A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Seven


Ladies and gentlemen.” Lady Rossmore climbed the steps to the stage of the Hanover Square ballroom and clapped her hands, raising her voice above the din. “May I have your attention, please? I welcome you all and would like to begin a demonstration of an automaton created by the esteemed inventor Mr. Granville Blake.”

Sebastian pushed his right hand into his pocket and maneuvered through the crowd closer to the stage. He stopped beside his father, who stood with his fellow secretary Lord Margrave. Onstage, Lady Rossmore continued her lengthy discourse on Granville Blake’s genius. She then stepped aside when the curtains parted to reveal Granville and the automaton.

Sebastian’s breath stuck in the middle of his chest as his gaze skirted to Clara. She stood beside the harpsichord in a dark blue gown that was at least a year out of fashion but whose color reflected the light and cast a sheen of pink on her pale skin.

“Thank you for the lovely introduction, Lady Rossmore,” Granville said, smoothing wrinkles from his coat with a sweep of his hand as he stepped forward to address the audience. “My niece, Mrs. Clara Winter, and I are honored to be here to demonstrate our newest creation, Millicent, the Musical Lady.”

The crowd laughed at the name. Clara placed her hand on the shoulder of the mannequin, who sat at a small harpsichord, her porcelain fingers unmoving over the keys, her head bent. The mannequin wore a crimson silk gown edged in lace and accented by gold earrings and an ivory cameo. Her face was a model of feminine perfection, her cheeks and lips tinged with pink, her long eyelashes lowered in perfect feathery crescents.

“Millicent is an automaton who plays four tunes on the harpsichord,” Granville continued. “We will demonstrate with three tunes and ask that you watch her carefully, as she moves her fingers, feet, and even her eyes with the utmost accuracy. After the demonstration, I invite you to examine the very intricate mechanisms more closely.”

The audience rustled with interest, several women straining on tiptoe for a better view of the stage. Granville moved to the side of the harpsichord and took hold of the crank handle to wind the machine. He turned it halfway. The crank stuck.

Murmurs buzzed like insects from the audience. Clara moved to her uncle’s side as he pulled the crank back into position and started to wind it again. It jerked at the same sticking point, then rotated. The bellows inside the instrument released an audible expulsion of compressed air, and the wheels began to turn.

Relief flashed across Clara’s face. Granville wound the machine twice more and stepped back to watch Millicent perform. The mannequin’s chest expanded as if she were inhaling air into her lungs, and then her fingers began to move across the keys. A tinny but pleasing melody drifted from the harpsichord.

Gasps and applause rose from the guests as they shifted to obtain a better view. Clara smiled.

Millicent seemed to preen at the attention, her elegant head sweeping back and forth as she watched the keys, her foot tapping in time to the music. After the first tune concluded, she gave a slight bow before starting to play again.

“I heard tell that Lady Rossmore intends to offer her patronage to Blake’s Museum.” Lord Margrave scratched his bristling side whiskers as he peered at Millicent. “Apparently Fairfax’s daughter is Blake’s new assistant, so her ladyship believes he ought to have the means to exhibit more of his work.”

Sebastian slanted his gaze to Margrave. “You know Mrs. Winter?”

“Indeed. Her husband was quite a promising young fellow. Tragic death in a hunting accident. Fairfax has been good enough to take the son under his wing.”

He returned his attention to the stage as Granville concluded the demonstration and the audience began buzzing with excitement and questions. Several people crowded up to the stage to look at Millicent more closely, while others drifted toward the refreshment table.

Sebastian’s heart thumped against his rib cage as he saw Clara weaving through the crowd. As if sensing his presence, she turned her head and smiled, then diverted her path to approach him.

“It went well, don’t you think?” she asked. “Lady Rossmore was quite pleased.”

Sebastian nodded, acutely aware of his father’s presence. “Mrs. Winter, this is my father, the Earl of Rushton.”

“Oh.” A flush painted her cheeks as she realized the familiarity of her remark. “Lord Rushton, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yours as well, Mrs. Winter.” Rushton studied her with his apple-peeling gaze. “Quite a unique demonstration, I must say.”

“Thank you, my lord. My uncle has a number of—” Her eyes skidded to Margrave. “Er, good evening, Lord Margrave.”

Though he didn’t know the reason for her sudden unease, Sebastian moved closer to her, resisting the urge to pull her protectively to his side.

“Mrs. Winter.” Margrave gave her a short nod. “I saw your father not three weeks ago at a steeplechase. Visited Manley Park recently, have you?”

“No…no, not for some time, my lord.” She paused, glanced at Rushton, then back to Margrave. “Have you been to Manley Park, my lord?”

“This past summer, yes,” Margrave replied. “Your father invited Lady Margrave and myself for a Saturday to Monday visit. He’s procured a very impressive stud-horse.”

“I’ve heard, yes.” Tension threaded her voice. “Was Andrew Winter present, my lord?”

Sebastian saw a slight frown tug at Rushton’s mouth, but the implications of the question appeared lost on Margrave.

“No, no, didn’t see him, unfortunately. Fairfax said the boy wasn’t well.” Margrave shook his head. “He’s back in London now, I think, Fairfax is. Must speak to him about the railway investments he was considering. Might have brought the boy along. Beg your pardon, there’s Lord Crombie. Rushton, I’ll see you at the club, yes?”

Clara took a step back, her skin white as paper. Margrave bid them a good evening and pushed through the crowd.

“Well, Mrs. Winter, if your father is in town, I’d be pleased to make his acquaintance,” Rushton remarked.

Sebastian slipped his hand beneath Clara’s elbow.

“Clara?”

“Excuse me. I…I need some air.” She pulled from his grip and hurried toward the doors leading to the street.

Sebastian and Rushton exchanged glances before Sebastian went after her. He caught her on the steps, reaching out with his right hand to grasp her arm. Momentarily startled, he watched his hand obey his instinctive command to draw her to a halt.

She spun around. “What? What?”

Sebastian cupped her cheek with his other hand, easing her face upward to look at him. “Why are you so afraid of your father?”

“He has my son, Sebastian. And if he comes to London, he won’t allow me to see Andrew.” She pressed her hands to her face and closed her eyes. “Lord Margrave said Andrew wasn’t well. What does that mean? What’s wrong with him?”

She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. Sebastian removed his coat and slipped it around her shoulders as protection against the cold night air.

Help her.

The command fell through his mind like a stone into a lake, expanding outward in foaming waves. He slipped his hand to her neck. Her pulse beat strong and rapid. He eased his thumb to touch the soft, vulnerable hollow just beneath her jaw. He wanted to remove his glove, feel the softness of her skin against his thumb.

She still hadn’t told him everything. He’d sensed it when she’d first proposed, but he had told himself it didn’t matter, since the marriage would fulfill their practical goals. Now, seeing the distress written so plainly across Clara’s face, Sebastian wanted her to trust him enough to confide in him.

“Have you tried to see Andrew in Surrey?” he asked.

Clara shook her head. “Fairfax has banned me from Manley Park.”

“Why?” He wound a lock of her hair around his forefinger. “Why is your father so vehement about keeping Andrew from you?”

Clara’s eyes skidded to meet his. A dark red bloomed in their depths, like the molten heat of an incipient volcano. When she spoke, her voice was even, cold as glass in winter and edged with black.

“Because he thinks I killed my husband.”

Sebastian recoiled in shock. A thousand years passed in the instant between her utterance of the dark confession and his absorption of her words. He stared at her, knowing the falsity of such an accusation and yet unable to fathom the reason for its very existence.

“It’s why I was forced to leave,” Clara said. “Richard and I had argued about Andrew accompanying them on a hunting excursion. I didn’t want Andrew to go because the weather looked threatening, but Richard insisted. I accompanied them because I thought I could at least return to the house with Andrew if a storm approached.

“We were gone for an hour when I realized Andrew had forgotten his satchel. I went back for it, and when I returned I found Richard had fallen from his horse and hit his head. He was still breathing, but…”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked away, the burn of despair darkening. “Neither my father nor Andrew was there. I didn’t know what had happened. I started shouting Andrew’s name, which is how my father found me. I don’t know what he thought at that moment, but he hauled Richard’s body onto his horse and rode back to the house to send for the constable. I think by the time he arrived at home, he’d already decided I was somehow responsible for Richard’s death.”

Sebastian’s heart thumped against his ribs. “He had no evidence that you were.”

“No. He also had no evidence that I wasn’t.” Clara dashed a hand across her eyes. “We found Andrew at the house when we returned. He’d ridden back on his own. He said he hadn’t seen what happened to Richard. Everything was a blur after that. The constable came. We had funeral arrangements. And a week after we discovered Richard had left custody of Andrew to my father, he threatened to send me away. That was when I left Manley Park. To this day, my father remains certain that I had a hand in Richard’s death.”

An ugly question rose to Sebastian’s mind. He didn’t want to ask, but for the sake of all that his family had endured, he had to. “Did he make a public accusation?”

“No.” Clara expelled her breath on a heavy sigh. “He knew there was no evidence, but he wanted to separate me from my son. And so he has.”

Sebastian grasped his right hand with his left, curling his fingers into a fist. Anger and tension knotted the back of his neck.

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t help me.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t marry me.”

“I’ve already agreed to your proposal,” Sebastian said. “More than that, I want to marry you.”

Clara’s lips parted, drawing his attention to the full line of her mouth. Heat twisted through his lower body, the urge to kiss her seizing his blood even as his mind wrestled with his blunt admission.

He wanted to help her beyond conducting the transfer of Wakefield House. He just had no idea what else he could do. Blackness swamped his chest, threatened to pull him under. He knew the feeling well and hated it as much now as he had the night he’d stood in front of the Weimar musicians and Franz Liszt to resign his position.

He lowered his head to her left ear, the one that was lost in silence.

“I will find a way,” he whispered, the promise made to himself and not her. Not yet. Only when he could confirm his ability to carry it through would she hear his vow.

Clara turned her head, as if she sought to remind him he spoke into her damaged ear. The movement brought their mouths perilously close together, so close her breath swept across his lips.

“I’m scared,” she confessed.

“So am I.” He understood it, her fear about something over which she both blamed herself and yet had no control. He understood it because the same fear seethed beneath his own skin.

“You?” She gave a husky laugh. “What are you afraid of?”

He pressed his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes and curled her hand around the lapel of his coat. The smells of machine oil and perfume clung to her, but beneath it he detected the scent of oranges and spice, a strangely tropical aroma that sweetened his bitter thoughts.

Her lips brushed his. So soft. So gentle. Her fear seemed to dissolve into the tenderness of her sigh, the unwinding of tension from her body. Sebastian laced his hands around her waist, drew her closer, deepened the kiss until she arched like a supple willow against him.

The icy thoughts thawed, melting into the heat of their kiss, the press of their bodies. Warmth filled Sebastian, twined through his blood. A vital energy surged from her into him, a spark of electricity that ignited a fresh resolve.

Clara placed her hand flat on his chest and eased herself away from him. Urgency threaded her voice. “I must find out what happened to Andrew, Sebastian. I will not lose sight of him.”

“Nor will I.”

They stared at each other, the bloom of night between them, the sounds of the ball filtering through the open doorways of the building. In that moment, a strange, reckless impulse seized Sebastian hard—the urge to grab his world and force it upright, to find his footing again, to repair everything that had been broken.

For him. And now for her.

“Bastian.” Rushton’s voice carried through the night air.

Clara stepped away, then turned and fled back into the building. Sebastian took a breath and faced his father, whose keen gaze followed Clara.

“You’ve a particular interest in Mrs. Winter,” Rushton remarked.

“I ought to,” Sebastian said. “I’m going to marry her.”

Grim satisfaction filled him as his father blinked with evident surprise. Sebastian’s pronouncement hung in the air. Rushton cleared his throat.

“Bastian, she is an assistant in an automata museum who—”

“She is lovely and respectable, and she…” His voice tangled suddenly as he remembered his father’s own words about finding a wife who would make him a better man. “You gave me both an ultimatum and a suggestion, my lord. Marriage to Mrs. Winter will fulfill both.”

The mention of Rushton’s ultimatum left a sour taste on Sebastian’s tongue, as if such a calculated motive somehow diminished the intensity of his feelings for Clara. Marriage to her would do more than fulfill a condition. Sebastian suspected it would somehow fulfill him, though he could hardly explain that to himself, let alone his father.

“You have recommended several young women who would serve as a suitable match for me, sir,” he said, his voice sharpening with determination. “Yet you have neglected to take into account my view on the matter. You now have my response to your decree. I choose to marry Clara Winter.”

They looked at each other, Rushton’s dark eyes penetrating the dusky light. A flood of questions and answers seemed to fill the space between them, reminders of the countess, of all their family had lost and still sought to regain. Sebastian steeled himself for a battle, prepared to defend his decision with every ounce of his being, but then…rather to his shock…his father stepped back.

“Very well,” Rushton said. “If Mrs. Winter is your choice, then I trust you to fulfill your obligations with the honor that befits the son of an earl.” He turned toward the door leading back to the drawing room. “I hope she will, at the very least, remind you of what nobler qualities you can possess. Only by improving oneself can a man sustain a good and rewarding marriage.”



Clara looked at the clock. Nearly four. Mrs. Fox’s voice came from the parlor, where she was explaining the history of Uncle Granville’s inventions to a visitor. Granville was back in the workshop continuing his task of copying the intricate details of the cipher machine plans.

Without informing either of them of her intentions, Clara pulled on her cloak and left the museum. As she hurried toward the cab stand, the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels neared.

Clara stepped aside as a black carriage came to a halt beside her. The door opened, and Sebastian descended with a sense of purpose, as if he’d come directly for her.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Trepidation tightened Clara’s throat. She had not had an opportunity to speak to him in private since Lady Rossmore’s charity ball two nights before. It was for the best, she tried to tell herself, as after her confession she feared that any conversation might result in his withdrawal from their agreement.

“I’ve…I’ve a few errands to run,” she explained. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to tell you my father has given his assent for our marriage,” Sebastian said. “Had he not done so, I still would have married you, but his approval will sanctify the union for the benefit of society.”

“Very…very well.” Lord Rushton’s approval was, Clara knew, the last element needed for the marriage to proceed smoothly. Now they needed only to speak their vows.

“I’ll accompany you on your errands, then.” Sebastian stepped aside to allow her to precede him to the curb. “We’ll take my carriage.”

“That’s not necessary. There’s a cab stand at the end of the street.”

Sebastian frowned. “It’s growing dark. Where have you to go?”

Clara stared at the looming interior of the carriage. She’d already told him everything. And he had not retreated. She felt her resolve to keep him at a distance slipping away like raindrops on a windowpane. Not even to herself she could deny her gratitude for his presence, his insistence on remaining by her side.

“My father stays in Belgravia when he is in London,” she said. “I…I sometimes wait outside his town house to see if he’s brought Andrew with him. Thus far, I haven’t caught a glimpse of him.”

His left hand tightened on her arm. “What is the address?”

Swimming suddenly in the need for companionship so she would not have to face the predictable disappointment alone, Clara recited the street number and allowed Sebastian to hand her into the carriage. His deep voice rumbled as he relayed the address to his driver, then climbed in after her. Dusky light slanted across his strong features, his dark eyes glittering as he watched her from the opposite seat.

Clara folded her arms around herself and swallowed hard, her blood pulsing with the troubled urge to close the distance between them, to slide onto the bench beside him and curl her body tight against his. She could almost feel him—the hard, lean length of his muscles, his broad chest, the weight of his arm as he draped it across her shoulders and pulled her closer.

She wanted the haven of his warmth and strength, a safety she had never known. Her untold longing was made all the more potent by the knowledge that he would not turn her away. Not physically, at least.

Clara forced her gaze to the window, aware of the danger Sebastian Hall posed. Her soul was already so threaded with cracks, brittle from repeated breakage and vain attempts at repair. If she allowed Sebastian to slide between those cracks and find his way into her heart, she would then give him the power to deliver a fatal, crushing blow.

And yet she would not renege on her proposition, dangerous as it was to her very being. She could not retreat now, did not want to, or everything would be lost.

She stared at the passing streets. Shadows and waning light skated across the storefronts, the narrow tenement buildings, the fruit stalls and horse-drawn carts. Before long, elegant town houses swept into view, the brick façades adorned with curved balconies and slender pilasters.

The carriage shuddered to a halt. Clara leaned forward, sliding the curtain farther aside to enhance her view of the house across the street. A gleaming black door barred the entrance, and the windows blinked like eyes in the reddish light. A menacing silence seemed to emanate from the house, as if warning passersby that nothing good lurked within.

No lamps shone through the windows. The expected disappointment pierced her heart, sharp as a driven nail.

“They’re not at home,” she murmured. “Or he’s not at home.”

Sebastian leaned across and settled his hand on her knee. The heat of his palm burned clear through her skirts and petticoats. Clara made a fist to prevent herself from placing her hand atop his and tracing the long lines of his fingers.

She continued watching her father’s house. An ache built in her throat. She heard Sebastian’s breath, the sound weaving into her ear alongside the increased beat of her heart.

He did not take his hand from her leg. After an interminable period of time, she relaxed her tight fist and allowed her hand to spread over his. Not looking at him, she pulled off her gloves. He turned his palm upward. His strong fingers knotted with hers.

Desire sheared into her soul like the clip of scissors, both the physical reaction of warmth and the longing not to feel so utterly alone anymore. Even her beloved uncle with his unflagging support could not ease Clara’s sense of cold isolation.

But the clasp of Sebastian’s hand in hers reminded her of his presence and assuaged the loneliness. Just a bit. Just for now.

She tightened her fingers on his as a black carriage pulled in front of the town house. She recognized the matching grays that came to a stop, their sleek manes rippling in the twilight, their polished hooves stamping the cobblestones.

Her spine stiffened. In one swift movement, Sebastian was beside her, peering past her through the window. “Is that your father?”

“H-his carriage.”

Fairfax’s driver had parked at an angle that allowed her to see the space between the carriage and the front of the town house. When the footman swung open the carriage door, Clara gripped Sebastian’s hand so tightly her knuckles burned.

Her father stepped down—a tall, slender figure in a blue greatcoat and hat, his gloves white as bone in the diminishing light. Fairfax carried himself with an elegance that masked his brutal streak, like a gleaming sharp sword concealed within an ivory-tipped cane.

Even as dark memories and anger rushed at her in a torrent, Clara’s heart wrenched at the sight of the man who had sired her, clothed and fed her, the man who might still, somewhere, harbor an emotion resembling love for her.

Fairfax spoke to the footman. No one followed him down from the carriage.

Clara tried to deflect the arrow of disappointment, realizing only in that moment of bitter dejection how much she had hoped today would be different from all the other times she had sat in desperate surveillance, wishing for one glimpse of her son.

She turned to Sebastian, seeking his eyes, needing his assurance. “You can tell your dri—”

“Clara.” Holding her gaze, he nodded to the window.

She looked…and gasped. The footman held the door of the carriage again to allow a brown-haired boy to exit. Andrew grasped the handle as he navigated the steps and stopped not far from where Fairfax stood.

Clara’s heart pounded wildly, her blood filling with a chaotic mixture of joy and despair. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the single desperate thought that her son stood a scant distance away and had no idea she was right here.

Fairfax turned, lifting his arm as a breeze threatened to tip his hat from his head.

In that instant, Clara saw it. Andrew flinched, hunching his shoulders into his coat and taking a half-step back. The movement was almost unnoticeable, or at the very least attributable to a gust of cold air or unpleasant odor…but Clara knew her son’s reaction for what it was, and the very marrow of her bones froze to ice.

“No.” The word scraped her throat like rusted metal. “No.”

She wrenched her hand from Sebastian’s grip and flung open the carriage door. Rage swamped her so fast, so hard, that murder felt within her grasp. She plunged with reckless abandon across the street. “Andrew!”

“Clara!” Sebastian shouted from behind her.

A screeching noise filled the air, the yell of a cart driver, the whinnying cry of a frightened horse.

“Andrew!”

Her father and son both turned. Fairfax moved with the swiftness of a lizard, shoving Andrew toward the town house steps and snapping orders at one of the footmen. The man rushed between Clara and Andrew, blocking the boy from her line of sight.

“No!” Blinded by tears, Clara reached the other side of the street the instant the town house door opened and the second footman pushed Andrew inside. “I won’t let you do this! I won’t let you keep him from me!”

“Stay away, Clara.” Fairfax faced her, pointing his forefinger as if to condemn her. “You have no right to him.”

“I do have a right to him!” Clara’s chest burned with anguish. “I’m his mother. Andrew!”

The footman at the door grunted suddenly and grabbed his shin. A small figure darted around him and back down the steps.

Tears streamed down Clara’s cheeks as Andrew approached closer…closer…a few more steps and he would be in her unbreakable embrace, his arms around her neck, and she would run and run and keep running.…

“Stop.” Fairfax flung his arm out to arrest the boy’s flight. Andrew slammed into the barrier and stumbled backward, his wide-eyed gaze locked to Clara’s. Even then, she saw the desperation seething in his young soul.

Before Clara could move forward again, the footman hurried down the steps to grasp Andrew’s shoulder and pull him back toward the house.

Fairfax stepped in front of Clara. Her breath lodged in her throat as she lifted her terrified gaze to her father. Cold laced his expression, his features as immovable as the rocky outcropping of a cliff.

“Please…” She whispered the desperate, broken plea. Sebastian’s hand closed over her arm.

Her father didn’t acknowledge the other man’s presence. Fairfax stood rigidly, feet apart, the stance of a man of power. He stared at Clara, his eyes stamped with utter detachment, stark and hard as a fossil.

In that instant, Clara knew whatever love he might have once felt for her had dissolved into nothing. Just as she knew her own heart had long ago cast him out.

A second footman stepped in front of her.

“Get out of my way.” A flame of renewed fury spilled over Clara. She lunged at the man, clawing at his face, kicking his shins, but he was an unbreachable wall until his big hands closed over her shoulders and pulled her toward the dark interior of her father’s carriage.

Another pair of arms closed around Clara from behind, yanking her from the footman’s grip. Sebastian half-dragged, half-carried her away as Clara frantically struggled to get loose.

People had stopped to gape at the commotion, but there was no sign of a seven-year-old boy with eyes the color of toffee…

The black door of the town house slammed shut.

He was gone.

Clara collapsed to the ground, sobs wrenching her, every breath pulsing anguish through her entire body. Sebastian pulled her closer, his arms tightening, the wall of his chest solid against her back. He was saying something, she felt the movement of his lips against her hair, but she couldn’t hear him past the sobbing inside her head.

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 through 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.”