He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

It was the most maddening thing. He had never been particularly sensitive in his entire life, but suddenly, he was more skittish than any colt he’d ever seen, and twice as doubting.

A man on the road of repentance must adjust to all sorts of things.

He eyed himself in the long mirror on the other side of the room, wishing one’s physical appearance changed when one’s heart did. He was no longer a wastrel or rake, though he had never quite managed to fully attain the status of the latter, despite his association with them. The bitter thorn that had taken root within him had been torn out, and the damage had begun to heal. He no longer knew enmity or resentment, except for a select few who had sinned beyond all reconciliation.

He knew grief, he knew regret, and he knew self-loathing, all three in deep and profound ways. They had been his constant companions since the night his sister had nearly been ruined by the man he’d encouraged her to associate with. He had thought the man was his friend, and so had naively ignored every warning sign imaginable.

He had been forgiven by Alice, apparently, though he couldn’t imagine how that was possible. Even his brother Francis had encouraged him to come home, that amends were not needed.

He hadn’t listened to them. Couldn’t bear to face them.

But now, he’d had enough of wallowing. He felt himself changed enough, thought that perhaps he might have been good enough to rejoin his family. For Christmas, at least.

And then the carriage had broken and become stuck, and he’d wondered at least a dozen times if this were not a sign that he was not, in fact, meant to go home to his family.

Instead, he was trapped. In the country. With her.

It seemed he had yet more fires to walk through before he would be deemed ready.

He already felt singed.

This was not good.

He smoothed down his straw-colored hair, which had grown too long in places, enough that his natural curl was noticeable, and he suddenly wished most fervently for a pair of shears. At least his clothing was more sensible than it once might have been. More tasteful in color and more reserved in style, the sort of look that would befit a gentleman.

Or at least avoid labeling him a dandy, as it once might have.

He had a reputation to expunge, and he would need all the help he could get.

If he could avoid being killed, mauled, maimed, or otherwise irreparably damaged by Elinor for however long he was here, he would have no problem with the rest of London.

Nobody hated him as much as Elinor.

He exhaled and met his own gaze squarely in the mirror. “Compliments of the season, Mr. Sterling,” he muttered to himself.

Tugging on his coat, he moved from the room to venture into the rest of the house.