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Sebastian’s breath caught, something flickering behind his gaze. “You truly believed that?”

She nodded, biting her lip. “Yes.”

His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he simply looked at her. The fury was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else lurked beneath it now, something more vulnerable.

“Do you think so little of me?” he asked finally.

Harriet’s heart clenched. “No,” she said fiercely. “Never.”

I think that little of myself was the errant thought she had been fighting all these months as she walked the path of sobriety and tried to find a return to the happiness she had shared with Sebastian so many years ago.

Sebastian exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples as though trying to will away his frustration. “You could have told me,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edge of anger dulling. “I would have understood. But, instead, you chose to deceive me. Again.”

Harriet’s throat tightened. “I did not mean⁠—”

“But you did,” he cut her off. “You always mean to, whether you admit it or not.”

She shook her head. “I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of losing you,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Sebastian let out a ragged breath, and for a moment, he looked as though he might soften. Then his expression hardened once more. “You never had me to lose, Harriet.”

The words were a death knell. She sucked in a sharp breath, the pain of them cutting deeper than she could have anticipated. Sebastian turned back toward the door, his hand clenching into a fist before releasing. He hesitated for only a moment, then grasped the doorknob.

“You asked for more time,” he said without looking at her. “But time is the one thing I can no longer afford to give you.”

And then, with quiet finality, he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. Harriet sat frozen in place, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in her ears. She supposed she should be concerned that the other women in the house would be alarmed by his presence and their own security if Harriet ruined her reputation. In that moment, she could not find the will to care.

The room felt impossibly empty without him.

She turned slowly, looking over her shoulder at the painting that had betrayed her.

No. That was not right. She had betrayed herself.

And once again, there was no one to blame but herself.

* * *

Sebastian stormed into the Scott residence, barely acknowledging the footman who opened the door before shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over a chair in the entryway. His boots struck hard against the polished floor as he strode down the corridor, his fury barely contained beneath the surface.

Harriet.

Her lies. Her secrets. The way she had looked at him with those wide, pleading eyes as if she had not just shattered whatever trust had been growing between them.

He had spent the evening at his brother’s house, facing the cold disapproval of Philip and the barely concealed unease of the others. He had defended her against them all, against every muttered doubt, every veiled warning. He had sat there, knowing full well that his family did not approve of his courtship, did not trust Harriet, and still, he had been determined.

Because he had believed in her. Because he had wanted a future with her.

And what had she been doing all that time? Lying to his face. Smiling at him, allowing him to believe in something that had never been real.

A deep sense of betrayal twisted in his gut. He had been a fool.

As he entered the study, he found Lorenzo lounging in one of the armchairs, a book resting open on his lap. At Sebastian’s thunderous expression, Lorenzo’s dark brows lifted in mild concern.

“I take it the dinner did not go well?”