by Nina Rowan
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew is out with his tutor today.” Clara gripped the curtain in her fist as she stared out the window at Fairfax’s town house. The day following her wedding, she had sent her father a note requesting an interview. He had agreed to see her at precisely three o’clock on Tuesday, and now all the events of the past three days—the wedding, Sebastian’s admission of love, Catherine Leskovna’s visit, and now this meeting—collided in Clara’s mind like crashing stones.
Fear shuddered through her. “I suspect my father wouldn’t have agreed to see us if Andrew were at home. Especially not after—”
Sebastian settled his large hand on the back of her neck, stopping her words. “It’s done,” he said. “We have what he wants. All he needs to do is agree and sign the papers.”
Not wanting to risk granting the baron any time to rethink his decision, Sebastian had had his brother’s solicitor draw up the papers for the transfer of Wakefield House to Fairfax’s name. Even if Fairfax agreed to the terms, Clara knew her father wouldn’t sign the contract without his own solicitor’s review, but at least they could shorten the duration of the transaction.
Sebastian tucked the file of papers beneath his arm and stepped from the carriage. He helped Clara descend, holding her trembling hand in his as they approached the town house and rang the bell.
The gray-haired butler Davies admitted them, rigid as a stone column, his gaze cold as it skirted over Clara. No light of recognition flashed over his impassive features, even though he had known Clara since she was a child and had always treated her with kind respect.
Sorrow congealed in Clara’s throat. “Hello, Davies.”
“Mrs.…Hall. Your father awaits.”
Apprehension shuddered through her as she saw the half-open door of Fairfax’s study, a triangle of light edging from the room. Davies divested Sebastian of his greatcoat and Clara of her cloak before preceding them down the corridor.
Her father stood beside the hearth, his lean frame sheathed in a black morning coat and gray waistcoat, his white hair furrowed with comb marks. Like a tree in winter, stark and unyielding.
Clara smothered the urge to remain within the comfort of Sebastian’s presence. She made a quick gesture indicating he should remain by the door. Though protest vibrated from him, he came to a stop.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs as she forced herself to take measured steps across the carpet. Never had a room felt so vast, so cavernous, as she made her way to where her father stood. Sweat collected on her nape when she finally halted and lifted her head to meet his cool, gray eyes.
“My lord.” Her voice shook. She swallowed and tried to conceal the shades of panic coloring her words. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I beg your forgiveness for my rash and imprudent behavior earlier this month.”
Fairfax didn’t reply. He slanted his gaze to Sebastian. “You, there. What did you hope to gain by marrying her?”
“A good wife.” Sebastian’s deep voice rang close behind Clara. Relief rippled through her at his nearness, despite her mandate that he remain by the door.
“Mr. Hall did us both a great service with this union,” Clara said. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine as she continued to hold her father’s flinty gaze. “The day we wed, Wakefield House transferred into his name.”
Satisfaction clenched in her as a flash of surprise glinted in Fairfax’s expression. Papers rustled. Sebastian placed the contract on the low table between them.
“What is that?” Fairfax jerked his chin to the papers.
“A contract granting you ownership of Wakefield House and the surrounding property,” Clara said, “if you will release custody of Andrew to me.”
She took an involuntary step back, as if the proposal would ignite a bolt of fury in her father, but Fairfax didn’t move. An eerie calm collected around him, like a coat perfectly tailored to his form.
“That is the reason you married him,” he said.
Clara nodded, finding no purpose in lying. “You’ve been attempting to gain ownership of Wakefield House for months,” she reminded her father. “I would have given it to you the day I left Manley Park, had the courts allowed it. But now I can give it to you through Mr. Hall. I’m certain your solicitor will find the papers entirely in order.”
When her father didn’t respond, Clara pressed on with a growing sense of desperation. “My lord, it’s worth a substantial sum, even with the house in disrepair. I’m certain the proceeds from a sale would go a long way toward assuaging any financial difficulties you may—”
“Do shut up, Clara.” Fairfax flicked open a silver box seated on the mantel. He pressed tobacco into a curved, fluted pipe of polished teak, then used the tongs to extract a burning twig from the fire. Smoke billowed from the cup of the pipe as he puffed.
He squinted at Sebastian through the haze. “Your father is Lord Rushton.”
“Benjamin Hall, the Earl of Rushton. Yes.”
An arrow of tension lanced through Sebastian’s tall frame, tightening his shoulders and stirring Clara’s unease. She moved closer to him, appearances be damned, and watched her father warily.
Fairfax drew on his pipe again and released the smoke on a long exhale. “And you both think this”—he flicked the contract with blunt fingers—“is enough for me to surrender custody of my grandson?”
Clara’s heart plummeted. “But you…you’ve been wanting Wakefield House for months and now…”
“Oh, I’ll accept Wakefield House. Sell it to the first hapless buyer who offers enough. But Andrew is worth so much more than a decrepit old house, isn’t he, Clara?”
Sebastian’s tension crystallized into anger, lacing him with fury. He closed the distance between himself and Fairfax, and for a heart-stopping instant Clara thought surely he would strike her father.
No. Anger vivid but leashed, Sebastian glared down at Fairfax. “How much more do you want?”
“More than you have, my boy.”
Clara gasped. Still Sebastian did not lash out, though a visible current of rage vibrated through him. Fairfax puffed on the pipe and met Clara’s gaze over her husband’s shoulder.
“I commend your efforts, my dear. But Andrew will remain within my custody, as I refuse to jeopardize his safety in your presence. You will not see your son again.”
Clara started to shake. Her father’s final remark opened a wide, black pit inside her that she dared not face for fear she would fall into the endless darkness.
“There…there is nothing that will change your mind?” she asked, her voice weakening under the onslaught of suppressed emotions.
“I am not doing this to be cruel, Clara,” Fairfax said. “Andrew has been in a prolonged state of shock since his father’s death. I am sending him to an institution where he can receive proper treatment.”
“A…an institution? Why—” Clara’s voice broke as she recalled Lord Margrave telling her that Andrew hadn’t been “well” during his visit to Manley Park.
“The institution is in Switzerland, near Interlaken,” Fairfax continued. “I have corresponded with a Swiss physician who has studied afflictions of children, and agreed to work with Andrew. The institution has wards dedicated to children’s care. I’m certain Andrew will receive the help he needs there.”
“What kind of help does he need?” Clara cried, her spine so tight it felt like it would break in two. “Why do you want to send him to a physician? What is wrong with him?”
Fairfax slanted Sebastian a glance. “Please take Mrs. Hall out before she becomes hysterical. Or before I have her removed.”
“You will not get away with this,” Sebastian snapped.
Before Clara could shove words past her constricted throat, Sebastian grabbed the papers from the table, then took her arm and led her into the foyer. Davies stood near the door, his expression impassive even as tension poured from the room.
“Davies, what do you know of this?” Clara grasped the man’s sleeve in desp
eration. “Why is my father sending Andrew away? What’s happened to him?”
Something wavered in the butler’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I do not know, Mrs. Hall.”
“Please tell me! You’ve known me since I was a child, Davies, you know I only want the best for my son. What is wrong?”
“Lord Fairfax has requested that you depart, Mrs. Hall,” he replied.
Sebastian cursed. He tossed Clara’s cloak around her shoulders and grabbed his greatcoat, stalking to the carriage with a hard, determined stride.
Clara hurried beside him, fighting for breath and calm. Sebastian handed her into the carriage and ordered the driver to return to Mount Street. Shaking with cold, she lunged across the space to collapse onto the seat beside him. Her chest rattled with dry, wrenching sobs.
He locked an arm around her, pulling her body hard against his. Clara pressed her face into his shoulder and absorbed his warmth. Yet not even Sebastian could rid her of the new, icy reality shearing into her soul.
She had nothing left to offer.
Bastard.
Now more than ever bloodlust gripped Sebastian. He not only wanted to kill Fairfax—he first wanted to see the man suffer. He wanted to induce the suffering himself. The feeling clawed at him as he wrestled for a solution in the midnight hours following their confrontation with Fairfax.
Sebastian stared at the papers he’d spread out on the desk—accounts, expenses, budgets, bills. His father afforded him a generous allowance, the funds of which would continue owing to his marriage to Clara. Sebastian also had Darius’s payment for the cipher machine plans, and he’d a small fund left from the proceeds of his tours and performances. Still, even if he didn’t use the money to pay the remainder of his medical obligations, he doubted it would be enough to appease Fairfax. And money was all he could think of with which to bargain.
Sebastian groaned, clamping the bridge of his nose between his fingers. God in heaven. What chaotic hell would flare if his father and elder brother discovered the truth of all this?
He’d crush his pride to sand if he thought begging would generate their help. A portion of Rushton’s and Alexander’s combined fortunes would cover Fairfax’s debts, no matter how dire.
But that would mean confessing all. And once Rushton and Alexander learned about Catherine Leskovna…
“I won’t let you do this.”
Clara’s gentle voice swam into his thoughts. He dragged a hand through his hair and straightened, watching her approach. A deep russet merino dress trimmed in brown enclosed her slender figure, and her chestnut hair cascaded in a long ribbon over her shoulder. She looked like a wood sprite, pale and delicate, her unusual eyes veiled with caution.
An ache gripped Sebastian’s throat. More than anything, even more than wanting the use of his hand again, he wanted to help her. He wanted to give her that which she desired most. He wanted to ease her pain, to make her happy. He wanted to protect her.
He’d failed spectacularly at doing any of those things.
Her warm hand slid beneath his chin, guiding his face toward hers. “I won’t let you,” she repeated. “You will not ruin yourself because of my father’s threats.”
“Then what? You’ll let him send your son away?”
Clara drew back, her hand dropping away from him. Sebastian sighed and snared her wrist. “Sorry.”
Clara twisted her wrist from his grip and tangled her fingers with his. He pushed the chair away from the desk, putting his hand at her back to draw her closer. Clara lowered herself to his lap, her knees hugging his hips, her orange-spice scent flavoring the air. He grasped the streamer of her hair and let the loose tendrils glide through his fingers.
She placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “I never wanted this. Never meant to drag you into the vile swamp of my father’s domain. I honestly hoped he would accede to my request, that he wanted Wakefield House enough to release Andrew.”
She shook her head and bit her lower lip, creating little indentations Sebastian wanted to soothe with a sweep of his tongue.
“He thinks Andrew will never be worth anything,” Clara said. “Andrew is a quiet boy, studious. He likes to read and draw. He likes animals. He’s skilled at archery and fencing, but my father insisted that he learn shooting, hawking, riding, wrestling…he thought Andrew should be adept at all such masculine pursuits, even at seven years of age.”
She sighed. “Richard would have thought the same, had he lived.”
Sebastian understood the boy’s inclinations. He’d never been one for hunting or wrestling himself, though between his father and three brothers he’d become accomplished at all sports.
“Was that the source of your arguments?” he asked.
“Some of them. Others involved Andrew’s education, the fact that Richard wanted to send Andrew away to school…I’m sorry to say we disagreed on a great deal. Most of the time I acquiesced to Richard’s demands in order to maintain peace but…I suppose it oughtn’t have been a surprise that he believed my father a more suitable guardian. My father also had very exacting ideas about how Andrew should be raised, especially since he is the only grandchild. I suspect things might have been different had Richard and I been blessed with more children.”
“Brothers and sisters are a blessing,” Sebastian agreed, “though it is sometimes difficult to conform to the standards they might set.”
She studied him from beneath her dark eyelashes. “You’ve never conformed.”
No, and that too had set him apart from his family. The distinction brought an unwelcome thought of his mother to mind, that clandestine sense that he shared something with her that no one else in his family had. She must have known it as well, or she wouldn’t have sought him out after the Weimar disaster.
Certainly none of his brothers had comprehended his proclivity for music, though they eventually came to appreciate the flock of admiring women his success attracted.
Now Sebastian couldn’t remember any of the women who had peppered his life over the years. Like paper dolls, they were flimsy and impermanent, strung together with brittle thread.
Nothing like Clara Winter, who blazed with life and fire and determination.
He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, rubbing away the painful little notches caused by her teeth. “You will have your son again.”
She twisted the ends of his cravat between her fingers, her downcast eyelashes painting crescents on her pale cheeks. She spoke no words of agreement, but she didn’t refute his statement either. That must mean she still had hope.
Of course she still hoped. Nothing would ever extinguish Clara’s essential belief that she would one day be reunited with her son. That spark would burn in her until she held Andrew in her arms once again. No matter how long it took. No matter what she was forced to do.
Clara lifted her lashes to look at him, then leaned forward to press her mouth against his. A soft heat spilled through him at the touch of her full lips, the breathy sigh easing from her throat. He tightened his hands on her waist, his left hand curling against the stiffness of her corset. His right fingers seized and refused to move. He tensed and started to pull away from her, hating his inability to control the way he touched his own wife.
Clara covered his disabled hand, tucking her fingers between his. She parted her lips to deepen their kiss and moved his hand up to her bare throat.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
His fingers remained rigid, locked into place, but he felt the softness of her skin, the pulse tapping at the hollow of her throat. Warmth skimmed from his fingertips up the length of his arm.
She speared her hands in his hair and tilted his head back, her mouth urgent, her hips pushing against him. She shifted closer. Her bottom slid against his lap until his groin nestled within the enclosing arch of her legs.
He grasped the pleats of her skirt with his other hand and drew them up. The heat of her skin burned his palm. She wiggled closer, pulling at the knot of
his cravat until his throat was bared to the caress of her warm lips. He breathed her in, stroking his fingers over the supple length of her thigh. Clara dropped her hands to his trousers and unfastened the buttons.
Lust sparked and flared in him. Clara cast him a quick glance, a smile curving her lips as she felt the bulge pressing against her fingers. He shifted to allow her easier access, wincing with pleasure at the touch of her hand against his hot flesh. Clara flicked her tongue against the side of his neck as she moved her hand over him, her body softening with readiness.
Sebastian’s blood pulsed. He gripped her thigh with his left hand to encourage her positioning, already aching to sheathe himself within the tight clasp of her body.
“Sebastian…” Uncertainty rippled through her.
“Slow.” His voice rasped from his chest. He slid his hand up to the juncture of her thighs and stroked. Clara gasped, trembling as she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. Her violet eyes searched his as she poised herself above him and then eased down, enclosing him by scant degrees. When he was fully embedded in her, throbbing, he tightened his hand again.
“Oh.” Clara shifted experimentally, her hips writhing. “Should I…”
“You should move.” Sebastian struggled to maintain what little control was left to him. “Right now.”
Clara did, her hands fisting on his shoulders as she lifted her body and brought it down again, driving their pleasure higher. She convulsed around him with a cry the instant before his tension broke. He thrust upward with a groan, spilling inside her as her inner muscles rippled around his shaft.
Clara’s mouth descended on his as the final shudders undulated through them. She pressed her hands to the sides of his face and leaned her forehead against his.
“I count that evening in the Hanover Street rooms,” she whispered, “as one of the luckiest days of my life.”
Sebastian rubbed his finger across her lower lip. “Yet still you have not gotten what you want.”
“With you, I have.” The words seemed to slip from her involuntarily. A sheen of dismay colored her eyes as she straightened to separate herself from him. She stroked a lingering hand across his neck. “But I meant it when I said I would not allow you to ruin yourself over this.”
