A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Six


Smoke and noise coated the air of the Eagle Tavern. Tankards thumped against the wood of the trestle tables, voices rose in argument over card games, the fire hissed and snapped. The familiarity of the disorder eased some of Sebastian’s apprehension over Clara’s proposal earlier in the day. Despite all she had revealed, he couldn’t prevent the sense that she had not told him the entirety of her story.

He sat hunched over the piano, trailing his left hand over the keys without thought or pleasure. He put his right hand into position on the keys and sounded a C-major chord, then waited for the strings’ reverberations to cease. He played the chord again in its first inversion, then again in its second. He imagined a melodic line in the bass, something dark and menacing like the advance of gray fog at twilight.

For as long as Sebastian could remember, sound had been infused with color. Voices, noise from the street, the crackle of a fire. In music, every note had its own color, and color and shape were inexorably linked in his compositions. The various tones, harmonies, and pitches wove through his mind in endless patterns. As he wrote his compositions, guided by what colors and shapes fit together, he saw the music as moving paintings.

Since losing the use of his right hand, he still saw a shadow of those patterns, felt the intense yellow of major C, the pink of the E note, the rich brown of G…but the colors were pallid now, faded, like bright linens left too long in the sun.

He played another chord. Then it happened again—his fourth and fifth fingers faltered as if the strength had suddenly drained from them. Sebastian kept his hand on the keys and tried to repeat the octave. The two fingers resisted control, curling toward his palm instead of obeying his internal command. The muscles of his forearms snarled and contracted clear up to his shoulder.

Sebastian swore and slammed his hand flat on the keyboard. The crash caused several patrons to glance up.

He twisted his neck from side to side and shook his arm to ease the tension. Forcing the thin remnants of color away, he rose from the piano stool and went to the taproom, where Darius sat. He slumped down at the table across from his brother, clots of smoke stinging his eyes.

Darius slid a tankard of ale across to him. Sebastian grabbed it with his left hand and took a swallow, then wiped his mouth.

“Didn’t you once play here regularly?” Darius asked. “Annoyed Alexander to no end, if I recall correctly.”

“Indeed. Probably one of the reasons I did it.”

Amusement flashed across Darius’s expression. “Does Pater know you still come here?”

“No. He’s occupied with his own work these days.” Sebastian realized only then the truth of the remark. “For the first time since his wife left, the old bird is out and about again. Has a new position with the Home Office. Spends time at his club, the theater, balls. And he seems to have earned himself a bit of attention from the ladies.”

“Good.” Darius swallowed some ale and leaned back, his gaze narrowing on Sebastian. “And you?”

“Me?”

“You’re not quite well, are you?”

Dammit. Sebastian curled his right hand into a fist. Of course he shouldn’t have expected to hide anything from Darius. For all of his brother’s impassivity, Darius was like a hawk who, with one sweep of his keen eyes, missed nothing. Not unlike Rushton.

“I’m fine,” Sebastian said. Ridiculous word. Fine. Thin and watery, ashen blue.

His brother’s attention remained steady, unwavering. “Why did you resign the Weimar position?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Sebastian flexed his fingers. “They wanted to amend one of my compositions.”

“You would not dishonor your patrons or Monsieur Liszt by resigning over such a trivial matter. Especially after the debacle of our parents’ divorce.”

Wary, Sebastian reached for his ale. He knew his brothers. Knew their temperaments, their idiosyncrasies. Darius was the practical, level-headed twin who could sense both deception and danger like a bloodhound following a scent to ground. And when he came upon it, he would stare the threat down, his calculating brain assessing risks and tactics with military precision before he made his move.

A reluctant smile tugged at Sebastian’s mouth. Their brother Nicholas would react in the opposite manner, plunging headlong into the fray with neither evaluation nor decorum. Even as boys, the twins had complemented each other with an accuracy that mimicked the riposte and parry action of a fencing match.

“You’ve not spoken with Rushton recently?” he asked.

Darius shook his head. “Last time I did, I asked about the countess. A mistake, obviously. Rushton ordered me never to speak of her again and left the room.” He paused, then rerouted the conversation neatly back to Sebastian. “I heard that the grand duchess still wishes to fund a tour of the Continent for you.”

Sharp longing twisted through Sebastian. He shook his head.

“Appears as if it would do you some good,” Darius remarked. “And the payment is substantial.”

“No.” Not long ago he’d have grabbed the opportunity and not looked back.

“Then what?” Impatience wove through Darius’s usually placid tone. “You’ve no intention of reviving your career? You’re not even teaching anymore. What do you intend to do?”

“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“Why?”

Rushton’s ultimatum crashed through Sebastian’s mind—marry or risk his allowance and possibly even his inheritance. Rushton didn’t know about Sebastian’s medical debts, or his attempt to restore his funds by helping Darius.

Yet Darius’s promise of compensation for the cipher machine specifications hinged on one uncertain premise—Sebastian had to actually find the plans. If he failed, and without the income from concerts and investors, he was destined for that clerk position with the Patent Office. And if he succeeded, if Clara succeeded, he would be bound to accept her proposal.

An outcome that became more tempting every time Sebastian thought about it. Marrying Clara would solve his troubles, but beyond that he would gain a lovely, intelligent wife with violet-colored eyes that seared him with each glance, whose full lips laced him with arousal. A woman who reminded him of the power of unflinching determination.

And certainly no one would expect him to marry someone like her, especially not his father, which made the notion even more appealing. He might have done such a thing ages ago, long before events of the past year had numbed the genial rebelliousness he’d once possessed.

He took another gulp of ale. A restive urge vibrated inside him, like a hammer striking a piano string over and over again. He wondered if his mother had felt like this before she’d fled for another life.

“Clara Winter asked me to marry her,” he confessed.

Darius blinked. “Why on earth would she do that?”

Sebastian almost grinned at the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “I am, after all, the second son of an earl and still rather known for my dashing ways.”

“Exactly so,” Darius replied. “And I understand that Mrs. Winter is the quiet sort not given to swooning over men like you. So I fail to fathom why she would propose such an alliance. Unless…” His eyes sharpened behind his glasses. “Has this anything to do with the cipher machine plans?”

“More to do with Rushton’s insistence that I marry soon.”

Yet Clara’s proposal was so tangled up with other reasons that Sebastian could no longer find the thread of his father’s ultimatum. He needed the cipher machine plans, he needed money to pay off his debts, he needed to find his way out of the bleakness following the end of his career, he needed to help Clara….

Sebastian took another drink. A waltz played at the back of his mind, but the chords and notes blurred into the sound of Clara’s blue-gold voice, the steady cadence of which could not conceal the turbulence of her suppressed emotions.

“And Mrs. Winter knows about Pater’s decree?” Darius asked.

Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to divulge Clara’s secrets. “She asked me to marry her for reasons of her own. I told her I would consider it.”

Darius stared at him for an instant, then threw back his head and laughed. “You’re considering marriage because a woman proposed to you? That was all it took? How many women have set their caps at you over the years, but stood waiting for you to be the one to ask?”

Amusement flickered to life in Sebastian. “There is a great deal more to Clara than her forthrightness, though you are welcome to spread the word that all she did was propose. I’d find the resulting gossip very diverting.”

He would, too. There would be no disgrace attached to lighthearted speculation about his potential engagement, and it might even obscure the lingering questions about his abandonment of his music career. Not to mention giving Rushton a bone to chew on.

Still grinning, Darius tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Be assured I will do my utmost to ensure people know that Sebastian Hall has been caught in parson’s mousetrap. My only hope is that Mrs. Winter proves worth your capitulation.”

She already has.

The thought startled Sebastian. He shook his head.

“I haven’t yet capitulated,” he said.

“Yet?” Darius’s keen perception shone through his amusement. “This is the first time you have ever considered marriage, Sebastian. Is she the reason you refuse to embark on a new tour?”

“No.” Sebastian frowned, suddenly wishing he’d kept quiet. “If I do marry Clara Winter, it would be for practical reasons.”

“You never do anything for practical reasons.” Darius reached for his tankard. “You only ever do things because you want to.”

That had once been the truth. Sebastian wrapped his left hand around his right, squeezing it into a fist. In the adjoining room, a man began playing a lively tune on the piano. The sound drifted into Sebastian’s ears in ribbons of yellow and white.

Although he had no wish to respond to his brother’s probing, Sebastian realized he was somewhat grateful for it. Darius knew him. Sebastian disliked the secrets that snaked through his family now, but his brothers and sister remained his only solid ground in the turmoil of the past five months.

And as his brothers knew him, he knew his brothers. Darius’s motivations for doing anything were rarely as simple as they first appeared.

“You’re here for more than the cipher machine plans, aren’t you?” Sebastian asked. “Why?”

“Bring me the plans.” Darius skimmed his sharp gaze over Sebastian again. “Eight o’clock next Tuesday. I’ll explain then.”

Sebastian pushed his chair away from the table and left without looking back. He walked down the street, skirting around pedestrians. Carts and horses rattled on the cobblestones, and lights began to glow in the windows of the braziers’ workshops lining Houndsditch. He hired a cab and instructed the driver to leave him at Blake’s Museum of Automata on Old Bond Street.

Mrs. Fox was pulling on her cloak when he entered the foyer, and she gave him a somewhat severe frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, but the museum is closing. I intend to lock the door behind me.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Fox, as I’m not here for a tour. Are Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter available?”

She sighed. “You’ll have to go look for yourself. Mrs. Marshall is fixing dinner, so you’d best not disturb her.”

Sebastian nodded, flinging his hat and greatcoat onto the rack before heading into the depths of the museum. He found both the music room and parlor empty, then paced to Granville’s workshop, which was cluttered with boxes and machine parts.

Clara knelt beside an opened crate, leaves of creased paper and disordered notebooks scattered around her. Dust covered her apron. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and long tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to wind around her throat.

Sebastian’s fervent urge from earlier returned, this time thumping in time with the beat of his heart.

“Hello, Clara.”

“Oh.” She started and rose to her feet. She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Just arrived. Nearly skewered by Mrs. Fox’s glare. Deadly as a poisoned arrow.”

She smiled. He thought he’d do anything, including stand on his head and whistle a tune, if she would continue to smile at him like that. He moved closer. Close enough that her skirts brushed his legs like the glide of fingertips.

“Why have you come back?” she asked.

“I wanted to see you,” Sebastian said, only recognizing the truth of the statement after he spoke. With her standing in front of him, all other reasons and motivations faded away and left only the bright, shining possibility of Clara becoming his wife.

She looked at him. He inhaled her scent and lifted his left hand to wind a stray lock of hair around his fingers. He brushed his thumb against her neck and felt the quickening beat of her delicate pulse even through his glove.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. He was so close to her he could have counted her eyelashes. The color of her eyes was muted, but the blue flecks in her irises sparkled like light on snow.

She was silent, her gaze skimming across his mouth, warming his lips. A tremble coursed through her, vibrating against his palm. His breath almost stopped as he waited for her response.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The word escaped her on a whisper. She lifted her hand to his mouth. Heat pooled low in his body at the touch of her fingertips, the stroke of her thumb in the indentation beneath his lower lip.

He captured her hand in his and turned her palm upward. Rough scrapes lined her skin, gritty with dust. She closed her fingers and tried to pull her hand from his. He didn’t allow it, stroking his forefinger over the thin scratches. “You haven’t found them.”

“I will.” A tremble shuddered in her voice despite the declaration. “Uncle Granville is helping, but there are at least twenty crates and boxes to inspect, not to mention the sheer number of papers and diagrams. If Monsieur Dupree didn’t write down the purpose of his inventions, I have to ask Granville to interpret them for me. It all takes…time.”

Time that neither of them had.

Sebastian looked at the scratches on her hand, disliking the evidence of her pain. He brought her wrist up and pressed his mouth against the middle of her palm.

Clara gasped, her arm jerking in reflex even as her other hand closed around the lapel of his coat. Warmth spread through Sebastian’s chest, untangling the ache of fatigue and restlessness. He lifted his right hand to cover hers, forcing his fingers into the position he would use on a keyboard.

His fingers contracted, then froze. Tension pinched through his forearm. He struggled to make his hand close over Clara’s, but the muscles seized.

Clara stared at his hand, his fingers stiffened into a claw that refused to curl around hers. Fear and dismay roiled in his stomach as he watched the dark comprehension cloud her violet eyes.

“What happened?” Clara whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t…”

Her fingers closed around his. Warmth flowed up his arm, easing the persistent constriction of his muscles.

“You don’t know?” she repeated.

Sebastian shook his head and forced the confession from his tight throat. “It started a few months ago, right after I took the Weimar position. My right hand wouldn’t do what I wanted it to, almost as if it weren’t even part of me anymore. Whenever I tried to play the piano, my fingers froze and curled toward my palm. I went to several doctors, one of whom referred me to a surgeon who said it was a muscle problem. Did a surgery that bent this finger permanently.”

He touched his little finger, which was bent at a right angle. Even if he could regain control over the rest of his hand, he’d have to undergo another surgery to try to fix the damaged joint.

Clara sighed, her eyes veiled by her lashes. She didn’t release his hand. Instead she rubbed her fingers over his, as if soothing the ruffled feathers of a bird. His breath eased a little.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He lifted a hand to her ear. “You?”

Shadows filled her expression, her mouth tightening. “Do you remember my brother, William? He also took piano lessons from you when we stayed in Dorset. He died when he was fifteen. I was seventeen. We were boating on a lake when a storm came up. A wind blew my hat into the water. I leaned too far to retrieve it and tipped the boat over. William hit his head and I couldn’t…”

The words crumbled beneath the weight of sorrow. Sebastian pulled her into his arms, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair.

“The days following were horrible,” Clara continued. “The grief tore us apart. My mother refused to leave her room. I developed a terrible pain in my ear and a ringing noise that wouldn’t cease. I didn’t tell anyone. I…I wanted to hide. I knew they all blamed me for William’s death. By the time the inflammation was treated with poultices and tinctures, my hearing was already damaged.”

Sebastian touched the delicate shell of her ear. He brushed his lips across her temple, across the soft strands of hair that had escaped their pins, and to the black birthmark at the corner of her eyebrow. Then lower, down to her cheekbone, before descending to capture her mouth.

Clara murmured his name and turned her head to meet him in a kiss that quivered with suppressed longing. He covered her lips, heat blooming in his blood as she opened for him without hesitation. He probed the warmth of her mouth, slid his tongue across her teeth. His damaged hand stiffened against her hip as her body curved against his.

He wanted to crush her to him, to pull her clothes off so he could touch the bare smoothness of her skin. Urgency pulsed through him like a heartbeat as Clara’s hands came up to cup his cheeks, angling his head to deepen their kiss.

A vibrant energy crackled from her into him, searing him with pleasure and something remarkably akin to happiness. Like cool, fresh water she poured into his desiccated soul and brought him to flourishing life again.

With her, he almost felt as if he could be himself again. As if he could reclaim everything that was pleasant and joyous of his former life.

Clara moved her lips to his jaw and gave a husky laugh, her breath fanning against his skin. “You never imagined this would happen, did you?”

“Did you?” Sebastian flexed his fingers against her waist.

“Oh, yes.” She parted from him, her hands sliding down to his neck. Warm amusement creased her eyes, bright above her flushed cheeks. “When we were in Dorset. When I watched you weave your music while surrounded by beautiful, admiring women….Oh, I imagined it. I hoped for it.…I wanted you to look at me, dance with me, speak with me.”

Sebastian lifted his good hand to her face and rubbed his thumb across her full lower lip. When he first encountered her in the Hanover Square ballroom, he thought he didn’t remember her.

He had been wrong.

Her revelations brought an image to the surface, like the burn of a constellation in a night sky. She’d been a quiet, pleasant, young woman who hovered on the periphery of the crowds, circling the ballrooms and parlors. A sparrow, yes, but one whose plumage shone with colors of rich brown, ocher, snow-white.

He turned toward a birdcage automaton resting on a workbench and found the key at the base. With a few twists, he wound the machine and released it. A metallic but pleasant tune drifted from the mechanism.

Sebastian lifted Clara’s right hand and placed it in his. Nerves tightened in his chest, but he curled his fingers around hers and willed his hand not to falter. Then he slipped his other hand around Clara’s waist and pulled her closer.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

Clara smiled, her eyes sparking with colors as she put her hand on his shoulder. “I’d be delighted.”

Sebastian guided her into a slow waltz. Although they were hampered by the scattered tables, she followed his lead with ease, matching her steps to his in time to the thin music and the chatter of the automated birds.

Sebastian turned, drawing her to him. His apprehension faded into the pleasure of the simultaneous movement, the ease of letting the music be his guide, the sheer enjoyment of holding Clara in his arms.

“You’re a wonderful dancer.” She looked up at him. “I remember that too.”

“I haven’t danced in months.”

“I haven’t either,” Clara admitted. “Not in the last year.”

Her eyes skimmed across his face, down to his mouth and lower to his neck. Sebastian’s blood warmed at the caress of her gaze. The automaton music wound down, the final strains filtering into the dusky air. He drew Clara to a slow halt. She remained within the circle of his arms, her hand still clasping his. For the first time in months, Sebastian realized he had forgotten about his disability.

An emotion tugged at him that he didn’t recognize, something rich and saturated with all the colors of the rainbow. His breathing shortened.

He stared at Clara’s lovely eyes. Eyes of a witch. Surely they had beguiled him into considering her proposal, for he could have conceived a dozen other ways of obtaining the cipher machine plans. Yet when she had laid out the terms, he knew it was the quickest way to obtain her assistance, to appease his father, to settle with Darius.

To make Clara his alone.

Apprehension rose to dilute his unforeseen emotions. Her approach to this agreement was calculated and practical. She needed Wakefield House transferred to his name. She spoke of warm feelings toward him, but her admiration had been directed toward the man he once was. Not the man he was now. Whereas he was drawn to all the complexities and turmoil of Mrs. Clara Winter, the woman who had sustained suffering and still burned with vital determination.

He remembered the young woman she had once been. He only wished he’d looked beyond himself far enough to actually see her.

He lowered his head to her damaged ear and spoke in a whisper that he knew she would not hear. “Now I see no other woman except you.”

She turned, her forehead creasing. “I’m sorry?”

No, he couldn’t allow her to hear such a confession. Not when her admiration for him was so misguided.

He released her and stepped back, unsettled. “I will come back tomorrow to help you look for the plans.”

A flicker of confusion passed across her expression before she glanced away. “Yes, of course. I…I’ve explained to my uncle about Wakefield House. He remains cautious, but as trustee he would not hinder the transfer of the property to you. Should we come to an agreement.”

Her voice leveled out into a practical tone, as if she sought to remind them both of the conditions underlying her proposal. And yet even with that reminder, Sebastian could not forget his caveat that their marriage would be both real and immutable.

Heat coursed down his spine. He would bind his emotions tightly because he would not lay himself bare before a woman who looked at him through the lens of the past, whose desire to marry him sprang from a practical and desperate purpose. And he would not lose sight of his own agreement with Darius, now laced with suspicions about his brother’s motives.

“Tomorrow then.” He fisted his right hand and headed for the foyer.

“Tomorrow,” Clara echoed.

Sebastian gave a short nod and opened the door.

“Sebastian?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn to face her.

“Thank you.” Clara paused, then added, “I’m glad we both remember how to dance.”



Clara didn’t want to believe it.

Not him. Not the talented performer who wove music like an intricate tapestry. Not the man who drew people into the warmth of his disarming presence. Not the man who had colored her Wakefield House days with brilliant strokes of red, green, and purple. Not the man who danced with a lean, masculine grace that made her feel as if she were floating.

Not him. Her heart ached, even as she knew the captivating man of her youth was still there, locked behind the despair of a new and indescribable infirmity.

She threw an empty box into the corner of the room and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Perspiration trickled down her backbone. Her hands were dry and grimy from breaking open crates and boxes, rummaging through machine parts and papers that made no sense to her.

Disappointment roiled through her. Monsieur Dupree might have written pages and pages of hieroglyphics, for all she could understand of his notes.

Every time she found a diagram that appeared to resemble a machine, she handed it to Uncle Granville for translation. Every time he shook his head.

“Music box,” he said, placing another drawing atop the pile already at his side. “A clock made of a birdcage. Letter keyboard. A cabinet with chimes. Look for a drawing that contains a cylinder and a rotating circuit wheel.”

“I am looking,” Clara replied with a touch of annoyance. They had been looking all morning, and so far had found nothing resembling a telegraph machine. “Perhaps he didn’t send them to you after all.”

Granville didn’t respond, which Clara interpreted as agreement. She thrust another empty crate to the side and reached for a box.

“Mrs. Marshall has breakfast prepared, if you’re both hungry.” Mrs. Fox appeared in the doorway, her eyes skimming the room in one glance. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

“Not yet.” Granville stood and stretched, pressing a hand to his lower back. “Clara, come break your fast. You’ve been up since dawn.”

“You go. I’ll be in later.”

Granville’s hand closed on her shoulder. “Don’t make yourself ill over this.”

Clara whirled to pin him with a glare. “I’ve been ill since the moment I left Manley Park, Uncle Granville.”

Pain flashed behind his glasses. His grip tightened on her shoulder. “I know.”

He glanced at Mrs. Fox. “Please tell Mrs. Marshall we’ll take breakfast later.”

Mrs. Fox gave a crisp nod and turned. A few minutes later, she returned. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance. I’ve locked the front door, so visitors will have to ring for entry.”

Clara and Granville exchanged glances. At her nod, he told Mrs. Fox what they were searching for. The other woman pulled a chair to the table and began unrolling a stack of scrolls.

Clara’s hands stung with cuts from the wooden crates, and a layer of dust coated her apron. She wiped her hands on a cloth.

She tried not to think beyond this one goal, the desperate need to find the machine specifications. She tried not to think of what would happen if she didn’t find them.

Sunlight began to press against the windows, making it easier to see in the dusty storeroom. Mrs. Fox stopped once to return to the foyer, then came back with Sebastian behind her.

Clara’s heart jumped at the sight of his tall figure, his thick, black hair rumpled from the scrape of his fingers.

“Good morning.” His deep voice rumbled over her skin.

Clara could not help delighting in the sensations he aroused in her, not only because of him, but because they were such a pleasurable reprieve from her ever-present fear. Seeing Sebastian, being near him, was like taking a breath of fresh, clean air after escaping a smoke-filled room. Yesterday she had thought she would never want to leave the protective circle of his arms.

She rose, experiencing a new surge of hope as Sebastian greeted Granville and explained the reason for his presence. Her uncle responded with wariness, which Clara knew sprang from his concern about her new plan.

Yet even cautious Uncle Granville could not deny the plan might very well work.

She guided Sebastian to a stack of boxes in the corner and explained the organizational procedure they had devised—machinery parts went into the adjoining room, diagrams for toys, clocks, musical items, and larger automata were divided into stacks on the table, and undecipherable plans and notebooks were placed on a sideboard for Granville’s perusal.

Sebastian began unpacking one of the boxes. Several hours passed, with only the sounds of shuffling paper, creaking wood and metal, and occasional questions breaking the silence. Mrs. Marshall appeared with a tea tray and plate of muffins, which she left on a side table.

Clara went to the table where Mrs. Fox sat examining notebooks. She took a scroll from a pile and removed the string. A sheaf of papers unfurled onto the table, a stack of notes embedded in the center. Clara smoothed her hand over the curling edges of the diagram and weighted them with books so the scroll would lie flat.

The intricate diagram resembled a music box, with gears attached to a central wheel. Notes decorated the paper like the margins on an illuminated manuscript—elegant boxes of Monsieur Dupree’s penmanship.

“What about this one?” Clara asked Uncle Granville.

After a brief inspection, he shook his head and started to turn away, then paused. He put his hands flat on the table and bent to look more closely at the drawing. His forehead wrinkled.

“What is it?” Clara asked.

“I don’t know. But I’ve never seen its like before.” Granville reached for the pages that contained Dupree’s writings. “Get me a pencil, please, Clara.”

Clara hurried to find a pencil and paper, which she placed on the table beside her uncle. She glanced at Mrs. Fox, who was watching Granville with her unwavering gaze. Sebastian came to stand next to her.

Granville muttered something to himself as he examined the diagram and read the papers, then began scribbling incomprehensible notes. Clara’s fingers curled into her palms as she waited, sensing her uncle’s flare of curiosity. He rubbed a hand through his hair and wrote a series of letters in the form of a square.

“Uncle Granville, what is it?” Clara finally asked after a good half hour of his muttering and scribbling. Impatience tightened in her chest. “Is it the telegraph machine?”

“No. It’s a machine meant for transmitting messages, but via some sort of cipher.”

“That’s it.”

Clara and Granville turned to stare at Sebastian. “What?”

“That’s the machine.” Sebastian’s spine straightened. “It transmits telegraphic messages through some form of secret writing. I believe some call it cryptology.”

Granville frowned. “I can only conclude that Monsieur Dupree would have sent such specifications to me in the hopes I’d know what to do with them.” He looked at Sebastian, the reflection of sunlight on his glasses enhancing the suspicion in his eyes. “Clara tells me you are seeking the plans for your brother?”

“Yes.” Sebastian rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, discomfort flashing across his expression. “He wrote to me from St. Petersburg asking for my help. He has since come to London. He wants to present the constructed machine to the Home Office, with full credit to Monsieur Dupree as the inventor. I would venture to say that should a patron wish to fund the project, Darius will ensure the profits go to Monsieur Dupree’s family.”

Granville looked steadily at Sebastian. For a moment, a wealth of questions and answers seemed to pass between the two men, heightening Clara’s impatience.

The devil himself could have the plans, for all she cared. Anyone could have them if it meant a chance she would be reunited with her son.

“So that’s it, then,” she said. “Give them to your brother and have the whole thing done with.”

Granville placed his hand on the diagrams, the stack of notes. “Clara, please understand Monsieur Dupree must have sent them to me for safe-keeping. I cannot allow the originals to leave my possession.”

“Make copies, then,” Clara said. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Granville didn’t respond, his forehead creasing. Clara clenched her fists.

“Please,” she said.

Her uncle looked at her. His eyes flashed with a wavering combination of reluctance and concern.

“Only for you, Clara,” Granville said, “will I agree to this.” He turned to look at the notes and diagrams, then nodded. “I’ll start right now. Should take me a day or two.”

Relief flooded Clara alongside a strange apprehension—the portent of what finding the machine plans actually meant to her future. The uncertainty of it all undulated before her like heat rising from cobblestones, hazy and indistinct.

She stared at Sebastian. A thin stream of light glinted off his dark hair and illuminated the golden flecks in his brown eyes.

He began questioning Granville about the cipher alphabet and transmission methods, his voice a deep cascade over the dusty sunlight.

Clara took the opportunity to escape the room, her heart pounding like a wind-whipped leaf. Her breath came rapidly as she stopped in the foyer and struggled to calm her turmoil of emotions.

“Counterpoint.”

His voice echoed against the walls. Settled into her blood, her bones. She turned to watch him approach, his footfalls oddly silent on the marble floor. He stopped before her, his dark gaze intent.

“I beg your pardon?” Clara said.

“In music, counterpoint involves independent melodic lines that harmonize when played together,” Sebastian explained. “As in our situation, we can now give each other what we desire.”

Clara’s shoulders tensed, even as the word desire rippled through her.

“Have…” She swallowed to moisten her dry lips. “Have you considered all the implications of marriage to me?”

“I have, indeed. And you know my expectations?”

Clara’s breath burned her throat. She knew the expectations. She’d known of them since the idea of marriage had first occurred to her. She knew, because Sebastian Hall was not the type of man who would accept a platonic marriage, even one based on calculated ends.

She knew because thoughts of these expectations had seared her mind as she lay in bed at night, the thin sheets twisting around her legs, her body pulsing with restless palpitations she could not comprehend.

She told herself again she could do it. She could agree because Sebastian was a good man who would fulfill his part of the agreement. All she needed to do was give him copies of the plans. All she needed to do was take her vows and prove a loyal, good wife.

All she needed to do was share his bed.

A hot flush flooded her cheeks. She turned away to collect her composure.

Really, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known a man before. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what to expect. If Sebastian Hall was anything like Richard, he would climb beneath the coverlet, push her nightdress up to her hips, then have the whole business over and done with in a scant few minutes.

All she needed to do was lie there and wait for him to finish.

So why was apprehension swirling through her belly at the mere idea? Why could she not erase the image of Sebastian from her mind—him looming above her in the dark, the weight of his body heavy atop hers, his long-fingered hands brushing her bare skin as he slid her gown over her thighs…

Oh, God. Clara closed her eyes. She could not fathom the source of such imaginings. What on earth would the man think if he knew about them? If he knew how her body reacted to such thoughts of him?

“It distresses you so much, does it?” He was directly behind her, his voice a deep rumble spilling like warm water over her skin. “The idea of being my wife in all capacities?”

“No.” The word had a bit of force behind it, to Clara’s relief. She did not want Sebastian to think she wavered in her determination. She turned to face him, her pulse hammering. Unable to bring herself to look into his eyes, she stared at his mouth.

A mistake. His beautiful mouth—the shape of his upper lip marked by a slight indent, the smooth curve of his lower lip with the shadowy notch hiding beneath it like a secret—made untold longings spiral through her blood.

God in heaven. Did she want to marry him for more than the need to sell Wakefield House?

She lifted her head and found him watching her, intent but wary, as if he knew a false move would send her scurrying off. She looked away and gathered her resolve.

“I will be your wife in all capacities, Sebastian,” she said.

“You don’t even sound appalled at the prospect.”

“Should I be?”

“Not to my knowledge.” He stepped into the space between them and slid his hand beneath her chin, turning her face to him. “You needn’t be frightened of me, Clara. I will uphold my part of the agreement, but I will not marry for practical reasons alone. I will not tolerate a marriage in name only. We will be husband and wife both in public and in private.”

A tremble rippled through her. “I understand.”

His hand dropped away from her, and he stepped back. A faint consternation flickered across his features, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her response. “I shall make the arrangements. We will be married next week.”