.
As though there were other ways he might want to have her. As though the having itself was something he had considered.
Harriet turned onto her side, then onto her back, then onto her other side. The bedclothes twisted around her legs; the pillow grew hot beneath her head. She was being foolish. She was reading significance into casual words, constructing castles from sand.
Sebastian Vane did not have feelings for her.
If he felt anything at all, it was guilt over the poetry incident, obligation to Richard's memory, perhaps a general sense of responsibility toward a family he had once been close to.
Such matters did not constitute the basis of affection nor did they constitute affairs of the heart.
In any event, she did not have any feelings for him.
The strange flutter in her chest when he looked at her was merely anxiety and the warmth that spread through her when he smiled was simply relief at not being treated as an enemy.
The way she kept noticing the shape of his hands, the line of his jaw, the exact shade of grey in his eyes, that was observation, nothing more.
Harriet groaned and pressed her palms against her eyes. This was useless. She was never going to sleep, and lying here cataloguing all the things she definitely did not feel about Sebastian Vane was not helping.
She rose, pulling on her dressing gown, and slipped out of her room. Perhaps a walk would clear her head. Perhaps the library would offer distraction as there was always a book to lose herself in, some other world to escape to.
The house was dark and quiet, the servants long since retired, only the occasional creak of settling timbers to mark her passage. She made her way downstairs by memory and moonlight, avoiding the steps that squeaked, testing each door handle carefully before turning it.
The library door was already open. A faint light spilled from candlelight, flickering softly against the walls.
Harriet froze. Someone was in the library. One of the servants, perhaps, who had forgotten to extinguish the candles before retiring. Or…
She stepped closer, peering through the gap in the doorway, and felt her breath catch in her throat.
Sebastian was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, a book open on his lap, his face illuminated by the glow of a single candle.
He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though he had removed his coat and loosened his cravat, and there was something about the informality of his appearance that made Harriet's pulse quicken despite herself.
He looked up, as though sensing her presence, and their eyes met through the half-open door.
"Lady Harriet." His voice was soft, pitched not to carry. "Can you not sleep either?"
She could leave. She could apologise for disturbing him, retreat to her room, pretend this encounter had never happened. It would be the proper thing to do. The safe thing.
Harriet pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"It seems we have that in common," she said. "Sleeplessness."
"One of many things, perhaps." Sebastian set aside his book and rose. "Would you like to sit? I can ring for tea, if you wish.”
"No, don't disturb the servants. I just... I couldn't quiet my mind. I thought reading might help."
"A sound strategy. Though I confess it hasn't worked particularly well for me." Sebastian gestured to the book he had abandoned. "I've read the same page four times without taking in a single word."
Harriet moved to the bookshelves, more to give herself something to do than from any real desire to find a book. She could feel Sebastian's eyes on her, tracking her movement through the room, and her skin prickled with awareness.
"What were you reading?" she asked, keeping her voice light.
"Poetry, as it happens." She heard the smile in his voice. "I thought it might be soothing. I was wrong."
"You read poetry?"
"On occasion. Does that surprise you?"
"I suppose I didn't take you for a poetical man."
"I am a man of many hidden depths, Lady Harriet." A pause. "Some of them quite shallow, admittedly."
Despite herself, she laughed. It was a small laugh, quickly stifled, but genuine. Sebastian's lips curved in response, and something in his eyes warmed.
"That's better," he said. "I haven't heard you laugh in... I don't know how long."
"I haven't had much to laugh about."
"No. I suppose not." He moved closer, not touching her, but near enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Harriet…may I call you Harriet? It seems absurd to maintain formality at this hour."
"You may." Her voice came out slightly breathless. "Harriet is fine."
"Harriet, then." He said her name carefully, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue. "I want you to know that whatever happens with the estate, the debts, all of it, I will not abandon your family. I made a promise to Richard, and I intend to keep it."
"You keep mentioning Richard." Harriet turned to face him. "As though he's the only reason you care what happens to us."
"Is he not?"
“I find myself without an answer. Perhaps you will be so good as to provide one?”
The challenge hung in the air between them. Sebastian's expression was difficult to read in the candlelight, half shadow, and half gold, like something out of a painting.
"Richard was my closest friend," he said slowly. "His family became my family, in many ways. When he passed, I felt that loss not just for myself, but for all of you. For what you had lost, and what I had lost along with it."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Doesn't it?"
"No. I asked whether Richard was the only reason you care. You've told me why you care about the family. But I'm asking…" Harriet stopped, suddenly uncertain whether she wanted to finish the question. Whether she wanted to know the answer.
"You're asking whether I care about you specifically." Sebastian's voice was very quiet. "Apart from your family. Apart from Richard."
"Yes."
The word seemed to hang in the silence, laden with implications that Harriet wasn't ready to examine. Sebastian held her gaze for a long moment, something shifting in the depths of his grey eyes.
"That," he said finally, "is a complicated question."
"Then give me a complicated answer."
"I'm not certain I can. Not without saying things that might... change how you see me."
"Things are already changing. Everything is changing. What's one more shift in a landscape that's already unrecognisable?"
Sebastian exhaled slowly. "You want honesty. Very well. I will give you as much honesty as I can, though I warn you it may not be what you want to hear."
"I'll take that risk."
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured…the voice of a man choosing each word with deliberate precision.
"I have known you for many years," he said.
"In that time, I have watched you grow from a precocious child into a remarkable woman.
I have watched you face tragedy with courage, navigate society with wit, and defend your family with a ferocity that would put warriors to shame.
" He paused. "I have also spent most of those years knowing that you despise me, and accepting that as the price of my own foolishness. "
"Your foolishness?"
"The poetry incident. Surely you haven't forgotten."
"I've forgotten nothing." Harriet's voice was sharper than she intended. "You laughed at me. In front of everyone. You made me feel like a fool."
"I know." Sebastian's face was pained. "And I have regretted it every day since."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Because I was young and foolish and…He stopped, shaking his head. “No… That's not fair to either of us. You deserve the truth."
"Then tell me the truth."
Sebastian turned away, moving to stand by the fireplace. He stared into the cold grate as though seeking answers in the ashes.
"I laughed," He said quietly, "because I was terrified."
"Terrified? Of what?"
"Of you."
The word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water. Harriet felt something shift in her chest…confusion, disbelief, something else she couldn't name.
"That's absurd," she said. "I was A young girl in my teen years. What could you possibly have been afraid of?"