by Nina Rowan
“Mrs. Fox, please do inform me should you step out,” Clara said.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winter.” The other woman’s tone was the dry, brownish yellow color of a dead leaf. She tossed a newspaper onto the front desk. “I went to fetch a paper since it appears Tom forgot to this morning.”
She swept to the desk, adjusting her skirts as she settled behind it like a queen taking to her throne. She lifted a ledger from a stack with long, gloved hands and proceeded to open the thick tome and peruse the pages.
Sebastian saw irritation lace across Clara’s straight shoulders. He stared at the nape of her neck, the slender white column softened by wisps of hair, cupped by the collar of her gown. Her supple muscles tightened as she strode forward into the space between her and Mrs. Fox.
“This is Mr. Sebastian Hall.” Clara spoke with precise formality. “I shall be providing him with a tour of the museum. If you would please inform Mrs. Marshall, we’ll take tea after the tour is concluded.”
Mrs. Fox gave a short nod. “Of course.” She ran her finger over a column in the ledger. “You’ve not recorded the admission.”
“Mr. Hall is here as my guest.”
“Nonetheless.” Mrs. Fox gave Sebastian a look sharp enough to slice through leather. “The admission fee, sir, is one shilling.”
“I’ve no coin at present, but my footman—”
“You needn’t pay, Mr. Hall,” Clara hastened to assure him. “Please, do come into the drawing room. We’ll begin there.”
“Mrs. Winter, I must protest your decision to allow a visitor to enter without paying the admission fee,” Mrs. Fox said.
“And I, Mrs. Fox, must protest your concern.” Clara opened the door and bade Sebastian precede her. “In my uncle’s absence, my decisions are not to be countermanded and my guests are certainly not to be insulted. Please inform Mrs. Marshall about the tea tray.”
Sebastian ducked past the older woman’s aura of disapproval and into the safety of the drawing room. Clara half-closed the door behind her.
“I apologize,” she said. “Mrs. Fox possesses an unfortunate tendency to believe she knows best. Her departed husband used to be Uncle Granville’s assistant.”
“I don’t wish to cause ill feelings between you,” Sebastian said, though it was clear such acrimony already lived between the two women. “I’ll tell my footman to—”
“No, Mr. Hall. I’ve said you are my guest, and my guest you shall remain. Mrs. Fox handles the museum’s accounts, but she has no authority in the running of the place.”
She spread her hands over the front of her dress. Uncertainty flashed in her violet-blue eyes for an instant, belying the confidence of her tone. “Well. Let us begin with the mechanical toys. My uncle sells them at the bazaar and gives them to children’s homes.”
She stepped forward to a shelf lined with toys and proceeded to show him how the turn of a key prompted a monkey to beat a tiny drum, a clown to whirl around a trapeze, a pair of geese to glide over a pond crafted of glass.
Rather in spite of himself, Sebastian was charmed by the movements of the little creatures, the delicacy of their painted faces, and costumes of bright ribbons and gauze.
“My uncle devotes most of his time to the larger automata, like Millicent,” Clara explained. “But he still derives great enjoyment from toys such as these. This one is my favorite. A colleague of Uncle Granville’s made it, which is why the musical element works well. Uncle Granville hasn’t yet perfected that in his own creations.”
She reached behind a flower-laced birdcage to twist a key, then stepped back. Two lemon-yellow canaries inside leapt from bar to bar as their beaks opened and closed in accompaniment to a melodious, chirping tune.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Clara asked. She smiled with evident pleasure as she watched the birds perform another dance.
“Indeed.”
Clara glanced up to find him watching her. Her smile faded into an expression of disconcertion, warmth again coloring her pale skin. She turned away from him, her hands twisting the folds of her skirt.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you my uncle’s workshop and the room where we display the larger automata,” she said.
They went into the foyer and past the redoubtable Mrs. Fox, who gave Sebastian another of her keen glances. He responded with an engaging smile that had the impact of a feather against stone, for all of Mrs. Fox’s reaction to it.
Pity, Sebastian thought. The older woman had thick-lashed eyes and fine, elegant features that might be quite pleasing if softened with even a scrap of affability.
As he followed Clara down another corridor, a pulse swept through his chest, diluting the anxiety that had plagued him since he’d discovered the unnerving disability of his right hand. Now pleasure subsumed that dismay, sparked by the anticipation of something new.
His instincts told him that Clara Winter was intrigued by him. That meant a few well-placed, sweet words and persuasive smiles would have her revealing what he wanted to know before the week’s end.
Five months ago, he’d have ensured she revealed it before the day’s end.
They entered a former library, larger than the music room and cluttered with gears, wires, and the entrails of various machines. Clara paused beside a metal-framed figure seated on a bench.
“My uncle is currently working on this,” she said, placing her hand on the curved bow of the top. “It’s to be a scribe writing at a desk. Uncle Granville is planning to have him write three different poems in both English and French.”
Sebastian lifted a brow. That sounded impressive, even to him. “He’s ambitious, your uncle.”
She didn’t respond, and for a moment he didn’t think she’d heard. He repeated the remark.
Clara glanced at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Your uncle. I said he was ambitious.”
“Yes. You spoke earlier, didn’t you?” She waved her hand beside her ear, as if batting at a pesky fly. “I don’t hear very well with my left ear, so if I’m turned away I sometimes miss things.”
Sebastian didn’t recall her having a hearing loss when she’d been his student. Then again, he reminded himself, he didn’t recall much about her at all. Shame flickered in the pit of his stomach.
“At any rate, yes,” Clara said. “Uncle Granville is constantly thinking of ways to make his inventions ever more complex and unique. His mentor was a very renowned toy and clockmaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Monsieur Jacques Dupree?”
Sebastian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Clara moved on to a different automaton.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with my uncle to learn about the actual mechanics involved,” she said. “This one will be a couple dancing.”
“Does your uncle make such things only for amusement’s sake?” Sebastian asked, selecting his words with care.
“He makes clocks on occasion, which of course are eminently practical.”
Aha. And Darius had told Sebastian that coding machines contain similar mechanisms as clocks. So if Granville Blake did indeed possess the plans for the blasted thing, then Blake would not discuss it with just anyone.
And if Clara knew about it, she certainly would not come right out and tell him.
Yet.
“But for the most part, yes,” Clara continued. “Uncle Granville invents the automata for his own enjoyment. We are hoping that after Saturday evening’s demonstration, Lady Rossmore will offer her patronage to the museum.”
“Your uncle is seeking a patron?”
“He receives a number of commissions, but a patron is always a benefit,” Clara admitted. “In the meantime…perhaps I ought not to chide poor Mrs. Fox for insisting our guests pay the admission fee.”
“My footman will—”
She laughed—lush, dark purple—a sound so unexpected that Sebastian’s heart twisted with both bewilderment and delight, as if he beheld a rainbow in a thunderstorm. Clara’s eyes crinkled with warmth,
and a quick shake of her head made curls of hair dance against her neck.
God, but she was lovely.
“I do hope your footman considers himself fortunate to be entrusted with the care of your purse,” she said. “But really, Mr. Hall, I didn’t intend to cause you any guilt. There is no need for you to pay the fee. Now please, join me for tea before you depart.”
Sebastian followed her to the parlor, his heart still strumming with the echo of her laughter.
Ah, yes. Mustering the desire to charm Clara Winter would require no effort at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so looked forward to something.
What does he want?
Clara concentrated on the task of pouring tea as the question revolved around her mind.
She couldn’t quite believe Sebastian Hall was here solely to view the automata and mechanical toys. She had thought that the case when he first arrived, but his reaction to the inventions was curious at best, as if he appreciated their novelty but had little interest in the technical details of the machinery.
But why else would he want to speak with Uncle Granville? If he were considering commissioning a piece or patronizing the museum, then he would have simply said so.
Wouldn’t he?
A scratching noise made her turn. Sebastian stood before a shelf, studying a copper cricket that rubbed its wings together and produced a sound akin to a nail scraping over glass.
“That’s what I referred to when I said my uncle hasn’t yet perfected the accompaniment of music to his inventions,” Clara explained.
“Clearly.”
“Are you…ah, may I ask the reason you need to speak with him?” Clara placed a cup on the table.
He turned, sliding his hands into his pockets with a pianist’s grace. “Lady Rossmore spoke so highly of his work that I thought to see it for myself.” He glanced back at the cricket. “Perhaps I can offer him advice on the musical component.”
“If you’ll leave your card, I would be happy to give it to my uncle upon his return. I’m certain he’ll contact you straightaway to arrange an appointment.”
She waited for him to agree and take his departure. Instead he stood looking at her, an intense gaze that appeared to contain more than mere scrutiny.
His perusal skimmed over her body, heating her from the inside out like hot cocoa on a snowy night. A tingle of warmth skimmed up her arms. Clara’s heart pulsed, a light, gentle tapping reminding her of raindrops on a windowpane.
Oh, what a pleasure. So different from the thump of dread that constantly beat through her, drowning her in fear. Now, here in this moment with Sebastian Hall watching her with those warm, appreciative brown eyes, a waterfall of light spilled across the black of her soul. His look even seemed powerful enough to soothe her still-blistering knowledge of the court’s final ruling about Wakefield House.
Sebastian stepped closer. His delicious scent filled her nose, sliding into her veins, awakening a spark that spread through her entire body.
Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth. She could not help but be fascinated by the shape of his mouth, the curve of his smile, the tilt of his lips. She wondered how it would feel, that beautiful mouth pressed against hers, his whiskers scraping her cheek.
Oh, dear Lord.
What was she thinking? What kind of woman was she to imagine such things when all she wanted, the only thing she wanted was to have…
He touched her. Sebastian slipped his left hand beneath her chin and raised her head so that she had to meet his eyes again. His palm was warm, cupping her chin with the same gentleness he might use to hold a jeweled music box. He studied her face as if he were assessing the value of a rare artifact, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes filled with curiosity.
Questions lingered in his expression. Clara did not know how to answer them, but her body responded with a quickening tempo that made her breath uncoil in her chest.
Kiss me.
The wish bloomed hard, a bright, red rose in midwinter, filling her with the glow of anticipation.
Kiss me and banish the fear.
Clara blinked against the sting in her eyes. Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around Sebastian’s wrist, though whether to ease his hand away or urge him to keep touching her, she did not know.
She did know that his wrist was strong in her grip, his pulse beating against her fingertips. She imagined his blood ran hot and swift through his veins, inciting his force, his intensity. She wanted to slide her hand farther up his forearm, to feel the taut muscles and sinews, the brush of coarse dark hairs across her palm.
He didn’t move away. She didn’t release him.
And then he lowered his head and kissed her. So warm, so light was the touch of his mouth that the center of Clara’s being melted like ice sliding over a hot pane of glass.
She swallowed, parting her lips to draw in a breath. His nearness, his rough energy, sank into her blood and filled her with sensation, heat, and a yearning for something she had never known.
“Oh.” Her whisper slipped like a delicacy into his mouth.
He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Their breath mingled. He tasted like cinnamon. His tongue darted out to touch the corner of her lips, a delicious swipe that made shivers cascade through Clara’s entire body.
Who have you become?
She remembered him so well from all those years ago, that affable, talented young man who could keep company with both kings and peasants. Now he was different, like a creature from mythology, filled with complexities that she could not begin to untangle. Exuding an allure that she could not resist. Wrapping her in a heat that felt instinctively comforting and safe.
She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat and sank into the kiss as if it could last forever, and in that instant, she wanted it to. She wanted to stand here for all eternity with Sebastian’s hand cupping her neck and his mouth caressing hers because once he stopped, once he lifted his head away from her, Clara knew the anguish would swamp her once again.
Her grip on him tightened. His kiss deepened. Her blood exploded with colors and light, born from the memories of who they had once been—a girl holding fast to the good in the world, and a young man of such patience and kindness.
That man would help her now, if he still existed. Clara grasped the truth of that belief as if it were sacred, and a spiral of hope filled her. She spread one hand over his broad chest, feeling his heart thump against her palm through the material of his shirt and coat. His teeth closed gently over her lower lip, whisking heat over her nerves.
The middle of Clara’s soul softened at Sebastian’s nearness, the warm strength he exuded, at the nascent longing that he might prove her ally in the desperate pursuit to reclaim her son.
Andrew.
Coldness swept down her spine at the unbidden thought. Shame cut through her desire like a blade ripping into silk. She yanked herself away from Sebastian, holding her hands to her blazing cheeks as she turned away. Her heart hammered in her throat.
She had forgotten. For one brief, aching moment she had forgotten her son.
Clara inhaled a deep breath to quell her turbulent emotions before she turned back to face Sebastian. His eyes sparked with both lingering heat and wariness, as if her abrupt withdrawal had incited his own confusion.
Her heart still pounded. Oh, heavens. As a young woman, she had imagined what it would feel like to be kissed by Sebastian Hall, but she had never dreamed it would be like this.
And never had her imagination conjured the intricate weaving of emotions binding her now, all securing the strange but firm knowledge that Sebastian Hall could somehow help her.
“I…I think you’d best go now,” she stammered.
“Shall I return tomorrow?”
“My uncle should be back in the morning. If you’d like to speak with him, you are welcome to return.”
“My card.” His composure again
intact, Sebastian removed a card from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winter.”
Clara nodded and watched him leave. Her heartbeat began to calm. She moved closer to the door so that she could hear his voice rumble from the foyer as he exchanged a few words with Mrs. Fox, and then the front door closed.
Clara hurried to the window, ducking into the shadows as she watched his tall figure descend the steps. He moved with ease and a masculine grace, as if he were comfortable in his skin. He spoke to the footman, then clapped the man on the shoulder before climbing into the waiting carriage.
Odd behavior to bestow upon a footman, but such familiarity seemed suited to a man like Sebastian Hall. He’d never appeared to be the sort concerned with propriety or the opinions of others—though clearly something had happened in recent months to fray the edges of his character.
He is still the son of an earl. Powerful, surely, in his own right.
Anticipation flared in Clara’s heart, burning away the shame of the thought. For so many years, she had tried so hard to be good, to be the woman her father and husband wanted so that, God willing, their lives would be free from turmoil.
She had agreed to marry Richard Winter, a man thirteen years her senior, because her father wanted to seal a business partnership and because her father’s status would aid Richard’s bid for a parliamentary seat.
And while the marriage had allowed Clara to escape her father’s house, she remained firmly within his domain. Only by being an exemplary wife and daughter—quiet, practical, polite—could she avoid inciting her father’s anger.
But when Andrew was born Clara discovered how love could overwhelm all practical thought, like a waterfall thundering over a rocky cliff. She learned how emotion could fill her heart to bursting, how joy and fear could tangle her soul into inextricable knots. She knew what it meant to love another person without condition, without thought. She knew what her own mother had felt.
For the sole purpose of being with her son again, however, Clara would suppress even the memory of such emotions and be as calculating, as shrewd, as was necessary.