Page 49

“You should not be here,” she murmured.

“And yet, here I am.”

Harriet tilted her head, studying Sebastian in the flickering glow of the firelight. He seemed unsettled, his usually sharp gaze unfocused, as if he were warring with thoughts he had no wish to voice. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his hands clenched at his sides, and though he was standing mere feet away from her, he appeared caught in the grips of something far away, something painful.

“Sebastian?” she asked softly, rising to her feet.

He did not answer.

Instead, in two swift strides, he closed the distance between them, his hands cupping her face gently before she could speak. He looked truly looked at her, with the full weight of everything unresolved between them … and then he kissed her.

Harriet went still, her fingers finding the lapels of his coat as if she needed an anchor. It was unlike anything that had passed between her and the hollow parade of others she had sought in the dark years since. How many times had she imagined this very moment, alone here with nothing but regret and longing to keep her company?

But this was no dream. This was Sebastian. And he was here, kissing her as if the years apart had never been.

When he finally drew back, his breathing was uneven, and she saw the glint of raw emotion in his eyes.

“From how many did you seek consolation, Harry?” The question was quiet, not an accusation but the kind of honesty that asked for honesty in return.

The question was a blade, slipping between her ribs and lodging itself in her heart.

She stiffened, but she did not look away.

“Too many. Fewer than people think.”

Sebastian’s jaw tensed. “How many?”

“Why does it matter?” she whispered.

“How many, Harry?” he repeated, his voice low, insistent.

She hesitated, but then, what was the point of lying? Here was a small truth she could give him when there were so many secrets to hide.

“Seven or eight,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I always imagined they were you.”

A muscle flickered in his jaw. The grip he still had on her loosened, his thumb resting absently over her cheekbone.

“Does that include Horace?”

She exhaled inelegantly, some of the tension in her chest easing. “My late husband could not remember his own name, never mind that he had a bride lurking in his halls. I stayed out of his way until he departed.”

“Ruthless.”

“It was,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I am no longer proud of that. I should have taken a chance on you. On us.”

Sebastian’s eyes grew distant.

“What about you?” she asked, the words leaving her before she could stop them.

He exhaled, stepping back slightly, as if putting space between them would soften the blow of whatever he was about to say. “It is difficult to say. Fifteen? Twenty, perhaps? I was foxed most of the time until Lorenzo convinced me it was time to stop.”

Harriet swallowed against the jealousy that surged within her, unwelcome but undeniable. She had no right to it. After all, she had sought her own oblivion in the company of those she cared nothing for, with the aid of wine to make her forget the one she truly loved. But hearing him say it made it real in a way she had never allowed herself to think about before.

She had spent so many years trying to forget him, numbing herself with wine and hollow companionship. But he had done the same, had tried just as hard to erase the past with women who would never mean anything.

“We were a world apart, yet we spent our time doing the same thing,” she murmured, half to herself. “Trying to forget.”

Sebastian reached out, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Spirits and the seeking of comfort where none could truly be found do not heal a broken heart.”