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Harriet stared at him, her breath unsteady, her eyes burning with a mix of hurt and defiance. For a moment, it was just the two of them locked in battle, standing at the edge of something neither of them knew how to navigate. Then, with a swift pivot, she turned on her heel and strode toward her carriage. Sebastian froze, caught between wanting to call her back and wanting to walk away from her forever.

Richard exhaled heavily, rubbing at his throat as if still feeling the imprint of Sebastian’s grip. “That was not necessary.”

Sebastian gave a humorless laugh. “No? Then explain.”

Richard hesitated. “I cannot. Lady Slight’s confidences are not mine to repeat.”

Sebastian let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Of course you cannot.” He cast him a scathing look. “A rake does not change, Richard. Perhaps you have reformed enough to wed, but that does not mean you have changed. You are no better than your depraved father, after all. The Earl of Satan lives on!”

Richard’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond.

Sebastian clenched his fists, his rage still simmering, but what use was it? Harriet was gone. The truth, whatever it was, remained out of reach.

Sebastian walked away, his boots crunching against the frozen ground, the cold air biting at his face. He should have felt victorious. He had finally pried himself free of the spider’s web Harriet had spun around him. No more half-truths. No more watching her dance around his questions with coy evasions. No more wondering if she had ever truly cared for him.

He should have felt relief. Instead, all he felt was exhaustion.

The carriage ride back to the Scott townhouse passed in a blur of gray skies and damp streets, of fog curling around lampposts and pedestrians bundled against the frigid air. The city felt hollow, as if it reflected the emptiness yawning inside him. The clatter of wheels over cobblestones filled the silence where his thoughts ought to have been, and he found he had no will to fill it.

England had always felt like a place of constraints. Duty. Expectations. A cage built of propriety and familial obligations. It had taken him years to break free, to carve out a life in Italy that was his and his alone. And yet, here he was, once again shackled to the past, to a woman who had owned his heart since they were barely more than children.

Heaven help her.

Heaven help him for loving her still.

Because despite the morning’s revelations, despite the lies, the manipulations, the endless string of secrets, he knew the truth with startling, painful clarity. He would always love Harriet. And that meant he had to leave.

If he stayed in England, he would never walk away from her. He would never be free of her smile, of her maddening ability to make him feel both utterly alive and utterly destroyed in the same breath. He would never stop looking at her and thinking, what if?

He had spent years living with the fact she had betrayed him once before. And now, she had done it again.

His carriage pulled to a stop before the townhouse, the wrought-iron lanterns casting weak halos of light against the deepening gloom of afternoon. The horses blew soft clouds of breath into the chill air as the footman descended to open the door, the small, ordinary sounds of arrival landing strangely against the magnitude of what Sebastian had resolved. His decision settled over him, heavy and suffocating.

It was time to go home.

To Florence. To the life he had built for himself. To a place where Harriet did not exist in every shadowed memory and stolen dream.

He stepped down from the carriage, his movements stiff, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Inside, he would inform Lorenzo of his decision. Lorenzo would have to visit Harriet and ask to view the painting himself. Sebastian would arrange for his passage out of England as soon as possible.

And he would never look back.

CHAPTER 13

And, in truth, if aught could banish,

From my heart thy form divine,

Then all love for worth must vanish⁠—

Farewell every Valentine!

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

* * *

As the carriage rattled back toward home, Harriet pressed her gloved fingers to her temple, closing her eyes against the burning sting of regret. She had sought redemption, had spent months trying to be someone better, someone worthy. But what did that matter when she had undone it all with one foolish lie?

A scoundrel. That was what Sebastian had called Lord Saunton. And yet, who had been the true scoundrel here?