A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  Then, quick as a cat, Sebastian leapt to his feet. He threw a punch at the footman. The man stumbled back. Sebastian ran for the train, dodging the constable. He grabbed hold of the pull-bar with his left hand and vaulted into the car just as it picked up speed. He slammed the door closed.

  Clara clutched his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, his chest heaving as he guided her and Andrew to a seat. He sat across from them, bracing his elbows on his knees as he caught his breath. Clara hugged Andrew closer, a shiver racing down her spine.

  “Sebastian, what happened?” she whispered.

  “Your father’s butler sent a note about their departure.” Sebastian sat up, pulling a hand through his hair. “It seems he realized Fairfax had planned nothing good.”

  Beside Clara, Andrew tensed. She looked at her son, brushing his chestnut hair away from his forehead.

  “Did you know about this?” she asked. “Why did your grandfather want to take you away?”

  Andrew didn’t respond. He turned to look out the window, all emotion concealed behind a shield of wariness. A frown tugged at Clara’s mouth. She didn’t press him for a response, but kept her arm around his shoulders.

  “Where can we go?” she asked Sebastian, keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard.

  “Our family seat in Devon. We’ll stay there while we determine what to do next.”

  They fell silent as the train rumbled over the tracks. Rain pounded on the windows, blurring the darkening view of the crowded London streets as they gave way to the expanse of the countryside. Shivers continued to ice Clara’s skin. The hum of conversation rose from other passengers. A porter came by with tea and biscuits.

  When Andrew dozed off, lulled by exhaustion and the rocking motion of the train, Clara looked across at Sebastian again. She dreaded to know the results of his conversation with Rushton, so instead she asked, “Did you see your mother?”

  He nodded.

  “Will you tell me what happened?”

  Sebastian sighed and dragged a hand down his unshaven jaw. “Apparently she surrendered all for the sake of love.”

  “Love?”

  An image of Catherine Leskovna came to Clara’s mind, the calm and unrepentant woman who seemed at utter peace with her decisions. Had love been the balm that mended the wounds of her infidelity?

  “Will you tell me her story?” she asked Sebastian.

  He turned his gaze to the window, but told her about his meeting with Catherine and how a single encounter with a young soldier eventually led her to a love strong enough to pull her from her entire family.

  Clara had no response when Sebastian fell silent. She, too, had deceived Sebastian. She had betrayed him. But she had done so with Andrew at the forefront of her mind. She had done so because she wanted her son back. Catherine Leskovna’s deceit and betrayal had separated her from her children, and that Clara would never understand.

  Gazing across the distance between the seats, at once a space both too close and inaccessibly remote, Clara loosened her suppressed emotions and allowed them to fill her chest. She looked at the sharp, whiskered planes of Sebastian’s face, the wide slash of his mouth, and his thick-lashed eyes, which seemed capable of penetrating all the layers of her soul.

  She had committed those acts because she wanted to protect him from her father’s wrath. Instead he had joined her on the very pursuit she feared would result in his ruination.

  “Do you forgive her?” Clara whispered in a voice so soft she thought he would not hear her.

  Sebastian slid his gaze to her, his eyes lacking the warmth to which Clara had become so accustomed.

  “I forgive her,” he said, “but I do not expect to ever see her again.”

  By the light of the moon, the grounds of Floreston Manor spread around the house like an ocean surrounding a ship. Trees stood around the property like soldiers guarding the land, pointing forked branches toward the dark sky.

  Upon their arrival after the long train ride, Sebastian explained to the resident servants, a housekeeper, and a cook, that he, Clara, and Andrew would be staying for the next couple of days. The housekeeper hurriedly arranged for two maids to come from the village and help with the preparations. After a flurry of activity, even Sebastian managed to sleep a bit in the early morning hours following their hasty flight.

  He woke to sunlight glistening on the still-damp grounds and windowpanes. He washed and dressed, then descended the stairs. Clara’s voice drifted from the dining room, where she was apparently in conversation with the housekeeper.

  Sebastian diverted his steps to the drawing room. Her betrayal coiled inside him, hard and tight, seething beneath his simmering anger. Not even the familiarity of the manor, the place where he had passed many happy hours with his brothers and sister, eased the pain of her disloyalty.

  A protective cloth covered the grand piano that dominated the drawing room. Sebastian pulled the cloth from the front of the piano and draped it across the lid.

  He pushed the bench back and sat, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension knotting his spine. How often had he played this piano over the years? The last time had been in the spring, when he’d come here with Alexander, Lydia, Rushton, Talia, and their friend Lord Castleford.

  Sebastian rubbed his right hand, remembering with a touch of fondness the genial atmosphere of that weekend visit. He’d played a great deal of Mozart, whose music was among Talia’s favorites.

  He pushed up the fallboard to expose the shiny black-and-white keys and trailed his left hand over them. He played a sequence from Mozart’s Sonata No. 15, the left-handed pattern sustaining harmonies from pale to vivid yellow. After the notes faded, Sebastian played them again. And again. And again. An unexpected flash of light went through him, the crackle of energy incited by music.

  He played the sequence twice more before a movement at the door caught his eye. Andrew hovered just inside the room, a book clutched in his arms.

  “Come in,” Sebastian said. “Have you ever played the piano?”

  Andrew shook his head. En route to Floreston Manor, Clara had explained to her son that she and Sebastian were married, but the revelation had prompted no outward response from the boy. In fact, he hadn’t spoken a word.

  “Come here, then,” Sebastian invited.

  The boy approached with caution, his eyes darting to the keys.

  “Put your hands like this.” Sebastian guided Andrew onto the bench and spread his hands on the keys. “This key is called middle C. If you put your thumb on middle C, you can use your other fingers to play D, E, F, and G.”

  He watched Andrew press the keys and listen to the notes, and then he put his right hand on the keyboard. “Do you know the song ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”

  Andrew nodded. Willing his hand to cooperate, Sebastian played the first few notes and sang the accompanying lyrics. “It starts with your third finger on this key, E. Try just those three notes. Down, then up again.”

  He straightened as Andrew placed his fingers on the correct keys and played the simple melody.

  “Then the second ‘little lamb’ is right next door on this key, which is D.” Sebastian played the note three times. “Do you hear how the sound is a bit lower?”

  Andrew put his hand on the keyboard again and played the melody, ending with D. Sebastian then showed him the third ‘little lamb’ on the G key. The instruction came back to him with surprising ease, and a distinct pleasure wound through him when Andrew played the first line correctly.

  “Good.” Sebastian straightened, glancing at the boy’s face. “Did your grandfather provide any music lessons for you?”

  Andrew shook his head and concentrated on pressing the G key. He looked toward the door as Clara entered. She paused a short distance from the piano, a shadow of uncertainty passing across her features. Sebastian flexed his fingers and tried to temper the anger toward her that had smoldered inside him for the past day.

  “Andrew, would you
like to see the conservatory?” Clara asked.

  Andrew shook his head, his attention on the piano keys. Clara twisted her fingers into the folds of her skirt.

  “There’s also a library at the other end of the manor,” she continued. “I’m certain Mr. Hall won’t mind if we borrow some books to read.”

  Andrew didn’t respond. Clara bit her lip, her uncertainty darkening into outright worry. Sebastian tried to deflect the sympathy that lanced through him and turned back to the boy.

  “Andrew, while we wait for Mrs. Danvers to prepare breakfast, I’ll show you the river where my brothers and I used to fish,” he said.

  Andrew pressed his fingers onto the keys again, then pushed to his feet and turned toward the door.

  “I’ll stay with him,” Sebastian told Clara.

  He let the boy precede him to the gardens, then followed along the wet flagstone paths winding around the flower beds where a few late roses still bloomed.

  Rather than ask questions that might not provoke a response, Sebastian merely talked—telling Andrew about the summer days he spent here with his brothers and sister, the hoop races they’d had on the grassy inclines, the trees they’d climbed. He pointed out the stables, the road to the village, the field where they’d practiced archery.

  Andrew didn’t offer any comment, though he appeared to be listening. Sebastian wondered if the boy was unable to speak or chose not to. Either way, this was likely the affliction that had prompted Fairfax to seek a physician.

  By the time they returned to the house, Mrs. Danvers had organized a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast. After eating in silence, Andrew went out to the garden again, with an admonition from Clara not to wander too far.

  She looked at Sebastian, her face pale in a stream of morning sunlight. “I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t tell her it didn’t matter. His right hand clenched inside his pocket.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t help you?” he asked, his voice tight. Did you think me incapable of it?

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  “How is running away protecting me?”

  “My father threatened to spread rumors that I was responsible for Richard’s death. I hoped that if I left, he would turn his attention to me and leave your family alone.”

  “He could never prove you had anything to do with Richard’s death.”

  “No one else knows that, do they?” Her voice stretched thin as she stood and paced to the hearth. “Why wouldn’t they believe Lord Fairfax, who was so close to his son-in-law and who has been such a dedicated grandfather? What possible recourse do I have against such an accusation?”

  “I am your recourse, Clara,” Sebastian snapped. “Why didn’t you trust me when I said I would help you?”

  She whirled to face him. “I did trust you!”

  “If you had, you wouldn’t have gone to my father.”

  “I didn’t go to him, Sebastian,” Clara said, spreading her hands in desperation. “He came to the museum to ask about my estrangement from Fairfax, and I…my plans had been thwarted because of the rain. When Lord Rushton started questioning me, I realized he is the only person I know who is more powerful than my father. If he couldn’t help me, who could?”

  “I could.”

  “We had no time left, Sebastian. If Fairfax had taken Andrew away again, to an institution no less, what could either of us have done?”

  “So you found it necessary to tell Rushton about my mother.” Sebastian’s jaw clenched to the point of pain. “And my hand.”

  Clara pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you tell him?”

  “Because I was scared! What if Fairfax made good on his threat? When your father spoke of associating with him, I had to warn him that Fairfax might attempt to spread lies about me. I hoped that if I were honest with Lord Rushton about everything, he would prove to be my ally instead.”

  “Yet you gave no thought to the effects of such a revelation.”

  Despair rose to darken her eyes. “Everything I have done, Sebastian, has been for the purpose of reclaiming my son. That is the effect I’d hoped for when I spoke to your father. Maybe if he’d offered to help, we’d have found another way.”

  She sank into a chair, her shoulders slumping with defeat. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. You might still rectify matters if you return to London now. If I’m the one who is vilified…”

  Anger boiled through him, propelling him forward in three long strides. “You think I would allow that? Allow you to be slandered for attempting to reclaim your son? God in heaven, Clara, what kind of man do you think I am?”

  “I know exactly what kind of man you are! I’ve known for years, ever since I first met you in Dorset. You’re kind and generous and talented. You would do anything to help those you care about. I’ve never doubted that. But I had no more time left. Telling your father was my last resort. If he’d agreed to help me, I might not have needed to run.”

  “And where did you plan to go?”

  “Away. France. Then America, if I could. As far from my father’s reach as I could possibly get.”

  “With no intention of telling me anything.”

  “The less you knew, the better for all of us.” Clara looked past him to the door as it creaked open and Andrew entered, a black-and-white cat struggling to escape his clutches.

  Andrew glanced from his mother to Sebastian, hesitant to enter the strained atmosphere. Sebastian forced his shoulders to relax as he crossed to where the boy hovered in the doorway.

  “You’ve found Minou, have you?” He scratched the cat behind its pointed ears, a gesture that eased Minou’s agitation. “She’s a bit skittish, but becomes quite docile after she’s eaten. You can see if Mrs. Danvers has some fish you can give her.”

  Andrew nodded, tightening his grasp on the squirming cat as he hurried off toward the kitchen. Sebastian took a breath and turned back to Clara. She watched him warily, her violet eyes glittering in the damp sunlight.

  “I never meant for any of this to happen,” she said. “I only wanted to protect my son.”

  Sebastian knew that. He’d known that from the beginning, from the moment Clara proposed. He flexed the fingers of his right hand.

  “What else did you want?” he asked.

  “What else…?”

  “Why did you ask me to marry you?” His heart thumped against his rib cage. “Any man would have done, if the transfer of Wakefield House was your only concern.”

  A delicate blush rose to paint her cheeks. “No, not any man. I didn’t even consider the idea until you came back into my life.”

  “And was it because I am the son of an earl? Did you think even then that my father might have access to resources that you and Granville did not?”

  Her flush deepened to a rose-red. “And if I did? Would you not understand that? Would you blame me?”

  A flame of renewed anger bolted through Sebastian again. No, he didn’t blame her for identifying his father as a source of power. But it would kill him to think that had been her sole motive.

  “When you refused to approach him for help, Sebastian, I saw everything falling away. I couldn’t allow you to ruin yourself by conceding to my father’s demands. I couldn’t allow him to ruin you by spreading lies about me. What else could I have done but go to your father?”

  “You could have come back to me.”

  “No.” Her throat rippled with a swallow. “Not if it meant putting you at further risk. And that I never wanted to do.”

  She rose and approached him, placed a trembling hand on his chest. His heart pounded against her palm, the warmth of her hand seeping into his skin.

  “I had a hope your father’s position would be beneficial,” she said. “It would be a lie if I said otherwise. But that is not the only reason I wanted to marry you. And I did want to marry you, not any man. I wanted to marry Sebastian Hall, the generous and cheerful pianist who never spoke an unkind word.
I wanted to marry the man who made people smile simply because he was near. The man who created music as if it were born from his very being.”

  Sebastian grabbed her hand so tightly that Clara drew in a breath. Resentment sank claws into his neck.

  “That man, Clara,” he whispered, his voice taut, “no longer exists.”

  She met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes burned with resolve. “Yes, he does.”

  A sharp energy crackled between them. An assault of memories swept through him as he recalled the arid desert of the past few months, a wasteland relieved only by Clara’s presence. Only with her had he felt happy and alive again. Only with her had he begun to believe that he could control his own future. That he had a choice.

  Clara rose onto her toes and pressed her lips hard against his. Sparks jolted through Sebastian as her orange-spice scent filled his head. He gripped her waist with his left hand and sank his mouth into hers, their tongues tangling in a sudden collision of heat. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her hands winding around the back of his neck to grip his hair. For an instant he let himself fall into her, let the feel of her obliterate his anger.

  “I will love you,” Clara whispered against his mouth, her breath hot on his lips, “if you will recognize that the very core of who you are will never change.”

  A month ago, Sebastian would not have believed the truth of her remark. Yet being back at Floreston Manor did remind him of the pleasures of his youth when anything was possible. For the first time in months, seated at his old piano, he had felt music flow through his blood again.

  He stepped away from Clara. He knew the cost of keeping secrets, but he had entrusted her with his. And he had revealed too much of himself already to give her this fragile admission.

  “If you…” His voice tangled around the words. He swallowed and forced them through his throat. “If you will love me, Clara, you must do so without any conditions whatsoever.”

  Catherine Leskovna sat in a private room at the Albion Hotel, her dress a plain black chintz, her graying hair pulled back into a chignon. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the firmness of her expression—all spoke of the regal countess she had once been. Only her dark eyes, brewing with untold desires, gave any indication of the impulsive gypsy blood that ran through her veins.