Chapter 8
Beneath the ancient oak's embrace,
We wander'd slow, in gentle pace;
Your hand in mine, a perfect fit,
As evening's glow in silence lit.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
* * *
December 13, 1821
Sebastian woke with a start, the cold light of dawn spilling through the curtains of his borrowed bedroom.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away the remnants of his restless sleep.
The sheets were twisted around his legs, the warmth of slumber long gone, replaced by a familiar, insistent disquiet.
It had been years since he had allowed himself to dwell on that last day with Harriet, years since he had let the memory rise from where he had buried it.
And yet, ever since seeing her again, the past forced its way to the surface, dragging him back to a time when he had been young and foolish enough to believe in forever.
He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees. The embers of a fire from the night before still smoldered in the grate, casting flickering shadows against the paneled walls.
That St. Valentine’s Day had been the day before they were supposed to flee.
The hushed tenderness of that final evening together …
her voice low and certain, her hand in his, the unshakable conviction that she was his and he was hers.
He had held her with reverence, with the certainty of a man who believed he would spend his life by her side.
She had made promises in the half-light, her voice hushed but fierce with belief.
Then morning had come, and she had not.
Sebastian inhaled sharply, his hands clenching into fists. The betrayal had carved into him deeper than he had ever admitted. Even now, with years between them, he could not entirely suppress the sting of it.
He pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to splash cold water on his face. It did little to clear his thoughts.
She had changed. That was what troubled him most.
The Harriet he had known had been flirtatious, beguiling, always laughing, always seeking the admiration of those around her. The woman he had met again was different. Still sharp, still beautiful, but there was something guarded in her now, something almost weary.
And there was something she was not telling him.
Dressing quickly, he donned a dark waistcoat and coat, shrugging into them with an impatient tug.
He had no desire to pick at old wounds, but neither could he ignore the strange puzzle she had become.
By the time he descended to breakfast, Lorenzo was already seated at the table, a cup of coffee in hand, his sharp black eyes fixing on Sebastian the moment he stepped into the room.
“Another late morning, amico?” Lorenzo smirked, his Italian accent giving the words an easy lilt.
Sebastian grunted, pouring himself coffee. “I did not realize I had a nursemaid now.”
Lorenzo chuckled, setting down his cup. “A nursemaid? No. A friend who happens to be deeply invested in retrieving a certain painting? Absolutely.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, how has your charming courtship progressed?”
Sebastian exhaled slowly, stirring his coffee with more force than necessary. “It progressed as one would expect of a staged courtship.”
Lorenzo was unimpressed. “Which means?”
“She plays her part well.”
“Ah.” Lorenzo took another sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of his cup. “And yet you are brooding over your morning meal like a man who has spent the night wrestling with ghosts.”
Sebastian shot him a warning glance. “I am merely considering our next steps.”
Lorenzo made a sound of disbelief. “Yesterday, you spoke of her past, of what she once was to you. But you have not yet told me if you learned anything about our true purpose.” He tapped a finger against the table. “Matteo’s painting.”
Sebastian had known this was coming.
He set his cup down carefully. “I did not mention it.”
Lorenzo’s brows lifted. “Not at all?”
“No.”
His friend tilted his head. “And why is that, I wonder?”
Because speaking of paintings and business felt utterly inconsequential when faced with the reality of Harriet in front of him, standing in the soft glow of the British Museum, her lips curving in a knowing smile, her eyes filled with something he could not yet name.
Or the memory of that stolen moment at Hatchards, when everything else had ceased to matter, and only the sound of approaching footsteps had recalled him to his senses.
Or watching her put her father in his place, an unexpected development that had made his heart swell with pride for the strong, independent woman she had become.
The instant he had seen her again, his carefully laid plans had begun to unravel. Because some foolish, reckless part of him still wanted to believe she was more than a means to an end. He did not say any of that.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, meeting Lorenzo’s gaze steadily. “Harriet has always been adept at keeping her secrets. I will learn what I need to in time.”
Lorenzo studied him, his dark eyes keen. “See that you do, amico. You and I both know why we are in England, and we have obligations to see to in Florence.”
Sebastian said nothing, merely lifting his cup once more, hiding his expression behind the rim as he swallowed down the bitter taste of coffee and something far more dangerous. His own uncertainty.
He arrived at Harriet’s residence just as a fresh gust of December wind swept through the streets, whipping stray flakes of snow from rooftops and scattering them like powdered sugar over the cobbles.
The morning was crisp, the sky a pale and frigid blue, the kind that promised a day without further snowfall but no relief from the biting cold.
He flexed his fingers in his gloves, rolling his shoulders beneath his heavy greatcoat as he stepped down from the carriage, a faint grimace at the corner of his lips.
London in December was a paradox: bustling and yet subdued, lively but weighed down by the gray cast of winter.
The Season was mostly concluded, the brightest lights of the ton having long since retired to their country estates for Christmastide, leaving the city a quieter, less gilded version of itself.
The once-crowded avenues were less frenetic, the grand houses resting in a more somber dignity without the constant flow of carriages and visiting callers.
Even so, the heart of the city still pulsed with life, particularly in the commercial districts where merchants peddled holiday goods and street vendors huddled over steaming carts of roasted chestnuts and hot meat pies.
The chill did little to prevent the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakeries and mingling with the sharper tang of horsehair and damp wool.
Sebastian inhaled deeply, ignoring the way the cold sharpened in his lungs. It was an odd thing to be back here, to walk these familiar streets as though he had never left. But the longer he stayed in London, the more he realized that the city had moved on without him.
When the door opened, he was greeted by Harriet’s odd housekeeper.
Finch was a squat, no-nonsense woman with an assessing gaze that reminded him of a drill sergeant inspecting the troops.
She barely blinked at his presence, nor did she bother with unnecessary formalities before stepping aside to let him in.
“Lady Slight and Lady Wood will be down presently,” she announced before disappearing down the hall.
Sebastian removed his hat and gloves, handing them off to a new footman who looked as though he had been recently pressed into service, older than most and slightly too eager, not yet possessing the polished indifference of seasoned staff.
Sebastian was still growing accustomed to Harriet’s peculiar household.
Everything about it was unexpected, from the recent lack of traditional footmen to the unorthodox servants who seemed more like strays taken in than proper domestics.
He had not yet made up his mind whether to admire Harriet for it or worry about what it meant.
A moment later, the rustle of skirts signaled their arrival, and he turned to find Harriet descending the stairs, Lady Wood just behind her.
Both were bundled in thick cloaks, layers of wool and fur carefully arranged to ward off the chill.
Harriet’s deep green pelisse was lined with sable, the color complementing the striking auburn of her hair, which was neatly tucked beneath a bonnet of the same green shade.
Lady Wood, by contrast, wore a more subdued ensemble of dove gray, her gloved hands primly clasped before her as she stepped down with quiet grace.
“You are well prepared for the elements,” Sebastian observed, his gaze resting on Harriet.
She arched a brow. “London in December is hardly forgiving. I do not intend to spend the day as an icicle.”
He grinned, offering his arm as he escorted them to the waiting carriage.
He helped Lady Wood in first, then turned to Harriet.
As she placed her gloved hand in his, he felt the briefest hesitation, an unspoken awareness passing between them as they both remembered the stolen kiss in the bookshop.
Then she was inside, settling into the squabs, and the moment passed.
As the carriage lurched forward, they fell into easy conversation.
“I enjoyed our book shopping,” Harriet remarked as she adjusted the folds of her cloak.
“Then Hatchards was the right place for such an endeavor,” Sebastian replied. “Have you thought of any more titles?”
“I will need novels, of course, but also travelogues. I should like to read of faraway places. Perhaps it will inspire me to venture beyond England’s shores one day.”
Sebastian’s lips curved. “Ah, so you will take to wandering at last? I seem to recall someone less than enthusiastic about my eagerness for the Grand Tour in our youth.”