CHAPTER EIGHT
The days that followed blurred together in a whirlwind of preparations.
There were trousseau fittings and menu consultations and endless decisions about flowers and music and guest lists.
Lady Fordshire rallied magnificently, directing the proceedings from her bed with the imperious authority of a general marshaling her troops.
The household buzzed with activity, and everywhere Harriet turned, there were reminders of what was coming.
Through it all, Sebastian remained a steady, calming presence. He handled the financial arrangements with quiet efficiency, met with solicitors and creditors, and ensured that every debt was properly settled. He was unfailingly polite, scrupulously proper, and infuriatingly distant.
He never touched her. Never sought her out for private conversation. Never gave any indication that their betrothal was anything more than a business arrangement.
It was exactly what Harriet had asked for. And it was driving her absolutely mad.
"You're staring at him again," Mary observed, as they stood in the drawing room watching Sebastian confer with Mr. Thornton.
Harriet tore her gaze away. "I was not staring."
"You were. You've been doing it all week." Mary's expression was carefully innocent. "Not that I blame you, my lady. He is very handsome."
"He's my fiancé. I'm allowed to look at him."
"Looking and staring are different things." Mary ducked her head to hide a smile. "If you'll forgive me saying so, my lady, you don't seem entirely unhappy about this betrothal. For all your talk of duty and sacrifice."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm doing this for my family. There's nothing romantic about it."
"Of course not, my lady. Nothing romantic at all about entering into matrimony with a wealthy, handsome viscount who looks at you like you're the most fascinating creature he's ever seen."
"He doesn't…" Harriet stopped, flustered. "He doesn't look at me like that."
"He does, actually. All the servants have noticed. Cook says it's like something out of a novel."
"Cook needs to focus on the wedding breakfast and mind her own business."
"Yes, my lady." Mary's tone was perfectly deferential, but her eyes were dancing with barely suppressed amusement.
Harriet turned away, her cheeks burning. Was it true? Did Sebastian really look at her like that? And if he did, why hadn't she noticed?
Because you weren't looking, whispered a voice in the back of her mind. You spent seven years refusing to see him clearly. And now that you finally are, you don't know what to do about it.
She risked another glance across the room. Sebastian was still talking to Mr. Thornton, his profile sharp in the afternoon light. As though sensing her gaze, he turned, and their eyes met.
Something passed between them, a spark of connection, quickly suppressed. Sebastian's expression flickered, then smoothed into careful neutrality. He inclined his head politely and turned back to the solicitor.
And Harriet was left standing there, her heart pounding, wondering what on earth was happening to her.
***
The wedding was set for three weeks hence.
It was faster than propriety demanded, but Lady Fordshire had insisted. "There's been quite enough scandal surrounding this family already," she declared. "A swift wedding will quell the worst of the gossip and give everyone something pleasant to focus on."
Harriet suspected her mother's motives had less to do with gossip and more to do with locking Sebastian down before either of them could change their minds. But she didn't argue. The sooner this was done, the sooner she could stop feeling like she was perpetually standing on the edge of a cliff.
Three days before the wedding, she found herself alone with Sebastian for the first time since their betrothal.
They had been discussing some detail of the ceremony with the vicar, who had been called away by an urgent message from a dying parishioner. Suddenly, it was just the two of them in the church's small vestry, surrounded by dusty liturgical books and the lingering scent of incense.
"Well," Harriet said, breaking the awkward silence. "This is uncomfortable."
Sebastian's lips twitched. "Is it?"
"Don't pretend you haven't noticed. We've barely exchanged two words in private since the betrothal. It's as though we're strangers who happen to be planning a wedding."
"I didn't want to presume." Sebastian's voice was careful. "You made your feelings about this arrangement quite clear. I thought you might prefer... distance."
"I thought I did too." Harriet moved to the window, looking out at the churchyard. "But now I'm not so sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that in three days, I'm going to stand at that altar and promise to spend the rest of my life with you. And I realised that I don't actually know you. Not really. Not beyond the surface."
"You know me better than you believe."
"Do I?" Harriet turned to face him. "I know you were Richard's friend. I know you're generous to a fault. I know you have excellent taste in waistcoats and terrible taste in poetry."
"My taste in poetry is perfectly respectable."
"You once told Richard that Wordsworth was 'adequate but uninspired.'"
"A fair assessment."
"Wordsworth is a genius."
"Wordsworth is a sentimentalist who uses too many daffodils." Sebastian's expression softened. "But I take your point. We've spent more time arguing than actually conversing."
"Yes. And I'd like to change that. If we're going to be husband and wife, we should at least know each other well enough to have a proper conversation."
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. Then he moved to sit on one of the wooden benches that lined the vestry walls, patting the space beside him.
"What would you like to know?" he asked.
Harriet sat, leaving a careful distance between them. "Everything. Anything. Tell me something I don't know about you."
"That's rather a broad request."
"Then start anywhere. I'm not particular."
Sebastian considered for a moment. "I dislike eggs."
Harriet blinked. "Eggs?"
“I have an aversion to them, I never had a fancy for them." Never could. The texture, the smell, everything about them is vile." He shrugged at her surprised expression. "You asked for something you didn't know. Now you know."
"I... suppose I do." Harriet felt a bubble of unexpected laughter rising in her chest. "What else?"
"I have an irrational fear of moths."
"Moths? Not spiders? Not snakes?"
"Moths. Something about the way they flutter. I find them deeply unsettling." Sebastian's expression was perfectly serious, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes. "Your turn. Tell me something I don't know about you."
Harriet thought for a moment. "I do not particularly take well to dancing.”
“ I have observed you dancing and I must say that I find that you have a skill at dancing.”
"I can perform the steps. But I don't enjoy it. I find it tedious and uncomfortable, and I only do it because society demands it." Harriet smiled ruefully. "Every dance I've ever attended, I've spent the entire time counting the minutes until I could escape to the refreshment table."
"Then we shall have to limit our dancing at the wedding breakfast. I wouldn't want you counting minutes on our wedding day."
"That's very considerate of you."
"I try." Sebastian's voice softened. "What else? What other secrets are you hiding behind that formidable exterior?"
"I'm not formidable."
"You are. Terrifyingly so. Half the men in London are afraid of you."
"Only half?"
“The others are so unhappily gifted with ignorance that they fail to perceive the necessity of fear.”
Harriet laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of her by the unexpected compliment. Sebastian's expression warmed, and something loosened in Harriet's chest.
This was nice. Easy. The kind of conversation she had imagined having with a future husband but never quite believed she would find.
"I write poetry," she said quietly. "Still. In secret."
Sebastian's expression flickered. "I know."
"You know? How could you possibly…"
"Richard told me." Sebastian's voice was gentle. "Years ago. He said you had never stopped writing, despite what happened. He was proud of you for that."
Harriet felt tears prickling at her eyes. "He never told me he knew."
"He didn't want to embarrass you. But he used to read your poems, the ones you left lying about. He said they were beautiful."
"They're not beautiful. They're terrible."
"They're honest. That's better than beautiful."
The words hung between them, weighted with meaning Harriet couldn't quite parse. She wanted to ask how Sebastian knew what her poems were like. She wanted to ask if he had read them too, if Richard had shared them with him, if he…
But the door opened, and the vicar returned, apologising for the interruption, and the moment was lost.
They left the church separately, returning to Fordshire Park in their respective carriages. But something had changed, a part of the wall had crumbled, some distance had closed.
And Harriet found herself thinking that maybe…just maybe, this matrimony wouldn't be the sacrifice she had feared.
***
The night before the wedding, Harriet couldn't sleep.
She lay in her bed, staring at the canopy above her, running through everything that would happen tomorrow. The ceremony, the breakfast, the toasts, the first dance, the departure for Sebastian's estate where they would spend their matrimonial night…
Their marital night.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. She still hadn't discussed it with Sebastian, nor did she have the courage to ask what he expected, what he wanted, what he hoped for. The subject felt too intimate, too fraught with implications she wasn't ready to examine.
But she would have to examine them tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would be Sebastian's wife, and all the things that entailed would become suddenly, urgently real.