A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  Chapter Nine

  Sebastian paced to the hearth. He’d spent a sleepless night wrestling with everything Darius had told him the previous evening. By morning he had still come to no satisfying conclusion. So rather than dissect the problem of his mother until his brain ached more than it already did, or surrender to his festering anger toward Darius, Sebastian would concentrate on the fact that he was to marry Clara Winter two days hence.

  Ought to be interesting explaining that to the rest of his family.

  He gave a hoarse chuckle and scrubbed his sore eyes. It might have been better if all his relations had remained in London. Then none of this would have happened.

  Clara wouldn’t have happened.

  His heart stung. He dragged a hand across his chest, his mind flaring with pictures of her blue-violet eyes shimmering with heat and determination. He didn’t want to imagine his life if she hadn’t entered it. Couldn’t.

  Sebastian ordered the carriage, shoving his arms into his greatcoat as he descended the steps. A half hour later he was opening the door of Blake’s Museum of Automata and facing Mrs. Fox, who rose like a dark sun from behind her desk.

  “Welcome to Blake’s…oh. Mr. Hall.” A gray thread of disapproval knotted her voice.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fox.” His attempt at a smile felt as if it might crack his face. “Lovely to see you again. Is Mrs. Winter at home?”

  “She’s in the studio, as usual.”

  He started down the corridor. With a swiftness that belied her redoubtable severity, Mrs. Fox stepped into his path.

  “The fee, Mr. Hall,” she said, “is one shilling.”

  Sebastian laughed, undiluted amusement coursing through him. It was the first genuine laugh he’d experienced in more than an age. The sound of it, booming and sudden, startled Mrs. Fox, who retreated a step and stared at him in astonishment.

  Still chuckling, Sebastian went back to the carriage. He retrieved five shillings from the footman and returned to Mrs. Fox. He pressed the coins into her gloved hand and closed her fingers around them.

  “Well worth the cost of admission,” he assured her with a wink.

  The woman gaped at him, a pink blush bringing a welcome color to her pallid cheeks.

  Sebastian’s spine straightened as he continued to the studio. He found Clara folding swaths of silk and stacking them in colorful squares onto a shelf. Granville sat at a table, adjusting an automaton of a crouching tiger. Brilliant stripes of black and orange decorated the animal, its pointed teeth gleaming white and its face twisted into a snarl.

  Clara and Granville both looked up at Sebastian’s entrance. A faint tension crackled the air as they exchanged glances. In an instant, Sebastian knew Clara had confided all to her uncle.

  Irritation needled him. Unwarranted, he knew. He himself had solicited their aid in not only finding the plans, but relinquishing them to him.

  He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “I don’t intend to see my mother again,” he said. “My only hope is that her presence in London remains a secret so as not to cause my family further harm.”

  Granville wiped his greasy hands on a cloth, his gaze on the machine. “We’ve no one to tell, Mr. Hall.”

  “Even if we’d wanted to,” Clara added.

  The snarled knot in Sebastian’s chest loosened, easing the tightness of apprehension. He couldn’t confess any of these recent events to his brothers, but here stood two people with whom he’d been acquainted for less than a fortnight…and he knew to his bones that Clara and Granville would guard his confidences with steadfast dedication.

  Words of gratitude stalled in his throat. He gave a short nod and turned to leave, forgetting the reason he’d come.

  “Come in,” Clara said. She smoothed wrinkles from a bolt of silk and beckoned him to sit. “Have you taken breakfast yet?”

  “I…no.”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Marshall to set another place.” Granville twisted a key on the automaton. The tiger pushed back on its hind legs, then lunged forward across the circular platform on which it crouched. A tiny door in the platform sprang open, and a delicate, painted gazelle leapt out in a graceful arc. A growl emerged from the mechanism as the tiger landed on the hapless creature, bringing it to the ground between two large paws.

  “Well,” Clara remarked, “at least it works.”

  Granville chuckled. “Commissioned for a man who enjoys hunting, I suspect. He’s sending someone to pick it up later this morning.”

  He pushed away from the table and left in search of Mrs. Marshall.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara murmured to Sebastian after her uncle was gone. “I shouldn’t have forced you to take me with you last night.”

  No, she shouldn’t have, but she knew the truth now—and perhaps that was for the best, considering she was poised to become his wife. He’d been the one to insist the marriage would encompass more than mere legal ties.

  Now revealed secrets scattered between them like packages ripped open, surrounded with torn paper and bits of string. Now there was nothing left to hide.

  Sebastian went to the automaton and rewound it to watch the gruesome scene play out again.

  “Why don’t you want to see her?” Clara asked.

  “Because she ruined my family.”

  “Your brother appears to be granting her another chance.”

  “My brother is a fool if he thinks anything good will come of this.”

  Clara was quiet for a moment, though he felt her perceptive gaze peeling through all the hardened layers of his soul. “Don’t make a decision now that you will later regret, Sebastian. Especially where your mother is concerned.”

  “For God’s sake.” An old, long-buried anger surfaced. “If anyone should regret their decisions, Clara, it is Catherine Leskovna. Not me.”

  “That may be so, but when someone has wronged you and then wishes to make amends…”

  “What makes you think she wishes to make amends?”

  “If she’d wanted to hurt you, she wouldn’t have gone to Darius first and asked him to facilitate a meeting. She’s giving you the chance to refuse, even though I’m certain she wants more than anything to speak with you again.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “I’m a mother. And I would give my blood to have my son again.”

  Sebastian lifted his head to look at her. A pang cut through his chest at the sight of the fathoms-deep longing coloring her eyes.

  “You…” A curious knot tightened his throat. “You are nothing like my mother, Clara. You did not make the choice to desert your family. Aside from separation, there are no similarities between my relationship with her and your relationship with Andrew.”

  “Separation is a breach, no matter the cause. You have the opportunity, and choice, to cross it and see your mother again. Andrew does not.”

  A choice. Sebastian’s fingers curled into his palm. He hadn’t chosen to end his career. Wouldn’t have chosen marriage had it not been for his father’s threats. Hadn’t had much of a choice to help Darius, not when he’d needed the money and, as Darius had bluntly reminded him, he’d had little else with which to occupy his time.

  He had, however, chosen Clara. A brilliant, glowing fact he still feared to fully acknowledge in the event it was taken from him.

  Clara was right that he now had a choice to see his mother again. The idea that he had another choice felt good, even if he had no plans to take a step in her direction.

  The tiger folded back onto its haunches. Sebastian set the machine aside and moved to where Clara stood. He put his left hand on her warm nape, rubbing the tight muscles. A sigh escaped her as she tilted her head to the side to encourage the manipulation of his fingers.

  He stepped closer, inhaling her scent of oranges and spice. The muscles of her neck became pliable, softening under his touch and easing a soft groan from her throat.

  Sebastian pressed his mouth to her temple, right beside the birthmark a
t the corner of her eyebrow. The pulse there, quick as a sparrow’s heartbeat, strummed against his lips. Warmth unfurled in his blood along with something else, something more, that rich, sea-blue satisfaction of knowing, even before their vows, that Clara was his. And that, even if she didn’t yet realize it, he belonged to her.

  The idea of belonging to a woman would have wrung a laugh from him a year ago. He’d never have allowed anyone to weave into his soul the way Clara had, never have gone to any lengths to help her, never have admitted she could fell him with a harsh word.

  But now he had. And he would. And God knew she could.

  She shifted, stretching her body upward to press her cool cheek against his. She murmured something against his stubbled jaw, then turned her face and sought his mouth with hers. He slipped his hand to her shoulders, his fingers kneading the tension still lacing her supple muscles, and yielded to the sensations washing over him.

  Clara wound her arms around his waist, splaying her hands over his lower back as she angled her head to allow him to deepen the kiss. Her body softened against his. Heat arced into his groin as her breasts pressed into his chest and her tongue danced with his.

  Sebastian curled his right hand into her side, crushing the fabric of her skirts and petticoats. He stepped forward and guided her back against the wall, then pushed his hips against her. The hard ridge of his cock nudged her skirts, an ache already building at the base of his spine. He wanted her naked, wanted to rub his stiff flesh against her bare thighs, wanted her cool hands sliding over his skin…

  Clara gasped, her mouth breaking from his with a rush of hot breath. She tucked her face against his shoulder, her body rippling with a moan before she slid her hand down to curve with tentative curiosity around his erection.

  Sebastian winced, bracing one hand on the wall behind her as the warmth of her hand burned clear through his trousers. His breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her temple. He struggled against the urgent need to thrust against her grip, to allow her to wind the tension to breaking point and then let go.

  He placed his hand on the curve where her shoulder met the upward sweep of her neck. She eased her head back, her eyes dark purple with arousal.

  “Two days,” he whispered.

  A shudder rocked her. “Two days.”

  He forced himself to step away. Just in time, as well, since Granville reentered the room and announced that Mrs. Marshall had a late breakfast prepared for them.

  As Sebastian and Clara followed him from the studio, her gaze met his. Heat still glimmered in the depths of her eyes, and her flushed lips curved with the promise of a shared secret.

  A foreign sensation curled into Sebastian’s heart, skeins of color woven into a smooth, endless braid. He sat with Clara and Granville at a wooden table in the morning room, the air scented with fresh-baked bread, while they ate muffins and drank coffee…and he surrendered to the feeling as it spread through his blood, into his soul, and warmed every part of his being.

  Chapter Ten

  Flowers bloomed from vases around the drawing room of the Mount Street town house. The morning sun lanced through the curtains, glinting off the rose tucked into the lapel of Sebastian’s dark blue morning coat. Clara kept her attention on the flower as the minister blessed their union, his voice deep and solemn.

  “Be pleased, O Lord, to regard in much mercy and goodness the parties now before Thee…”

  Clara lifted her eyes to find Sebastian watching her. Her heart thumped. A slight smile curved his mouth, the reassuring promise that they had both chosen wisely and well.

  “You will please take each other by the right hand,” the minister requested.

  Clara, her gaze locked to Sebastian’s, reached for his right hand. She expected him to hesitate for fear that his muscles would falter, but his long fingers closed around hers without wavering. Relief spilled through her, her own anxiety eased by the warmth brewing in his dark eyes and his absolute lack of uncertainty.

  “I do,” he said, before Clara realized the minister had moved on to address her.

  She gripped the folds of her pearl-gray gown with her other hand in an attempt to still the nervous shudders elicited by the gravity of the minister’s words—“a wife shall love her husband”—but her right hand, the one tucked securely in Sebastian’s large, warm palm, did not tremble.

  “I do,” she whispered when the minister stopped speaking.

  Her fingers tightened around Sebastian’s. Memory flashed through her—the elaborate spectacle of her wedding to Richard, also a union based on practical ends but one launched with a display of wealth and celebration.

  The numerous guests, the music, the extravagant feasting—it had been the opposite of this quiet ceremony in Sebastian’s drawing room with only Lord Rushton, Uncle Granville, and Mrs. Fox in attendance, all sitting with twin lines etched on their foreheads.

  Clara avoided looking at them until the minister had pronounced her Sebastian’s wife. Her heart caught when he bent to brush his mouth against hers. She allowed herself to feel the pleasure of the contact for an instant before turning to her uncle. Granville moved to embrace her. She gripped his arms and swallowed past the tightness in her throat.

  “I promise you I’m doing what is best for us,” Clara whispered.

  “Should you need anything,” he murmured in her ear, “you know where to find me. I will do whatever I can to help you. I regret that I have not done more.”

  Sadness swelled in Clara’s chest.

  “You gave me a place to live,” she said. “You tried to help with Andrew. There was nothing more you could have done.”

  “I only hope that this decision”—Granville glanced at Sebastian—“will yield the result you desire.”

  So did Clara. The portent of failure loomed before her. She’d devised no strategy for what to do should she encounter it. She couldn’t. Black as oil, impenetrable, failure would swamp her under and take her last breath.

  She looked to where Sebastian stood speaking with Lord Rushton. The earl glanced her way and approached. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hall. I wish you and my son much happiness.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Although Clara had no idea how Lord Rushton truly felt about this union, the fact that he approved of their marriage made the idea of having an earl as a father-in-law less intimidating.

  Sebastian moved beside Clara, cupping his left hand beneath her elbow with easy grace. “If you’ll all join us in the dining room, I believe there’s quite an elaborate breakfast waiting.”

  For Clara, the next few hours passed with rabbitlike speed, although they lingered over breakfast and then, at Granville’s suggestion, went for a walk in the garden of Grosvenor Square to benefit from the brisk autumn day. Rushton returned to his Piccadilly residence, while the rest of the party took some air.

  Clara, knowing quite well what awaited her upon their return to Sebastian’s town house, proposed they take the carriage to visit the Regent Street shops for a few hours. They had lunch at Verrey’s restaurant, then went to the Portland Gallery to view the array of paintings and sculptures, an excursion that Clara hoped would take the remainder of the afternoon.

  Embarrassment still scorched her when she remembered her behavior in Sebastian’s carriage, the way she’d thrown herself at him with an utterly wanton lack of restraint. Although Sebastian had given her no reason to feel ashamed, Clara knew well that her behavior fell far outside the bounds of decency.

  She couldn’t fathom how Richard might have reacted, had she conducted herself in such a manner with him. Then again, nothing about Richard and his detached, stoic presence had ever inspired so much as a modicum of desire in Clara. She hadn’t even wanted to kiss him.

  But Sebastian? He was a man who could turn her insides into molten heat with one brush of his fingertips, one intent look from his dark eyes. All she needed to do was gaze at his beautiful mouth, and she was seized by the urge to press her lips to his, feel the sweep of his tongue, drink the
hot sweetness of his breath.

  Clara shivered at the very idea, turning to study a landscape painting as she attempted to entrap all her wild, furtive imaginings.

  Lock your heart, she reminded herself even as she slanted a glance toward her new husband, so disarmingly handsome in a crisp morning coat and a cravat the color of a sweeping, cobalt-blue Dorset sky. The breeze had mussed his unruly black hair and a corner of his cravat had escaped the lapel of his coat, the loose edge rumpling his appearance just enough to remind the world he would not be contained like other men.

  A sudden and sharp ache of tenderness constricted Clara’s chest. She averted her gaze from him and tried to focus on the painting.

  Lock your heart lest you give him the power to damage it.

  And with Sebastian, Clara knew, the damage would shatter her beyond repair.

  She hurried to fall into step beside her uncle as they left the gallery and went back outside. The sunlight was beginning to dim and the shadows to lengthen by the time Mrs. Fox remarked that she ought to be returning home, and Granville summoned a cab for her. After she’d gone, he glanced at Sebastian before turning a worried gaze on Clara.

  For whatever reason, her uncle’s concern eased Clara’s own apprehension. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d wed an ogre. Quite the opposite, in fact. She became acutely aware of Sebastian beside her, his tall, quiet presence comforting rather than fearsome.

  She kissed Uncle Granville’s cheek. “I’ll call on you tomorrow, yes? I’ve still the sewing to finish for your dancing couple, and I’d like to start on the adornments for the next birdcage.”

  “You needn’t—”

  “I’ll be there at ten.”

  Sebastian stepped aside to open the door of another cab. Granville squeezed Clara’s hands in farewell. Before Granville entered the cab, Sebastian lowered his head and spoke to the other man.

  A breeze whisked the words from Clara’s ear, but Granville nodded with what appeared to be satisfaction, then clapped his hand firmly on Sebastian’s shoulder in a gesture of approval.