A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  “Is that so? Well, if anyone would know about such things, it would certainly be Uncle Granville.” She rose to her feet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Not exactly. But I might have found something I wasn’t looking for.

  “I hope I soon shall,” he replied, advancing with certain but careful steps. He still did not know how best to approach her, a circumstance he attributed to her incongruity rather than his tarnished charm.

  He paused in front of her and reached up to flick a strand of hair away from her cheek, pale as cream. Instead of surrendering to a blush this time, Clara gazed at him with somewhat startling directness.

  “You have…ah, you have extraordinary eyes,” Sebastian said, studying the pearly color of her irises.

  “My grandfather used to call them the eyes of a witch, though he meant it in a fond way.” Clara arched a brow in amusement. “I think.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Sebastian said. “They’re quite beguiling.”

  “Thank you.” She slanted those eyes to his mouth, her glance like the brush of silk. Not the first time he had caught her looking at his mouth. He wondered what she found so interesting about it.

  If anything. Perhaps she just didn’t know where else to look, though he suspected that thought wouldn’t have occurred to him with any other woman. If Clara Winter didn’t know where else to look, she’d stare at the wall behind him. She wasn’t coy.

  He glanced at the interior of the chest in which numerous toys were packed with care.

  “Your uncle’s creations?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Clara placed her hand on the lid and closed it. “I keep them for my son.”

  “You have a son?”

  “His name is Andrew.” She pushed the chest away with a hard shove. Wood screeched against the floor. “He is seven years old. He lives with my father on his Surrey estate.”

  Though Sebastian wanted to know more, the tone of Clara’s voice repelled further inquiry. He heard the emotions beneath her surface-thin remark, like a veneer of ocean ice, and he sensed the effort it took her to keep that façade from breaking. He knew because the very same struggle now ruled his own life.

  “What do you want?” Clara asked, lifting her dark lashes once again.

  His heart thumped hard against his rib cage. “What do I want?”

  “From my uncle. From…from me.”

  “I—”

  She gave a quick, dismissive shake of her head. “Do not tell me you want to understand the functioning of the automata. I saw you try to conceal a yawn at least three times during Uncle Granville’s lengthy discourse.”

  “It’s true that I’d rather have been speaking with you.”

  “You’d rather have been speaking with anyone, as long as the topic was of interest to you.” She swept a hand behind her head to tuck a lock of hair back into place. “And why do you seek to flatter me so often? Why did you kiss me? What do you want?”

  Sebastian fought a brief battle with himself. If he told her the truth, that he was seeking plans for a secret project, she could very well banish him from the museum, and then he’d never find the plans.

  On the other hand, this circumventing was getting him nowhere, and he had a better chance with Clara than he did with Granville.

  Clara’s eyes steadied on his face. He detected a faint tremor in the full line of her mouth, a tremor she tried to suppress by pressing her lips together.

  “I might be able to help you,” she said, “but you must tell me the truth.”

  The truth. His right hand flexed, the fingers tightening. No one knew the truth.

  Emotions swayed in Clara’s strange eyes. Eyes of a witch, indeed. They pulled him in like an undertow, drawing him toward their fathomless depths. His intention to charm her into revealing her knowledge of the cipher machine faded to transparency. He could no more mislead this woman than he could stay away from her. He no longer wanted to.

  He did, however, want to know her secrets. He almost burned with the desire to explore all the pleats and folds of the tumultuous soul he sensed lay beneath her lovely façade.

  Sebastian took a breath, felt his pulse pounding in his throat. His brother had asked him to keep a confidence, but Sebastian needed to earn Clara’s trust. And honesty was the only way he could achieve that.

  “I am seeking the specifications for a certain machine,” he finally said. “I’ve word that your uncle might have them in his possession. The machine was invented by Jacques Dupree, and I have reason to believe he sent the plans to your uncle shortly before his death.”

  “How do you know such a thing?”

  He didn’t actually know much of anything. “My younger brother told me about them. He lives in St. Petersburg and corresponded with Monsieur Dupree about his inventions.”

  “What type of machine is it?”

  “One that transmits telegraphic messages,” Sebastian said. “Apparently in an…innovative fashion.”

  “But why would Monsieur Dupree have sent the plans to my uncle?”

  “I don’t know,” Sebastian admitted. “Darius said it was likely to ensure their safekeeping. You don’t know anything about them?”

  “I do not.” Even though her words were forceful, a faint tremble shuddered beneath them. “But if I did, why would I give them to you?”

  “I will pay you for them.”

  “That decision would be Uncle Granville’s, not mine.” Her gaze slid past him then, and Sebastian sensed the presence of her uncle.

  He turned. Granville looked from Clara to him, concern darkening his eyes behind his glasses.

  “Everything all right, Clara?” Granville asked.

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian expected Clara to ask her uncle about the machine’s plans. She didn’t. His eyes met hers. She stared at him, as if willing him not to reveal his intentions. He gave a slight shake of his head. A smile tugged at her lips.

  There it was again, that astute gleam in her eyes, as if she was twisting his revelation around in her mind and examining it from all angles. As if she was trying to determine how she might use his goal to her own advantage.

  Rather than be unnerved by the thought, an odd warmth spun through Sebastian. By telling Clara about his need for the plans, he sensed he had given her something she sought. And whatever she chose to ask in return, he thought he would surely grant her wish. No matter what it was.

  Clara watched Sebastian through the window as he strode down the steps to the waiting carriage. A heavy curtain seemed to part inside her, allowing streamers of light to filter through. The nascent hope she’d experienced since Sebastian Hall had kissed her now bloomed into something tangible and real.

  She had so desperately wanted to believe he could help her, yet that belief had been tangled up in her memories of his goodness and generosity. And while she still believed he would assist her in any way he could, for she could not imagine anything less of him, she needed more from him than he might be prepared to give.

  Unless she could offer him something in return, and now he had told her exactly what that might be. If she found the plans he sought, she had all the pieces necessary to strike a bargain with him.

  Wakefield House belonged to her. Although the courts had decreed that she couldn’t sell it or bequeath it to anyone else, she could ensure that the law transfer it to someone else’s name.

  Sebastian’s name. There was nothing to prohibit him from then giving the property to her father with the proposition that he release Andrew to her custody.

  Clara pressed a hand to her chest. A tremble, both exhilarating and terrifying, swept through her down to her toes.

  She needed to marry Sebastian Hall.

  Chapter Four

  Uncle Granville, they must be here.” Clara peeled back the flaps of the box and looked inside. She had spent most of the afternoon since Sebastian’s departure rummaging through the boxes and crates stacked in her uncle’s workshop.

  “My dear, if Mons
ieur Dupree intended to send me something important, he certainly would have given me some forewarning,” Granville said.

  “There was no letter?” Clara lifted a stack of papers from the box.

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Granville cracked open a crate to reveal several coils of copper wire and drawplates. “Could be any number of things, really. Bit of a collector, Dupree. He always said he never knew when he might need something, so he wasn’t apt to throw things away.”

  “He gave things away, though.” Clara removed another sheaf of papers from the box and leafed through them. “To you, at least. Do you think he sent anything to his other apprentices?”

  “Couldn’t say.” Granville shrugged. “He had a number of them, though, so it’s certainly likely. But plans for a telegraph machine…” He shook his head. “Can’t think of a reason he’d send them to me, in all honesty. I’m sure several of his other apprentices were more well-versed in telegraph machines and the like.”

  “Do you correspond with the others?” Clara asked, even though her heart began a steady drop to her stomach. “Can we write and ask them if they’ve received any such specifications?”

  “We can try, yes.” Granville frowned.

  They both knew that such a course would take an indeterminate amount of time, and the result might well prove fruitless. And the more time they wasted, the longer Andrew would remain under Fairfax’s hand.

  Clara gripped the side of a crate so hard that a splinter pierced her palm. She gripped harder, welcoming the pain to try to distract the wave of rage. She did not know how much longer she could bear it—not knowing how her father was treating Andrew or even how her son fared.

  “Uncle Granville.”

  “Yes?”

  Clara detached her hand from the crate and rubbed the bleeding wound in her palm. “I must find the plans.” She waved a hand to encompass the numerous crates and boxes cluttering the room. “I don’t know that I’ll even recognize them if I find them, but I have to look.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll help.” Granville straightened and removed his glasses, polishing the lenses on his shirt. “But, Clara, if Monsieur Dupree did send me the plans, he had a reason for doing so. I’m not certain handing them over to Sebastian Hall is a wise idea.”

  “What if it helps me get Andrew back?”

  “How can Mr. Hall help you get Andrew back?”

  “I don’t know that he can.” Clara bit her bottom lip, unsettled by the confession. As simple as the arrangement sounded, there was no guarantee her father would actually accept Wakefield House in exchange for Andrew.

  On the other hand, Fairfax had been fighting hard to get his hands on the property. And Clara had nothing left to lose.

  “Go to your father first,” Granville urged, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Ask him to agree to the bargain. You needn’t take such drastic measures yet.”

  “He won’t see me,” Clara said. “Even if he did, what if he took exception to Sebastian’s involvement? What if he tried to stop it?” She shook her head. “No. When I approach my father again, I must be able to offer him Wakefield House. If I have no leverage, he’ll think nothing of shutting me out again.”

  She opened another box, a fresh resolve spurring her forward. She tried not to think that if she found the plans, she would have what Sebastian wanted and could then make her proposal.

  For marriage.

  Her heart stumbled as a wave of heat and trepidation swept through her. Even if it was for practical ends as her union with Richard had been, Clara could not imagine herself wedded to a man like Sebastian Hall with his rough, restless energy and coiled secrets. With his charm, which warmed her blood, and his devilish smile, which made her melt.

  But it didn’t matter what she could imagine, did it? The swirls of heat and color evoked by Sebastian’s presence alone didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.

  “I must find the plans,” she repeated, half to herself and half to Granville. “And when I do, I’ll marry Sebastian Hall and get my son back.”

  But first she had to convince Sebastian. Now that she knew what he wanted, she could approach him with a proposal from which they each benefited. She just had to pray he wanted the plans badly enough not to reject her outlandish request.

  Several hours later, after Granville had gone to bed, Clara conceded defeat for the day. Weariness clenched her muscles tight as she dampened all the hearths and ensured the candles were extinguished, except for the one she used to light the path to her bedchamber. She placed the flickering candle on her bedside table, then washed in cold water and changed into a shift.

  After combing the tangles from her hair, she climbed into bed. Her arms ached from prying open crates and boxes, and her hands were sore and dry. Even as exhaustion claimed her body, her mind twisted around and around the idea of marriage to Sebastian Hall and all the implications buried within.

  At the heart of it lay the bright, polished jewel of her son, a treasure long concealed by a veil of darkness. And after struggling for so many months to futile ends, Clara feared to hope that this time might be different. Perhaps not even Sebastian could rip away the obstacles keeping her from Andrew, but she held fast to her instinctive trust in him.

  She pressed a hand to her chest and felt the rhythm of her heartbeat. Even as her mind sought to convince her that marriage to Sebastian Hall would be no different from her union with Richard in its practicality, Clara’s heart vehemently protested such a comparison.

  On the surface, perhaps, it would be a pragmatic arrangement, one that might lead to the fulfillment of her deepest, most powerful wish, but beneath the veneer of convenience, such a marriage would be laced with the restless, unnerving sensations Sebastian aroused in her with every look, every touch.

  Marriage to him would be complex, dangerous. She would be required to make choices—present herself as an exemplary but complacent wife or attempt to peel back all his layers to reveal the center of his soul?

  For with Sebastian, there could be no middle ground. He would have all of her or nothing. Even now, Clara knew the truth of it.

  Dawn broke, red as old roses fading into the grayish blue sky. The sounds of the world filtered into the drawing room—the rattle of a carriage on the street, a boy hawking newspapers, the faint whistle of a bird. Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his roughened face, pulling himself from a brief, restless slumber. His eyes burned.

  “Mr. Hall?” A footman paused in the doorway, bearing a silver tray. “A note arrived for you.”

  Sebastian pushed himself upright as Giles crossed the room. He took the folded letter. His name spread across the front in a ribbonlike, feminine hand. Clara.

  The footman straightened, slanting his gaze over Sebastian’s rumpled clothes and unshaven features. “Shall I draw you a bath, sir, or would you prefer to break your fast first?”

  “Just bring me coffee, Giles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sebastian put Clara’s letter on his lap and stared at it with the sense that it contained a message of great import.

  Giles arrived with a tray and poured coffee. Although the footman didn’t speak, Sebastian was aware of his exasperation. In fact, he was growing accustomed to the faintly critical demeanor surrounding his brother’s staff.

  He couldn’t blame them. Alexander had been so proper, even rigid, in the way he ran his household, his life. He always appeared for breakfast precisely at seven, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed. The staff’s schedule accorded with his predictable, daily habits.

  Since Alexander and his wife left for St. Petersburg, Sebastian had come to live in his brother’s Mount Street town house. The staff was still adjusting to the rather radical change in routine.

  So was Sebastian. He thought he’d want Alexander’s vast house to himself, but the bloody place was so magnificent, replete with plush furniture, velvet curtains, priceless paintings, that Sebastian felt like a blemish marring an expanse of flawless skin. And nothing here was
his; these quarters were fit for royalty.

  He grabbed the letter and broke open the seal. Bits of wax fell to his lap as he opened the page and read the short message:

  Dear Mr. Hall,

  I would like to request your presence at Blake’s Museum of Automata at three o’clock Thursday afternoon. There is a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss.

  Yours truly,

  Mrs. Clara Winter

  A matter of some urgency…?

  Could she have found the plans already? Was today Thursday?

  He shook his head to clear his mind. Yes. He’d told Clara yesterday about the plans, so there was certainly time for her to have found them. But if she had, he knew a woman as clever as Clara would not relinquish them without expecting something in return. He suspected he would find out at three o’clock exactly what that something was.

  Sebastian shoved away from the chair and went upstairs. He rang for a bath, then washed and dressed in a fawn-colored morning coat and silk cravat. As he headed back down for breakfast, the doorbell rang.

  Waving the footman away, Sebastian went to answer it. A dark-haired man stood outside, his eyes keenly intelligent behind wire-rimmed glasses, his woolen greatcoat buttoned up to his neck.

  Sebastian stared in astonishment at his brother Darius.

  “Hello, Bastian.” Faint amusement crackled across Darius’s expression. “Are you going to invite me in or leave me standing here?”

  Any other time, Sebastian would have greeted his brother with an embrace. Now, as he remembered the pain of recent months, followed by Darius’s implacable certainty that Sebastian would do as he requested—which proved to be the truth, owing to his new infirmity—anger bubbled into his throat.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I arrived two days ago,” Darius said, his voice the cool blue of a lake undisturbed by waves. “I think it’s best if Rushton doesn’t yet know I’m here, so I’m staying at the Albion for the time being.”

  Darius shed his greatcoat, then moved past Sebastian into the drawing room. With no other choice, Sebastian stalked after his brother.