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But Sebastian had kissed her. And the memory of it moved through her like mulled wine, warm and enveloping.

He sat opposite her now, the winter sunlight filtering through the glass of the carriage, catching on the finely cut angles of his face. There was a pensive look in his gray eyes, as if he, too, was troubled by something. Evaline sat beside her, blissfully unaware of the silent war raging within Harriet’s chest.

Their destination was Hyde Park, a perfect place for a gentleman to promenade with a lady on his arm. Harriet had walked there many times, but not like this. Not with Sebastian.

Not with her heart in disarray.

London bustled outside the carriage, the streets teeming with life as the city prepared for the afternoon’s business. The wintry air carried the scent of roasting chestnuts from a street cart, mingling with the ever-present tang of soot from chimneys.

Sebastian broke the silence first. “Did you enjoy the menagerie?”

“I did,” she admitted, “though I confess, I have always found something rather sad about wild creatures in cages.”

He nodded slowly. “They are trapped, yes. But in a way, they are safer than they would be in the wild. Some of those animals would never survive beyond those bars.”

Harriet turned her gaze to him, studying the thoughtful set of his mouth. “Is that what you believe? That captivity is preferable to danger?”

Sebastian looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment, she thought he might say something too raw, too real. But instead, he only offered a faint, wry smile. “It depends on the creature, I suppose.”

The carriage came to a halt, jolting them slightly. Harriet glanced out the window and saw the familiar wrought-iron gates of Hyde Park.

“We are here,” Evaline announced cheerfully, adjusting her gloves.

Sebastian stepped out first, turning to offer his hand. When Harriet placed her fingers in his, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold moved up her arm.

They entered the park, the gravel path crunching beneath their boots. The air was crisp, and though the trees had long since shed their autumn foliage, Hyde Park was still lively. Children bundled in coats and scarves ran ahead of their governesses, laughing as they kicked up the last remnants of frost-covered leaves. A young couple strolled arm in arm, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. A gentleman on horseback cantered past on a fine black gelding, his breath visible in the cold air.

Evaline, ever the sociable one, soon spotted an acquaintance, a matronly woman in a fur-trimmed pelisse, accompanied by a daughter of marriageable age. She paused to greet them, offering Harriet and Sebastian a polite smile before turning away to engage in conversation.

And then, quite suddenly, Sebastian took her hand. Harriet barely had time to register the sensation of his fingers closing around hers before he was leading her away, stepping behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak.

“Sebastian—”

He turned to face her, and the intention in his gray eyes stole whatever else she might have said. Then he closed the distance between them, and his lips found hers.

The world tilted.

She reached for the lapels of his coat, and the cold was forgotten entirely. This kiss was different from the one at Hatchards. Where that one had been tentative, wondering, this one was deliberate and certain. He drew her closer, one gloved hand gentle at her cheek, as though he wished to be sure she was truly there, not another memory he had mistaken for something real.

It was madness.

But Harriet had never felt so known.

She let herself lean into him, into the warmth and the quiet steadiness of him. The years between them, the regrets, the lies … none of it existed in that moment. There was only this, only him.

When they finally drew apart, she was breathless.

Sebastian’s forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her chilled skin.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

He exhaled, his hand falling gently from her cheek, his eyes still holding hers. “Then why does it feel so right?”

Harriet closed her eyes, her heart pounding like a wild stallion bucking against its master.

If she were another woman, if she had made different choices, she would go with him to Italy. She would leave all of this behind, abandon the burden of her mistakes, and become his.

But she was not that woman.