•T H I R T Y - S E V E N•

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♪ And one more's one too manyBut I just can't walk away ♪{FLETCHER—One Too Many}

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♪ And one more's one too many
But I just can't walk away ♪
{FLETCHER—One Too Many}

Shoes and stockings discarded, corset loosened, and a drink in hand, Harriet paced before the fireplace. The warmth licking up her feet and legs should have comforted her, and yet there wasn't a muscle in her body that wanted to relax, not a bone that didn't seem ready to break.

What were these excruciating pangs she kept experiencing in her heart, in her gut? Why had this trip been nothing but a living nightmare so far?

She'd known traveling to Torrinni wouldn't be easy. She'd known sitting pretty in a pew with her face made up and her layers of skirts concealing her trembling limbs wouldn't be fun. And she'd been aware that seeing him—the Prince who rode to her rescue twice—marrying the girl who'd bullied her for years, would create a hole in her stomach that might never mend. But it all hit her at once, so fast, so furiously, that lingering in that church or following the excited guests to the castle would have caused her to faint. And to do so in public, mere days after starting to fix her reputation, would have ruined her.

And to attempt an excursion to meet face-to-face with her biggest trauma—Eugene—would have made matters worse.

So instead, she hurdled out of the carriage when Johanna dropped her off, intent on cloistering herself in her room until the swelling in her belly stopped. And what better way to drown it than to have a bit of liquid courage?

Once in her chambers, she unpacked the bottle of brandy she'd stashed into her things, uncorked it, poured it into a glass—and drank. And drank. And drank more. Each sip numbed her tongue and burned down her throat, and yet the substance satisfied her, aided her in shutting off her mind.

She chugged half her goblet—her second refill—and some of the beverage sloshed over the rim and landed on her foot. The liquid drizzling between her toes somehow reanimated her ability to feel, and all her emotions returned to smack her in the face once more. Especially those attached to him—the man she hadn't realized captivated her so deeply.

"Why?" She growled, storming to the tea-table, where a platter of bread and cheese and cured meats rested. She jammed a piece of ham into her mouth and chewed with such fury she feared cracking her teeth. "Why does he affect me so? I do not understand how this happened. Prince Jules... no, how did it come to this?"

His image danced before her, like a specter seeking to possess her. She envisioned his not-so-discreet glance across the chapel, the several times he peered at her during the actual ceremony, his last-minute gaze as he and Charlotte descended the dais hand in hand, husband and wife.

Why had he noticed her, acknowledged her? It would have been much easier had he ignored her existence altogether—like during her days at court, as a contender to his Season.

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