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There was no doubt her Mentor would take her to task for it. They would debate the morality of her actions until he argued her into a corner, but at this moment, she had no desire to reveal the truth. She would put off that quarrel for another day.

The painting was hers, she reasoned. Sebastian had gifted it to her. It was her last remaining connection to the girl she had once been, and the thought of giving it up was more than she could bear.

So she pasted on a brilliant smile, even as her stomach tightened at the knowledge that any last hope of reconciliation was shattered beyond repair. If Sebastian sought the painting back⁠—

“That whimsical phantasy? I rid myself of it years ago, darling.”

* * *

Sebastian slowly realized he had not imagined the dismissive words.

Harriet was even more beautiful than he remembered, and it had left him distracted during their awkward exchange. Her auburn hair was elegantly arranged, her ice-blue eyes as arresting as the vision that visited his dreams, her delicate features perfectly formed, reminiscent of a masterpiece from ancient Rome. She had matured into a lovely young woman.

He had been watching her so closely that he caught the slight narrowing of her eyes, the shift from ice blue to frozen frost when he had posed his question, followed by her haughty dismissal.

Even after all these years, he could still read the flickers of her mood. She had always possessed a mercurial temper, even in their youth, and he knew he had upset her, though in what way, he could not quite place his finger on.

Unfortunately, not nearly as much as she had upset him.

To learn that his most valued possession was now gone? The painting had kindled his love of art, set him upon his current career with Lorenzo, remained his constant companion through distant countries and long months of travel.

The very piece he had cherished for years until the memories it stirred had become too unbearable to face. Until he had made the painful decision to send it to the woman he had once loved, accompanied by a letter meant to close the door on a past that still tormented him …

Only to now be told she had given it away?

And, in that moment, he hated her with the burning passion of a forsaken lover who had never forgotten a single second of their time together. His was the fury of a fathomless ocean, bent on destroying the mortals who dared to traverse its depths during a violent storm. Much like the day he had sailed from British shores to begin a new life without her at his side.

Sebastian found he had nothing to say in response, nothing that would not leave him riddled with regret if he allowed the words to escape his lips.

So he turned and walked away.

As he settled back against the squabs of Scott’s carriage, Sebastian’s mind churned with restless fury. Unfortunately, he needed to clear his head because he had made the greenhorn error of agreeing to meet with his brother immediately after this call on Harriet. There would be no time to cool the rage surging through his veins, no reprieve before facing yet another battle.

His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his knee as he forced his thoughts elsewhere, toward the things that made him happy.

He imagined walking the narrow streets of Florence, his boots clicking softly against centuries-worn stones, polished smooth by countless footfalls. The city would be alive with the hum of conversation, the distant trill of a violin, the scent of warm bread drifting from a bakery tucked beneath an ochre archway.

Yet it was not the bustle of the streets that drew him back again and again.

It was the art.

The soul of the city, immortalized in fresco and marble.

The Piazza della Signoria, where Perseus stood in defiant splendor beneath the Loggia dei Lanzi. How many hours had he spent here, sketchbook in hand, studying the dramatic tension in the lines of Medusa’s lifeless form? He had gone there as a younger man, restless and searching, and found solace from the personal history pressing upon his shoulders.

In his mind, he turned toward the Uffizi Gallery, that hallowed temple of genius where Botticelli’s Birth of Venus still stole his breath. He had contemplated her countless times … the delicate arch of her wrist, the ethereal way her golden locks curled about her shoulders, as if the wind itself were in love with her. It was here, beneath the soft glow of light reflecting off gilded frames, that he had first understood the power of color, of form, of light and shadow whispering stories only the soul could hear.

Yet of all the places that belonged to him in this city, it was the quiet halls of San Marco that called to him most.

Here, magnificent frescoes adorned the cells of long-departed monks, each painting a private window into devotion.

He had stood in the silence of those narrow chambers, the scent of old plaster and incense clinging to the air, and traced his fingers just above the painted surface. Never touching, only feeling.

Florence was a city of masterpieces, but it was also a city of discovery.

Of dreams he had once chased … and perhaps still did.

And though he had left, though his loyalty to Lorenzo had drawn him back to England, he knew that no matter where he wandered, Florence would always be waiting for him.