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And Bertram Hargreaves knew it. He glanced toward Sebastian then, his lips twisting. “I am sure, Lord Sebastian, that you have no interest in such sordid matters of discarded affairs.”

Affairs? Was Hargreaves alluding to Harriet having an affair with this Cooper fellow? To what end would Hargreaves do so? To frighten Sebastian off as a suitor?

Sebastian lifted his cup. Uncertain of the game Hargreaves was playing, Sebastian decided to lay a safe card on the table, neither a gamble nor a concession. Hargreaves had a terrible reputation as a landlord back in Wiltshire. Several of his tenants had been received by the duke at Avonmead over the years after Hargreaves failed to resolve their complaints, so Sebastian chose to prod at this sore point rather than reveal he was in the dark about their cryptic quarrel.

“Indeed. Though I do find discussions of integrity in land stewardship quite fascinating.”

Harriet’s lips curved. Hargreaves’ gaze turned from ice to frost. And then, with a growl of discontent, Hargreaves turned toward the door.

“Good day, Harriet.”

She sipped her tea. “Good day, Father.”

The viscount left without another word.

Sebastian leaned back, studying Harriet over the rim of his cup. “You handled that well.”

She lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug, but did not meet his gaze. “I have had months of practice.”

His eyes narrowed. Again, the mention of these past few months. And Lady Wood had mentioned she had been staying with Harriet for the same period. What did it all mean?

Harriet was hiding something.

But what?

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.