Harriet moved to the sideboard, selecting her breakfast with the focused attention of a general planning a campaign. Sebastian watched her over the top of his newspaper, the graceful line of her neck, the way her fingers hesitated over the toast, the slight flush on her cheeks that suggested she was not as unaffected as she pretended.
She kissed me back, he thought again, and had to fight the urge to smile like an idiot.
"You're staring," Harriet said, without turning around.
"I'm reading my newspaper."
"You're staring at me over your newspaper. I can feel it."
"You cannot feel someone looking at you."
"I can feelyoulooking at me." She turned, plate in hand, and fixed him with a pointed look. "It's very distinctive."
"Is it? I shall have to work on being less distinctive."
"Please do."
She sat down across from him, and they ate in what might have been companionable silence if not for the electricity crackling between them. Every time Sebastian looked up, he found her looking away. Every time he looked down, he could feel her gaze on him.
This was torture. Exquisite, wonderful torture.
"The weather looks promising," he offered, because someone had to say something.
"Does it."
"I thought we might walk after breakfast. If you're amenable."
"I suppose that would be acceptable."
"High praise indeed."
Harriet's lips twitched. "Don't become accustomed to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
They finished breakfast in silence, but it was a different silence than before, charged with possibility, heavy with things unsaid. When Harriet rose to leave, Sebastian caught her hand.
She stilled, looking down at their joined fingers.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For last night."
"I didn't do anything."
"You let me kiss you. You kissed me back." He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. "That's not nothing, Harriet."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, so softly he almost missed it: "No. I suppose it's not."
She pulled her hand free and left the room, but not before Sebastian caught the hint of a smile on her lips.
He sat alone at the breakfast table for a long moment afterward, his coffee growing cold, his newspaper forgotten, thinking about that smile and what it might mean.
Hope was a dangerous thing. But perhaps, just perhaps, it was also a necessary one.
***
The walk was a disaster.
Not because anything went wrong, precisely, but because Sebastian could not stopnoticingthings. The way Harriet's hair caught the light. The way she gestured when she talked about the gardens. The way her hand occasionally brushed against his as they walked, sending sparks up his arm.
