A Passion For Pleasure

by Nina Rowan

  “Ready?” Sebastian asked.

  The boy nodded and moved closer. They fitted the other end of the tube into the hoop and watched as the gas caused the taffeta to inflate into a balloon. At Sebastian’s instruction, Andrew clamped his hand around the material to prevent the gas from escaping. Sebastian removed the tube.

  “Now let go,” he said.

  Andrew released the balloon, which instantly caught a current of air and began to rise, the green basket dangling below. Andrew applauded as it bobbed on the air, rising higher and higher.

  A smile broke out across Sebastian’s face as the balloon drifted like a bright bubble. He remembered all too well the joy he and his brothers had experienced constructing balloons exactly like this one and setting them aloft. It filled him now, the delight of watching the balloon bounce through the air, the enjoyment of being outside, the pleasure of being concerned only about whether or not the linseed-coated seams would hold.

  “Now we have to chase it,” he warned Andrew as the balloon drifted farther.

  Andrew turned and started to run, a laugh breaking from him suddenly. The sound caught Sebastian by surprise, verifying his suspicion that Andrew’s muteness was not the result of any physical affliction. The boy could make sounds. He just chose not to.

  Rather than tussle with the question of why, Sebastian raced after Andrew as they followed the path of the balloon. The wind surged cold against his face. His muscles flexed and pulled as he ran, and for a moment his snarled emotions loosened. A new feeling spread through him, a sense of freedom that he’d thought had died with the end of his musical career.

  As the gas inside the balloon dispersed, it slowed on the current and began to descend. Andrew and Sebastian chased it to the river, where it floated to snag on a branch jutting out over the water.

  “I’ll try to grab it.” Sebastian hurried down the grassy bank toward the river, but Andrew got there first.

  After shucking off his boots, Andrew stepped onto the first of several flat stones that provided a path to the opposite bank. The current cascaded over the stones, polishing them to smoothness.

  Knowing well how cold the water was, Sebastian grinned as Andrew made his way cautiously to the largest stone in the center, then reached to grab the dangling balloon. Clutching it in one fist, he retraced his path back to Sebastian’s side. He held up the deflated balloon with a triumphant smile.

  “Well done, Andrew.” Sebastian tousled the boy’s hair. “You’d make a fine retriever. Shall we give it another go?”

  Andrew nodded, and they walked back to the garden where they had left the supplies. Sebastian mixed another batch of the gas concoction, and they set the balloon aloft again. As Andrew ran off to give chase, Sebastian saw Clara coming toward them from the house.

  Tension knotted his shoulders as half of his soul urged him closer to her and the other half remained locked behind the wall of his anger. Even understanding the desperation behind her revelations to Rushton made it no easier for Sebastian to accept the fact that Clara hadn’t trusted him.

  “He seems happy.” Clara paused beside him, her smile belied by the strain in her brilliant eyes. She looked to where Andrew ran along the path back down to the river. “I’m so grateful for the time you’re spending with him, however short it might be.”

  “He’s good company. Intelligent, curious.”

  Clara didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on her son. “Has he said anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Clara’s shoulders sagged, as if she had been holding her breath while awaiting his response. Sebastian surrendered to the urge to comfort her and slid his arm around her. A ripple of unease went through her, but she stepped closer to his side.

  “I know this is the reason my father wanted to send him away,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t understand why Andrew refuses to speak. He must have stopped speaking after I left for London because he had no such affliction when I was still at Manley Park.”

  “I’ve heard him laugh,” Sebastian said.

  She swung her gaze to him. “You heard him laugh? When?”

  “Earlier today when we set the balloon aloft. He still has a voice. He just chooses not to use it.”

  “Have you asked him why?”

  Sebastian shook his head. He stared after Andrew, lifting his hand in acknowledgment as the boy held up the deflated balloon.

  “I never wanted to be asked about my hand infirmity,” he said. “I assume Andrew wouldn’t want to be asked why he won’t speak.”

  Clara watched her son. A breeze whipped a loose tendril of hair across her face, and Sebastian couldn’t resist brushing it aside. His fingertips stroked the softness of her cheek. An ache clenched his chest as he thought of how drastically his life had changed in the past months.

  Clara turned to him again. “What will we do now?”

  “I’ve made arrangements for us to leave tomorrow afternoon. I’ve sent word to a cousin who lives near Brixham. We can lodge with him for a few days. I’ve also directed Alexander’s solicitor to look into matters again, especially pertaining to the debts your father has incurred. Perhaps we might still come to an agreement with Fairfax.”

  As much as he wanted to believe his own statement, the words rang hollow.

  “He’s poisoned my son against me,” Clara said.

  “What?”

  “My father.” Her jaw tightened, a pulse thudding along the delicate column of her neck. “He must have said something to Andrew about my being responsible for Richard’s death. It’s the only explanation I can think of as to why Andrew doesn’t want to be near me.”

  Before Sebastian could respond, Andrew approached, his gaze darting to Clara. Wariness flashed in his blue eyes. He paused uncertainly near Sebastian. Though Clara smiled at the boy, Sebastian felt her close in on herself, felt a strain arcing between mother and son. She stepped away from them.

  “I’ll…I’ll leave you both to your sport, then. Tea will be ready in an hour, if you’d care to join me.”

  “Of course.” Sebastian watched her return to the house, her steps measured and stiff.

  Andrew tugged on his sleeve and held up the balloon. Sebastian took it, wanting again that feeling of blithe freedom to conquer his foreboding.

  “Let’s try it again, shall we?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Clara sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over Andrew’s legs. He held an open book on his lap, his chestnut hair falling in a swath across his forehead as he examined an illustration of a knight on horseback. Clara curled her fingers into a fist, suppressing the urge to reach out and stroke the lock of hair back.

  “Do you still like the King Arthur tales?” she asked, desperate for any topic that would reconnect her with her son. “I remember we read them often when we were at Manley Park.”

  Andrew nodded and turned a page. Clara placed a tentative hand on his leg, and experienced a rush of relief when he didn’t pull away from her touch.

  “Andrew.”

  He glanced up.

  “Whatever…” Her voice tangled into a knot. She took a breath. “Whatever your grandfather has said about me, it’s not true. Do you understand?”

  Andrew returned his attention to the book. Clara’s hand tightened on the bedcovers.

  “I never wanted your father to be hurt. I never wanted to leave you. And I certainly never wanted to give you up to the custody of your grandfather. Will you please believe me?”

  He didn’t look at her, but gave a nod so slight that Clara might have missed it had she not been gazing at him so intently. She patted his leg and stood. A small reassurance was better than none at all. She bent to kiss his forehead and whisper good night, then returned to her own bedchamber down the corridor.

  While she was glad to her bones that Sebastian and Andrew had developed a quick and strong friendship, Clara could not dispel her pervasive sorrow that Andrew had become so unreachable to her.

  She strippe
d out of her clothes and washed, then unpinned her hair and brushed out the tangles. She crawled into bed with a book of poetry. The words dipped and swam before her unfocused eyes.

  Weary, she set the book aside. She hadn’t slept well since the confrontation with Fairfax, her thoughts a confusion of memories and fear. Now a vast, black void had opened inside her heart. The lamp on her bedside table flickered, shadows twisting across the ceiling.

  The fear that had lived inside her for so long, the despair she had believed would vanish like a puff of smoke the instant she held Andrew in her arms again…it was still there. Slithering into her blood, coiling in the pit of her belly.

  Would she never be free of it? And now that Sebastian was inextricably tangled in their circumstances…God alone knew what the future held.

  She pushed the covers aside and tugged on her dressing gown, then padded down the corridor to his room. She knocked and pushed the door open when he bade her enter.

  He sat beside the fire, still clothed in trousers and a white linen shirt, his long legs stretched out before him. A tingle swept down Clara’s spine at the sight of him—the reddish glow burnishing his dark hair, the V of skin revealed by the unfastened buttons of his shirt, the rough whiskers covering his jaw.

  “Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” His gaze moved over her, a long slow sweep like the glide of his fingertips. “You’ve disturbed me since I first saw you carrying Millicent’s head.”

  Clara smiled faintly at the memory. She approached him with caution, but there was nothing forbidding in his expression. She lowered herself into the chair across from him, glancing at the paper he held. The penmanship was scrawled, uneven.

  “Is that to your brother’s solicitor?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Sebastian set the paper and pen on a small table. “He’ll likely feel obliged to explain the situation to Alexander, but my hope is that things will be settled by then.”

  Clara hoped so too, though she had no idea how. Perhaps a different solicitor could offer a solution. She nibbled on her thumbnail and stared at the leaping flames of the fire.

  “Will you not dissolve our marriage?” she asked, her voice steady but quiet. She could not bring herself to utter the words divorce me.

  “No.” Sebastian’s hand curled into the material of his trousers. “I told you when we first agreed to wed that I would not tolerate even the possibility of separation.”

  “But surely that would be less troublesome for you than having to contend with our current situation.”

  “No. There will not be another divorce in my family.”

  Clara kept her attention on the fire. All that had occurred in the past week had forged a question at the back of her mind, one she had struggled to ignore because she was afraid of Sebastian’s answer. Yet now she forced herself to voice it.

  “Do you regret it, then?” she asked. “Agreeing to my proposal? I fear the cost to you has been far greater than you anticipated.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Her heart tightened. She felt his gaze on her, but could not face him.

  “No,” he said. “I do not regret our marriage.”

  She looked at him. A deep and abiding love swelled beneath her heart. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling as if her body could not contain all she felt for him.

  “I’m so sorry for what I did,” she whispered. “Please know it wasn’t because I don’t love you. I have loved you for years.” She rose, hesitant, and went to lower herself into his lap, willing him not to reject her.

  He didn’t. She tucked herself against him. The heat of his long, muscular body eased the tension from her, like steam smoothing wrinkles from a swath of silk. He lifted his left hand to touch her neck, resting his fingertips in the hollow of her collarbone. Warmth brewed in his eyes behind a shield of guardedness.

  “I am no longer the man you once loved,” he said.

  “Yes, you are.” She spread her hand over his chest. “People don’t transform completely into someone different. We change, yes, but we remain the same at our very core. You lost the use of your hand, Sebastian. You didn’t lose your talent or your kindness. You didn’t lose your love of life.”

  “If that is true”—he tucked his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his—“what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Are you also the same as you once were? During those Wakefield House days when you were happy and filled with hope?”

  A warm glow filled Clara’s chest as she looked into her husband’s beautiful dark eyes. “With you, yes,” she whispered. “I am.”

  She imagined then what it might have been like had they met under different circumstances. If she had somehow already come to terms with her father and been living at Wakefield House with Andrew. She could have come to Sebastian free of desperate, calculated motives, compelled only by her love for him.

  “I never meant for it to come to this,” she said.

  “You meant to have Andrew again. That’s what it came to.”

  “Will you forgive me for the price we paid?”

  “Yes.”

  The word flowered beneath Clara’s heart, though its brightness did not diminish her unease. He would forgive her because he was a good man who tried not to think ill of others, but he would not forget the fact that she had gone against his wishes. He would not forget that she had revealed his secrets to his father.

  Her chest hurt. She pressed her forehead to his neck and closed her eyes. Sebastian cupped her chin and urged her to lift her head, his fingers strong and warm. How she loved his hands. The strong, gentle hands that had captivated her from the first moment he touched her. Their lips met in a gentle kiss before he curved her legs around him and rose, holding her against him as he moved to the bed.

  The mattress dipped as he lowered her onto it and stretched out beside her, skimming his palm across the expanse of her shift. She reached for his right hand and brought it to her lips, brushing her mouth across the bent angle of his little finger. His eyes burned in the flare of the candlelight, his dark hair sweeping across his forehead as he moved closer.

  Clara turned to him, an ache of longing swelling through her, and lifted her arms to allow him to divest her of her dressing gown and pull the shift over her head. She fumbled to remove his trousers, welcoming the shock of arousal that conquered her ever-present fear, like water crashing endlessly over a jagged stone.

  He lowered his head to kiss her. Hard, his tongue sweeping into her mouth in a hot caress that tore a moan from her throat. Her head fell back, her mouth opening and body yielding to him all over again. He nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, the slight twinge vibrating across her skin. His tongue tangled with hers, slid over the surface of her teeth, his lips demanding a response that she could give only to him.

  Soon, too soon, he lifted his head. He stared at her, then placed his hand between her breasts. Her heartbeat thundered against his palm. His fingers trembled. He leaned in close again, his breath hot against her ear.

  “Touch me,” he whispered.

  Clara’s breath caught as she grasped his smooth, hard shaft. He pulsed against her hand, driving her arousal higher. His breath burned against her neck. He palmed her breasts, watched the peaks harden beneath his touch, then smoothed his warm hands over her belly to the apex of her thighs.

  He moved lower, his body taut, coiled tight. Clara’s heart began to pound slow and hard, her lips parting on an indrawn breath as he pushed his hands between her legs and spread her open. She fisted the bed linens in her hands, pushing aside the instinctive urge to close herself. She had long passed the point of being able to hide. She would forever be stripped bare for him, only him.

  Her hips twitched upward. He rose to his knees and pushed his trousers to the floor. Lust pitched and rolled through her, and she arched herself toward him in silent entreaty.

  He positioned himself at the entrance to her body and thrust into her once, heavy and fast.
She gasped, lifting her arms to wrap them around his shoulders, stroking one hand through his thick hair. He lowered himself on top of her, bracing his hands on either side of her head and locking their bodies together. Slowly, he increased the pace of his plunging, the slick glide filling her repeatedly, and Clara came apart like a bursting star, her hands gripping his back and her body undulating with trembles.

  He grasped her right wrist, pinning her hand against the bed. He thrust again, and again, before spilling into her with a low groan that shuddered through her blood. For a moment, he was still.

  Breathless, Clara opened her eyes. He was watching her, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck, the carnal satisfaction fading from his expression. She stroked a hand over his jaw, her gaze tracing the sharp planes of his cheekbones that sloped down to his beautiful mouth. His thick-lashed eyes, the color of burned honey in the firelight, gleamed with warmth.

  I love him. She knew that to the depths of her being. A braid of fear and pleasure spiraled through her. She stroked his lower lip with her thumb.

  Over the past weeks, she had overcome her fear and plunged forward with reckless and daring steps to ensure Andrew’s return to her. She had proposed marriage, conceived a calculated agreement, tried to bargain with her father, lied to her husband, plotted the abduction of her son. Yet it had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to tell Sebastian she loved him.

  “What’s so amusing?” Sebastian asked.

  Clara realized she was smiling. She’d had no idea that loving him could be both the most daunting and exhilarating thing of all. “I love you.”

  Wary hope flashed in his eyes. Before he could respond, Clara shook her head to forestall him.

  “I was so frightened after Richard died,” she said, her gaze on his mouth as she continued stroking his lower lip, “and then when my father made his accusations and forced me leave Andrew. For the past year, I’ve lived with fear as my sole companion. And yet I’ve realized that the only times I haven’t been afraid, I’ve been with you.”