"You were. You've been doing it all week." Mary's expression was carefully innocent. "Not that I blame you, my lady. He is very handsome."
"He's my fiancé. I'm allowed to look at him."
"Looking and staring are different things." Mary ducked her head to hide a smile. "If you'll forgive me saying so, my lady, you don't seem entirely unhappy about this betrothal. For all your talk of duty and sacrifice."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm doing this for my family. There's nothing romantic about it."
"Of course not, my lady. Nothing romantic at all about entering into matrimony with a wealthy, handsome viscount who looks at you like you're the most fascinating creature he's ever seen."
"He doesn't…" Harriet stopped, flustered. "He doesn't look at me like that."
"He does, actually. All the servants have noticed. Cook says it's like something out of a novel."
"Cook needs to focus on the wedding breakfast and mind her own business."
"Yes, my lady." Mary's tone was perfectly deferential, but her eyes were dancing with barely suppressed amusement.
Harriet turned away, her cheeks burning. Was it true? Did Sebastian really look at her like that? And if he did, why hadn't she noticed?
Because you weren't looking, whispered a voice in the back of her mind. You spent seven years refusing to see him clearly. And now that you finally are, you don't know what to do about it.
She risked another glance across the room. Sebastian was still talking to Mr. Thornton, his profile sharp in the afternoon light. As though sensing her gaze, he turned, and their eyes met.
Something passed between them, a spark of connection, quickly suppressed. Sebastian's expression flickered, then smoothed into careful neutrality. He inclined his head politely and turned back to the solicitor.
And Harriet was left standing there, her heart pounding, wondering what on earth was happening to her.
***
The wedding was set for three weeks hence.
It was faster than propriety demanded, but Lady Fordshire had insisted. "There's been quite enough scandal surrounding this family already," she declared. "A swift wedding will quell the worst of the gossip and give everyone something pleasant to focus on."
Harriet suspected her mother's motives had less to do with gossip and more to do with locking Sebastian down before either of them could change their minds. But she didn't argue. The sooner this was done, the sooner she could stop feeling like she was perpetually standing on the edge of a cliff.
Three days before the wedding, she found herself alone with Sebastian for the first time since their betrothal.
They had been discussing some detail of the ceremony with the vicar, who had been called away by an urgent message from a dying parishioner. Suddenly, it was just the two of them in the church's small vestry, surrounded by dusty liturgical books and the lingering scent of incense.
"Well," Harriet said, breaking the awkward silence. "This is uncomfortable."
Sebastian's lips twitched. "Is it?"
"Don't pretend you haven't noticed. We've barely exchanged two words in private since the betrothal. It's as though we're strangers who happen to be planning a wedding."
"I didn't want to presume." Sebastian's voice was careful. "You made your feelings about this arrangement quite clear. I thought you might prefer... distance."
"I thought I did too." Harriet moved to the window, looking out at the churchyard. "But now I'm not so sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that in three days, I'm going to stand at that altar and promise to spend the rest of my life with you. And I realised that I don't actually know you. Not really. Not beyond the surface."
"You know me better than you believe."
"Do I?" Harriet turned to face him. "I know you were Richard's friend. I know you're generous to a fault. I know you have excellent taste in waistcoats and terrible taste in poetry."
"My taste in poetry is perfectly respectable."
