A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  Finally, when her last cries had left her wrung out and empty, she let him guide her back to his carriage and crumpled against the seat. She wanted to beat on the town house door until her knuckles bled, but no amount of screaming would convince her father to admit her.

  Just the opposite. Now that she’d caused a scene, Fairfax might very well fortify his stronghold around Andrew.

  A fresh wash of tears streamed down her face. Sebastian sat beside her as the carriage rattled into motion. She stared at him, the hard set of his jaw, the burn of his dark eyes. Contained energy vibrated from him, as if he sought to keep leashed a vivid anger.

  Awareness seared through Clara’s despair—the memory of his touch, his mouth, the cloak of forgetting he offered her without the slightest knowledge that he held such power.

  The carriage lurched to the right, tossing her closer to him, and the length of his thigh pressing through her skirts sent a bolt of need arcing through her. Clara released the tight breath from her lungs, forced the anguish down into an icy ball, burning it beneath the simmering heat Sebastian’s presence wrought in her.

  He will banish all that is painful and leave nothing but pleasure.

  There could be, Clara knew, a fragile thread between pain and pleasure, a thread broken with a brush of fingertips. But she alone could withstand Sebastian’s ability to cause her pain by sealing her heart against him, even as she opened her body to him.

  With a muffled groan, she twisted on the seat to face him, her skirts tangling as she clambered to her knees and wound her arms around his neck. Shock rippled through his lean, muscled frame as he started to speak, his left hand grasping her hip to steady her in the shaking carriage.

  Clara slanted her lips hard over his, relief billowing in her at the first touch of his beautiful mouth, the scrape of his whiskers delicious against her palms as she positioned herself to deepen the kiss. Thought fell away, subsumed by the heat breaking over her skin.

  Sebastian’s fingers tightened on her hip, the strength of his hand burning clear through her skirts. She thrust her hands into his hair and relished the glide of the thick strands against her palms. She moaned against his mouth and shifted to straddle his hard thighs, pressing herself against him.

  Sebastian cursed, the sound deep and guttural between them. Clara gripped his shoulders as if he were the only secure element in a sea foaming with angry waves. His breath was hot, his restraint evident in the tight muscles of his arms, the stiffness of his grip as he sought to keep space between them. Not wanting to allow it, Clara thrust her tongue past his lips, drank him in, and reveled in the sizzling desire traversing her every nerve.

  Desire. That was it, the elusive sensation that had spiraled inside her from the moment he’d first allowed his dark, appreciative eyes to peruse her body. From the moment she had stared at his throat and wondered what it would feel like to press her lips to the smooth, taut column.

  She gasped, breaking the kiss as her fingers fumbled to unravel the bonds of his cravat, to release the buttons of his collar and bare his skin to her seeking lips.

  Sebastian’s hands enveloped hers, his breath brushing the fine hairs sweeping across her temple. “Clara.”

  “No.” She ripped at the cravat, sent the buttons of his shirt clattering to the carriage floor. Even in the dusky light she saw the hollow of his throat pulsing with the beat of his heart, betraying the response of his body.

  She pressed her mouth to that hot indentation at the base of his throat, clenching her fingers into his arms as she flicked her tongue out to taste the salt of his skin. Sebastian groaned, low and rough, a sound that rippled through her blood.

  Emboldened, she thrust herself against the muscled planes of his thighs. Her knees hugged his hips. Shocked pleasure cascaded upward when the core of her body shifted to enfold the hard swell in his trousers, her thighs clenching around him with instinctive need.

  Heat shot across her skin. And then, eliciting a burst of triumph, Sebastian was kissing her in return, his mouth rough and desperate, his hands yanking up the folds of her skirts and petticoats to grasp her thighs and press her more tightly against that male arousal that had never before evoked such a sharp, sudden yearning in Clara.

  She shifted, writhed, her mouth locked to his. She smoothed her hands over his chest, imprinting the feel of his muscles in her mind, the heat of his skin burning through the fine linen of his shirt.

  He stroked his tongue over her lower lip and grasped the coil of hair at the base of her scalp. With a few tugs, her hair unraveled in a long skein down her back. Sebastian muttered another oath and speared his hands into the thick mass, angling her head to allow him access to the innermost recesses of her mouth.

  Clara melted inside, her tongue tangling with his, her body pulsing with urgency. Sebastian pushed his hips upward and rubbed against some secret, throbbing place at her core, heat building like a kindled fire poised to erupt into flames.

  Clara lifted her head, her breath steaming as she stared into his blazing eyes. Her breasts strained against her corset, her dress heavy and stifling in the dark heat of the carriage.

  “What…” She couldn’t voice the question as her hips shifted again. She flared with the desire to be free of clothing, to feel the glide of his erection against the shell of her body, to reach whatever completion lay beyond her grasp.

  Sebastian’s fingers tightened on her thighs, his own lean frame still vibrating with restraint. Uncertain, Clara felt her body strain for more, sensing that all these uncoiling sensations would compel her toward a shattering pleasure she had never before known.

  She clutched the fabric of his shirt in her fists, her throat rippling with a hard swallow as she sought the pleasures of his mouth again. His stubbled jaw scraped her cheek as he shifted, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth on a path to her left ear. He spoke then, his chest rumbled with the sound, but whatever words he voiced were lost in the silence of her damaged ear.

  Clara tightened her grip on him, panic mushrooming in her belly to subsume the taut urgency of lust. She clenched her thighs around his hips and fought again to seize the hot, silken threads she already felt slipping from her grasp.

  Sebastian’s hands cupped either side of her face, his thumbs easing away the lingering dampness on her cheeks. His resolve was conquering his lust; Clara saw the evidence in the set of his jaw and the flare of regret brewing in his eyes.

  She gripped his shirt harder, tears spilling over when Sebastian slid his hands from her thighs, allowing her skirts and petticoats to flood back over her legs and conceal her wantonness.

  Hating her desperation, she crushed her mouth to his again, pressing her breasts to his chest, fighting for his response. He closed his hands around her waist and began to lift her away from him.

  “No.” The word broke between them, frantic and shattered.

  Clara clung to him, refusing to unclench her fists from his shirt, locking her legs around his hips. Fear pierced her to the bones, for she knew that if she released him, if she let him break this blinding hot spell of passion, then the isolation would descend upon her and freeze her soul to ice.

  Sebastian tugged at her grasping hands, pulled her legs from their circled clamp around him. A muscle throbbed in his clenched jaw, betraying his own inner fight. But he was so much bigger, stronger, that Clara already knew she stood no chance against his determination to separate them.

  A bolt of rage pierced her. She forced herself to sever her body from his, shoving at his chest as she flung herself across the bench and away from him. She huddled against the opposite side of the carriage and wrapped her arms around herself, smothering the new sobs welling in her throat.

  For a long moment, the rasp of their hard breathing sliced through the noise of the carriage. Then Sebastian swore again, a sound of pained frustration, and scraped a hand roughly through his hair. He turned to her, eyes glittering with banked lust.

  “Not here.” Steel threads of determination wove th
rough his hoarse voice. “Not like this.”

  Clara wrenched her gaze from him and stared out the window, unseeing, blinded by tears. Cold slithered across her skin from the inside out.

  “Goddamn you,” she whispered.

  A humorless laugh shattered the brittle air. “He already has.”

  “What is he doing with Clara?” Lord Fairfax lifted his head, stretching the corded muscles of his neck. Pressure collected behind his eyes, causing a throb of pain.

  Saunders, his secretary, shifted his weight as a glimmer of discomfort rose in his expression. “Er, it seems as if they are to be wed, my lord. Mr. Hall applied for a special license last week.”

  “Wed?” Something knotted at the back of Fairfax’s mind, though he couldn’t focus well enough to unravel it. “How long have they been acquainted?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  Fairfax drummed his pen on the desk. Clara had a reckless streak to her, a regrettable inheritance from her mother. The same impulse had sent Elizabeth into more than one untenable situation, requiring Fairfax to set things right by whatever means necessary.

  “Well.” He dismissed Saunders with a wave of his hand. “Ensure she does not plan anything foolish.”

  Though accosting him screaming in the streets was the height of foolishness, as far as Fairfax was concerned.

  Stupid girl. If she’d thought to gain anything by such rash behavior, she would be sorely disappointed.

  “Yes, my lord.” Saunders bowed slightly and turned to leave, pausing when he saw the small figure of Andrew hovering in the doorway. Davies the butler stood behind him.

  Fairfax frowned. Andrew was thin and pale, nothing like his son, William, had been. William had also inherited Elizabeth’s rash impulses, but at least he’d had a robust constitution and strength of will, which Fairfax knew was a result of his firm upbringing. He’d raised his son well, ensuring he knew how to fight, to defend himself. As a result, William had been strong and fearless.

  Fairfax suspected he wouldn’t be so fortunate with his grandson. Already Andrew was weak, preferring picture books and drawing to hunting. The boy couldn’t fire a gun to save his life. Richard would be appalled if he knew his son still flinched at the mere neighing of a horse.

  A painful longing pierced him, born from William’s death at too young an age. Fairfax wanted a true son again, one he could count as a companion, one whom he could mold into his own image. A young man of cunning and strength and sportsmanship. One who would prove loyal and obliging to the bitter end.

  He stared at Andrew. Not like this introspective boy, who looked as if his fate should lie within the stagnant confines of a church or university.

  Pathetic.

  “What?” Fairfax asked his grandson, his voice sharp with regret and disappointment.

  Andrew didn’t respond, not that Fairfax expected him to. Thin relief curled through him, but not enough to assuage the fear that had burned in his gut since he’d heard Andrew speak to his tutor less than a month ago. Just one word, a whispered answer to a geography question, but it was enough.

  As far as Fairfax knew, the boy hadn’t said anything before or since, but he would not risk the chance that Andrew would regain use of his voice for good. For if Andrew were to speak again, his words could prove damning.

  Davies cleared his throat. “I believe Master Andrew wishes to see his mother, my lord.”

  “Your mother abandoned you,” Fairfax snapped at Andrew. “And do not think you can escape unnoticed and find her. Try to do so, and I’ll flay the skin from your back.”

  Andrew flinched. Even Davies looked appalled, as if such a vicious threat had physically struck him. The pain behind Fairfax’s eyes stabbed harder, fueling his anger. Weak lot, all of them.

  “Get out,” he ordered. “Both of you. And remember this, Andrew. Your mother is dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  Moonlight shone gray and pallid through the fog. Sebastian dragged his fingers across the piano keys, the resulting cacophony echoing the restless pulse of his blood. Colors tumbled together, as if they were spinning inside a storm. He slammed both hands down on the keys with a crash. A cramp knotted the fingers of his right hand. He shoved away from the piano, then paced to the hearth.

  A mistake. The whole bloody thing was a mistake—his reckless capitulation to his father’s demand, his agreement to help Darius, his acceptance of Clara’s proposal, which had seemed so practical at the time and was swiftly becoming fraught with more complications than he could bear.

  The most prominent being that he wanted to kill Fairfax himself.

  A brittle fiber of levelheadedness, one that would have made Darius proud, had prevented Sebastian from attacking the baron and forcing his surrender to Clara’s pleas. He knew they required an advantage before Fairfax would agree to speak to them—and even then, Sebastian doubted the man’s willingness to negotiate.

  Didn’t appear likely, given Fairfax’s reaction to seeing Clara.

  Bastard.

  Breath billowed from Sebastian’s lungs as if someone had punched him in the gut.

  The front bell rang, bringing his attention to the clock. Nearly seven o’clock. He waved off one of the footmen, then went to the door and opened it. The folds of a hood shadowed Clara’s features, but could not conceal the resolve burning in her violet eyes. Unease lanced through Sebastian as he glanced behind her to the black cab waiting at the curb.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Uncle Granville finished the copies just after dinner,” Clara said. Her voice shook, a shiver of pale blue-gold.

  Sebastian pulled a hand down his face as a curse ruptured his thoughts. Emotions flared in him—anticipation, relief, disquiet, pleasure. Fear.

  “Where is your uncle now?” he asked.

  “At home. He’d planned to deliver the plans to you tomorrow. I hadn’t told him you need them tonight.”

  “Did you come here alone?” Sebastian yanked open the door and ushered her in.

  Clara stepped into the foyer. With a trembling hand, she brushed her hood back from her head. The folds cascaded into a puddle around her long, slender neck, drawing Sebastian’s gaze to the hollow of her throat. The sight of her pale skin roused his lust, which he had fought to keep contained since their encounter in his carriage yesterday.

  Arousal coiled through his lower body. Heated memories swept his mind in flashes of color—the hot cavern of Clara’s mouth, the delicious press of her thighs against his aching erection, the tight way she’d locked her legs around him and clung as if she would never let go, as if she belonged to him and him alone…

  Christ. Heaviness settled low in his groin. Although he knew he’d done the right thing in putting a stop to matters, he bitterly regretted the circumstances that had forced him to take such measures.

  Because God knew he wanted her. Not even the restless sting of half-sleep could smother the desire that burned him during the night, the hot imaginings twisting through his mind of Clara splayed beneath him with her hands gripping his naked back and her gasps hot against his ear.

  With every breath, he wanted her more.

  And he would have her. One day soon, he would have her until the earth fell away beneath them.

  Sebastian swallowed, his agitation tempered by the knowledge that they now had an agreement. If he thought it a mistake, he could not retreat now, even if he wanted to. And with Clara standing in front of him, the folds of her cloak draping over her slender curves, her unpainted lips full and parted, a pulse tapping in her lovely throat…Sebastian knew he would sell his soul to the devil if it meant having her as his wife.

  She watched him warily. “Do you still intend to meet with Darius?”

  “Yes.”

  “And give him the plans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you won’t…”

  “I have no intention of reneging on our agreement.”

  Her throat rippled with a swallow. “
What about your father?”

  Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “He has approved of our engagement and no doubt learned whatever he could about you and your father from the members of his club. We owe him no further information.” He forced his fingers to unclench from the doorjamb. “I will return you to the museum before meeting with Darius.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  Sebastian jerked his gaze to hers. Alarm split through him at the unyielding determination in her expression.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Monsieur Dupree entrusted the plans to my uncle,” Clara said. “And though Uncle Granville would never admit this, I know he feels as if he has somehow betrayed his mentor by making copies of the plans. Yet he did it for me, because he trusts me. I will not see his faith in me misplaced. I must insist upon knowing more about what your brother intends to do.”

  Bloody hell. Even Sebastian didn’t know all the details of what Darius intended to do. He would find out tonight. But because he was suspicious of his brother’s hidden motives, Sebastian did not want Clara to hear anything directly from Darius. He didn’t want her to know that Darius had promised to compensate him financially. And he especially did not want to subject her to his brother’s knife-edged perception.

  “You can’t go with me,” he said.

  “Why not?” She stepped forward. “I’m to be your wife. You made it quite clear we will not wed in name only, so I’ve a right to accompany you.”

  Sebastian’s teeth came together hard. “I will tell you what you want to know after—”

  “No. I want to go with you. If you do not allow it, rest assured I will follow you.” She paused. “And I will not give you the plans until we arrive at our destination.”

  He stared at her for a long minute, convinced this was some form of punishment for having arrested things in the carriage the previous day.

  “Where are the plans?” he asked.