A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  For a long, stretched moment he just looked at her, then he took her hand in his. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. And you’re the only one who has ever challenged my own courage.”

  “Because I know who you are. I know what you are capable of. I do still love the man you once were, Sebastian. I’ve loved that man for years. He’s the brilliant, charming musician who showed everyone, including me, how to find pleasure in life.”

  She lifted herself onto her elbow, sliding her hand down his neck to his bare chest. “But the man you are now, the man I love with everything I am, is the man I know. I know the shadows and light that color your heart because I feel them too. You are the man who has proven that goodness and hope still exist, even in the face of despair. You are the man I love.”

  A shuddering breath escaped him. Clara’s heart thumped hard in the wake of her admission, fear of his rejection rising to the surface. But no. Confirming what she had always believed about him, Sebastian turned to brush his lips across her forehead, down the slope of her cheek to her lips.

  And then he kissed her, locking their mouths together in an affirmation of their inseverable union.

  Two movements linked together. Sebastian studied the sheet of music and tightened his hand around the pencil. Starting with the woodwinds, then the full orchestra building into a crescendo in preparation for the piano’s entry. A stack of fourths. E, A, D, G. Blue, white, yellow, brown. He scribbled the notes and played them with his left hand.

  Anticipation flared in his blood. Caution, too, for he didn’t quite dare to believe that a one-handed piano part would be any good, much less please an audience. His right hand had always been dominant, its dexterity concealing whatever imperfections lay within the composition. Focusing on his left hand required a perfection of musical balances and dynamic gradations, allowing no room for inadequacy.

  He played the notes again. The dark orange bass of the orchestra resounded through his mind. Then the cadenza. He wrote another measure, trying to make his way a few more steps to the end, gritting his teeth when his hand faltered and the pencil dropped to the floor.

  Before he could bend to retrieve it, Clara stepped forward. Sebastian straightened, not having known she was in the room. Apprehension tightened his spine.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Just a few minutes.” Her gaze skimmed over the papers littering the piano surface. “I heard the music and thought you were here with Andrew.”

  “He’s with Mrs. Danvers in the kitchen.” Sebastian reached for the pencil, but Clara moved away and took hold of the arms of a chair. She pulled the chair closer to the piano, then picked up the smudged sheet of paper.

  For an instant, Sebastian didn’t understand. And then when it hit him, he felt his breath almost stop. He stared at his wife, gripped by an emotion he couldn’t name and had never experienced before. Her eyes soft with tenderness, she nodded toward the keys.

  “I remember the basics of piano music,” she said. “But what I don’t know, you can show me.”

  Sebastian swallowed hard and turned back to the piano. He played a chord with his left hand and showed Clara where it should be placed on the staff. Clara carefully transcribed the notes onto the paper, then looked up at Sebastian and waited.

  Sebastian heard the double bass, the colors of a sunset. Then he listened for the echo and pointed out the structure of the notes so that Clara could write them down. Her penmanship was neat and precise, the notes marching like soldiers across the page. Together they worked for the next half hour, until several lines of music filled the paper.

  When Sebastian finally lifted his hands from the keys, a deep satisfaction rose in him, a sense of fulfillment that he hadn’t experienced in longer than he cared to remember. He flexed his right hand. His third finger curled toward his palm, but no wrenching despair accompanied the reminder of his disability.

  He felt Clara’s gaze on him and turned to face her. Warmth filled her eyes and curved her lips.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  Sebastian stretched his left fingers. He still didn’t dare believe that the final composition would be good, but he did know that he would finish it. For the first time in months, he would finish a composition that he could actually perform.

  Clara stacked the sheets on top of the piano and brushed her lips across his forehead. “I want to help you.”

  He caught her arm. “We leave for Brixham at four o’clock. I’ve arranged for a cab to take us to the train station.”

  She put her hand over his and tightened her fingers. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Sebastian watched her leave the room, recalling her admission of love from the previous night. She was the one who reminded him that he was the same man he’d always been, that the loss of his hand didn’t diminish his talent. Certainly it couldn’t affect his love for music, though he’d tried hard to bury that love under layers of fear.

  And what good had it done him? Clara had never allowed fear to hinder her desire to reclaim Andrew. Even though she was afraid, she plunged forward with inflexible resolve, determined to achieve her goal by whatever means necessary.

  A noise turned him toward the doorway. Andrew entered the room and approached the piano.

  “Is that one of Mrs. Danvers’s cream cakes?” Sebastian asked, nodding toward the pastry clutched in Andrew’s hand. “When I was a boy, I knew I was having a very good day when Mrs. Danvers offered me a cream cake.”

  Andrew grinned. An idea occurred to Sebastian. He reached for the pencil and turned a sheet of paper over. Gripping the pencil in a tight fist, he quickly scribbled a sentence and turned it toward Andrew.

  You can tell us anything.

  Andrew’s eyes darkened. He scuffed his feet across the rug.

  Sebastian hesitated, loath to drive the boy away but also wanting to assuage Clara’s hurt. He held out the pencil to Andrew in invitation.

  For a moment, he thought Andrew might accept the offer of communication, but Andrew gestured to the door leading to the foyer.

  “Shall we try the balloons again?” Sebastian asked. “Now that we have two, we can have races.”

  Andrew shook his head and gestured to the foyer again. Sebastian set the pencil and paper aside. He would try again later.

  He followed Andrew to the kitchen, where they had worked on preparing and varnishing the balloons. They had also constructed a wooden frame crossed with wires that supported a spindle.

  From beside the wall, Andrew retrieved a large wheel constructed of paper and indicated to Sebastian that the paint was dry. The boy had spent most of the morning painting and decorating it with several spiral designs, and now they attached it to the spindle. The paper wheel was further embellished with a pattern of small holes, which they had punched with a dowel.

  Sebastian and Andrew fitted the wheel to the spindle and tested the mechanism. After ensuring that all the wires were tight, Sebastian carried the frame into the drawing room and set it before the fire—close enough to achieve the effects of the light, but not close enough to set the paper aflame. He stepped back.

  “All right, then. Give it a try.”

  Andrew held up both hands in the gesture Sebastian had learned to interpret as “Wait a moment.” The boy then scurried from the room, returning a few minutes later with a perplexed Clara in tow.

  A smile broke loose from Sebastian’s heart. Clara cast him a questioning glance before she saw the paper wheel.

  “Did you make this?” she asked Andrew. “It’s beautiful.”

  Andrew motioned toward a chair in front of the wheel. Clara sat, shifting her gaze to her son. A guarded hope appeared in her eyes as she realized that Andrew had invited her here to demonstrate their new creation.

  Sebastian moved to stand beside her, nodding at Andrew to conduct the performance. Almost vibrating with anticipation, Andrew went to the wheel and took hold of the spindle.

  With a few hard twists,
he set the paper wheel spinning into a kaleidoscope of colors. Firelight flickered and leapt through the pattern of holes, sparking with every rotation of the wheel. The paint shimmered and gleamed under the illumination until the wheel became a blur of colors and light.

  “Oh, how lovely!” Clara clapped, charmed by the display. She glanced at Sebastian. “How on earth did you conceive of this?”

  “My brothers and I used to make them when our governess banned us from making real fireworks. Talia usually decorated the wheels, and the rest of us tried to devise ever more dangerous ways to enhance the effects of the light. Andrew did this one almost entirely on his own.”

  “Andrew, it’s brilliant! It’s like watching a spinning rainbow. On fire, no less. I’ve never seen anything like it. Do it again, would you?”

  Andrew rotated the wheel faster, creating another fireworks display. Then he and Sebastian showed Clara how the mechanism was constructed, with Andrew pointing out the various parts and Sebastian explaining how they worked.

  “I’m astonished. I love it.” Clara squeezed Andrew’s shoulder and started to lean in to embrace him. Then a shadow of wariness crossed her features, and she straightened. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

  Andrew nudged the frame away from the fire. Clara slipped her hand into Sebastian’s.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “If it weren’t for you…”

  Some of Sebastian’s tension faded with the trailing off of her voice. He tightened his hand on hers, then went to help Andrew situate the frame near the wall.

  “Shall we try our balloon races before lunch?” he asked, glancing out the window. “No rain appears forthcoming.”

  Andrew nodded. He looked at his mother. Clara twisted a fold of her skirt.

  “Will you accompany us?” Sebastian asked.

  “I’d be delighted.” She kept her attention on her son, her wariness fading beneath a growing hope. “I can ask Mrs. Danvers to pack us a picnic.”

  Andrew smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clara shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun as she watched a carriage make its way up the drive. Sebastian had arranged for transportation to the train station at four o’clock, but it was too early for the vehicle to arrive. Apprehension flared in her chest at the realization that someone was invading their temporary sanctuary. She let the curtain fall back across the window and hurried from the room.

  “Mrs. Danvers, have you seen Mr. Hall anywhere?” Clara stopped the housekeeper en route to the kitchen.

  “I believe he’s still out with Master Andrew, Mrs. Hall.”

  Clara headed toward the drawing room. Sebastian’s voice resonated from the doors opening to the garden as he and Andrew entered. Their clothes were streaked with dirt, their hair messy from the wind. The area around Clara’s heart tightened at the sight of them, at the reminder that her husband and son had developed a strong rapport in less than two days.

  “If you apply an extra coat of linseed oil, the seams are even stronger,” Sebastian told Andrew in the moment before they looked up and saw her standing there.

  Andrew stopped. Sebastian frowned.

  “Clara?”

  She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and gestured to the foyer. “There’s…someone’s arrived. I don’t know who it is.”

  Sebastian’s frown deepened. He said something to Andrew that Clara didn’t hear, and went to the foyer. He wrenched open the door and descended the steps.

  Clara followed, putting out a hand to keep Andrew behind her as the boy approached her side. The horses stamped and shuffled as the groom vaulted from the bench to open the door.

  Shock froze Clara’s blood to ice as her father stepped down from the carriage, followed by the stern, unyielding figure of the Earl of Rushton. Instinctively, Clara stepped backward, her hand closing around Andrew’s shoulder. Panic clawed at her.

  “Sebastian.” Rushton strode forward, his sharp gaze flickering from Clara to his son. “We’ve come to reclaim the boy.”

  A black pit seemed to open beneath Clara’s feet. She felt herself falling, falling, spiraling into a darkness that had no beginning or end.

  Tension and anger stiffened Sebastian’s shoulders. He slanted a glare at Fairfax. “I will not allow Andrew to be removed from his mother or placed in an institution.”

  “You have no say in the matter,” Fairfax snapped, his lean figure rigid with determination. “You have committed a hanging offense by abducting that boy from my custody, and rest assured I will see you charged unless you return him to me.”

  Clara felt Andrew start to shake. Her throat closed over. She hugged him to her side as the panic clawed harder.

  Run. The command beat into her blood again, but this time she had nowhere to go. This time there was no escape.

  “Lord Rushton, please.” She tightened her grip on Andrew and focused on the earl, willing him to find some degree of sympathy for their plight. “I want only to be with my son. Lord Fairfax will not allow me anywhere near him, and I—”

  “We have discussed this already, Mrs. Hall,” Rushton replied curtly. “And the fact remains that Lord Fairfax is Andrew’s legal guardian. If you do not yield custody of him at once, your father will make good on his threat to have both you and Sebastian arrested.”

  Clara knew that. For herself, she didn’t care. Even in prison, she would somehow find a way to keep fighting for her son if she had to write letters to every justice in the country and the queen herself. But she could not bear the thought of Sebastian being censured for an act that had been entirely her doing. She could not allow him to take any blame when he had only sought to help her.

  Shame split her heart in two. Her breath jolted from her throat when Fairfax strode toward her. She stiffened her spine and clutched Andrew to her side.

  “Andrew!” Fairfax’s mouth compressed with irritation. “Get in the carriage at once.”

  Andrew shook his head, half-concealed behind the folds of Clara’s skirt.

  Fairfax pierced Clara with a glare. “What has he said to you?”

  “He hasn’t said anything!” The admission ripped at her chest. “What have you done to him to make him stop speaking?”

  “He has been despondent over his father’s death,” Fairfax replied. “Andrew, get in the carriage. You know the consequences should you disobey.”

  “He is not going anywhere with you,” Sebastian said.

  “He is, or you will be imprisoned before the day is out,” Fairfax replied curtly. “Is that what you want, Mr. Hall? After the scandalous events of recent years, do you want your family to contend with your arrest for abduction? Imagine what such gossip will do to your father’s reputation. Not to mention his position with the Home Office.”

  A heavy stillness settled between them, as if even the air itself stopped moving. The edges of Clara’s vision darkened. Fairfax clenched a hand around Andrew’s arm and pulled him away.

  As Clara reached to grab him back, Andrew yanked himself from Fairfax’s grip and ran to Sebastian. He flung himself at Sebastian as if the man were a lifeboat in a storm-lashed sea.

  Sebastian closed his arms around the boy. An expression crossed his face that Clara had never seen before—a wrenching combination of grief and hopelessness. Tears burned her eyes.

  “If you let the boy go, Mr. Hall,” Fairfax said, “I am willing to forget any of this ever happened.”

  Clara’s gaze skidded to Rushton, her breath stopping as she silently prayed he would relent and intervene on their behalf.

  Rushton watched his son holding on to Andrew. The earl’s shoulders were stiff and his expression unreadable. Only a faint flicker in his eyes betrayed any emotion whatsoever.

  “Please,” Clara whispered.

  Rushton looked away. He opened the carriage door. Fairfax took hold of Andrew and wrenched the sobbing boy from Sebastian’s arms.

  “No.” Sebastian reached with his right hand to grasp Andrew’s shoulder, but his hand f
roze into a clawlike position, his arm stiffening up to his shoulder. His curse broke like glass shattering through the air.

  Clara ran to her son, her heart seizing at the sound of his sobs. Fairfax pushed out a hand to stop her. The impact slammed into her chest and set her stumbling back a few steps. Sebastian lunged forward and tried to grab Andrew again.

  The groom sprang at Sebastian, catching him offguard and bringing him to the ground. The two men fought, Sebastian’s left fist flying upward to catch the other man’s jaw. The groom jerked backward and raised an arm. Sebastian flung him off and vaulted to his feet just as Fairfax wrestled Andrew into the carriage. Rushton followed them, his back as rigid as a plank of wood.

  The carriage door slammed. A cry lodged in Clara’s throat. Sebastian started toward the carriage, but the groom had already clambered back to the bench. With a snap of the whip, the horses plunged forward.

  Sebastian ran after them, his boots slamming against the dirt-covered drive. The carriage picked up speed, moving farther and farther away. After following it almost to the road, Sebastian slowed to a halt and braced his hands on his knees, his body heaving with exertion. The carriage rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

  Sebastian planned an immediate return to London. He sent word in advance for his house staff to expect them, then arranged for a carriage and train tickets. He went in search of Clara to tell her they would depart that very evening.

  He found her standing at the window in her bedchamber, her profile etched against the cold glass. Regret wrenched at him, but he smothered it beneath an inflexible resolve.

  He would not fail her.

  He would not fail Andrew.

  He would not fail himself.

  “You’d best prepare to depart,” he said. “Our train leaves at six.”

  She turned to him, her face schooled into an impassivity that did not conceal the grief burning in her eyes.

  “There is nothing more we can do,” she said.

  Sebastian shook his head, hating the resignation in her voice. “You’re wrong. There is always something more we can do.”