“Clara,” he said again, as the door shut on them. “This is no escapade for a lady. You really should not be here.”
“If you were not here then neither should I be,” Clara said calmly, wrapping the rug about them both. “I was worried about you, Sebastian.”
Fleet pressed a hand to his aching brow. “I do not want you to worry about me!” The words came out almost as a shout and Clara put her gloved hands over her ears. “How many times do I have to explain this? This is exactly what I was trying to avoid!”
“It seems to me,” Clara said, ignoring him, “that you have not permitted anyone to care for you in a very long time, Sebastian.”
Fleet’s head pounded. “Devil take it! Clara, have you not understood? I want you to leave me alone!”
His head was swimming, but in the dim light of the carriage lamps he saw that she was looking at him and there was a slight, satisfied smile on her lips. Fleet leaned his head against the seat cushions and closed his eyes in despair. He realized through the clearing fog of his inebriation that he’d declared his love to her. “Dash it, Clara, I am too befuddled to argue.” He leant forward, suddenly urgent. “Yes, I love you to distraction, but I wish to the devil that I did not! I would go to the ends of the earth for you but I can hardly bear it! The responsibility of it terrifies me.”
“It is perfectly simple,” Clara said briskly. “I care for you and in return you care for me.” She put one small hand against his chest and pushed gently. “Go to sleep, now.”
He wanted to argue but he did not have the strength. To sleep seemed easier. So he did.
HE WAS AWOKEN by the white light of a snowy morning illuminating his bedroom. For a brief, blissful moment he could not remember anything, then he flung one arm across his eyes and let out a long groan.
“I have prepared a nice posset for you,” Clara’s voice said. “I thought perhaps you might need something restorative for your head.”
Sebastian opened his eyes. He might have known Clara would still be here. No doubt she sat up all night at his bedside to make sure he was quite safe. He felt exasperated and deeply grateful at the same time. She looked as fresh as though she were stepping out to a ball. Her dress was uncreased and her eyes bright. He looked at her and felt a hopeless feeling swamp him.
“Your concern is most touching,” he said, sitting up in bed to take the steaming cup of sweet liquid. “I have sunk more drink than last night, however. I shall survive.”
“You told me that you loved me last night,” Clara said. “Do you remember?”
He looked at her. It was too late now for denials and lies. Much too late.
“I remember,” he said. “Oh, Clara, darling, of course I remember.”
She took his hand. “There is no need to look so terrified, Sebastian. Love is not an illness. It will not kill you.”
But to him it felt exactly as though he had contracted an unfamiliar and frightening disease. He had not tested love’s boundaries yet. He did not know how far he could trust himself with it. Nevertheless, the need to tell Clara everything now was so acute he could not resist.
“When you fell through the ice yesterday I was so frightened,” he said. His voice shook a little. “I thought that I was losing you, there in front of my eyes. It reminded me of when Oliver died.” It had actually been worse than losing Oliver. Ten, twenty times more dreadful.
“Oliver was your brother,” Clara said.
“Yes. He was four years younger than I was. I always protected him. Until the day I failed him.”
The words came out in a torrent. He could not stop now if he tried.
“It was this time of year right before Christmas. We were supposed to be at our lessons but our tutor fell asleep and we crept out. It was too fine a day to stay indoors. We took our skates and went down to the old mill race.” He swallowed painfully. “I can still see Oliver now. He skated out into the middle—the ice was hard, we did not realize the danger—and he was spinning around, his arms outstretched…And then he was simply not there.” He stopped. Clara did not speak.
“I moved as fast as I could. The ice was cracking all around me. I shouted for help until I was hoarse but no one came. I could see him, under the ice, but I could not reach him. Every time I got close enough to grab him the ice would break beneath me and we would drift apart.”
“What happened?” Clara whispered.
“Someone finally saw us. I do not know how long it took. The water was so cold. They brought ropes and ladders but I knew it was too late for Oliver. I was big and strong but he was only small. He was only eight years old! And I could not save him.”
He half expected Clara to tell him that it had not been his fault. People had been saying that to him for years until they tired of reassuring him or thought that he was over the tragedy. But Clara did not say that. She held his hand and waited for him to continue.
“It was my fault,” he said starkly. “I was the one who suggested we go skating that day. He always followed me. Then I could not help him when he needed me.”
He gripped Clara’s hand fast. “They rescued me first, you know. I was the heir.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “The spare was sacrificed.”
He was crying. He could not help it. He dashed the tears away with his hand and found they fell all the quicker for it. He spoke in gasps.
“I have never told anyone this before. I thought I could lock it away but you have unmanned me. You made me feel again. You made me love you. Oh, Clara—”
Clara moved from her chair to the edge of his bed. She caught him and pulled him to her, drawing him down so that his cheek rested against hers. Her arms were tight about him and it felt protected and safe. For a second he hesitated, but it was out of nothing more than habit. Then he let go and felt himself fall, mind and body, to a warm, safe place, where he was her strength and she was his.
He did not know how long they lay there, but when he opened his eyes, Clara’s face was about an inch away from his, so he kissed her with love and gentleness. Her lashes lifted and she looked at him. He could see from her eyes that she was smiling.
“You need a shave,” she said, running her fingers experimentally over the stubble that darkened his chin.
“And a wash. I fear I am most unwholesome.”
“You are delightful.” Clara rubbed her cheek against his rough one. “I love you, Sebastian.”
He savored the words, tasted them. His entire body felt relaxed, released from a terrible torment. His eyes were heavy. He felt so tired. He did not want to resist and after a few moments, to his intense surprise, the sleep took him again.
CLARA DID NOT FALL ASLEEP. She lay looking at Sebastian with a small smile still on her lips. How ruffled and dishevelled he looked. If this was how he appeared when in a state of undress, how much more magnificent would he be when he was totally naked? And at least she might have a fighting chance of seeing that now. It had taken her a long time to realize that in permitting him to dictate her happiness she was helping neither of them.
She wriggled closer to the warmth of his body. He felt solid and strong. She ran a hand experimentally over his chest and he murmured something in his sleep and drew her deeper into the crook of his arm. He smelled faintly of leather and tobacco and lime cologne. Clara buried her nose in the curve of his neck and inhaled deeply. She felt almost light-headed with the warmth and the scent of him. It was a good job that he was asleep, for she felt exceedingly wide-awake. Her body tingled. She remembered the way Sebastian had kissed her, the way he had used his tongue and his teeth on her bare breast, and she was shot through with a pleasure that pooled deep within her and made her body tense and wanting.
Then he opened his eyes.
For a long moment she stared into that deep, slumberous blue and saw his gaze darken with desire as he rolled over to pin her beneath his weight.
There was a very sharp rap on the front door followed by the sound of raised voices in the hall.
For a moment Seba
stian was still, his body poised above hers, then he sighed and eased himself off the bed.
“What sort of hour is this for visitors to call?”
Clara squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It is past one, Sebastian. You have slept the clock around.”
Sebastian stretched. Clara stared. She could not help it. He was still in his breeches and shirt and she was riveted by the deliciously tight fit of the buckskins over his thighs.
“You could avert your eyes,” Sebastian said mildly.
“I could,” Clara agreed, “but I am not going to.”
He smiled. “Hussy.”
“I know. But I have waited a long time—”
His eyes darkened again. “No more waiting, I promise you.” He bent over and touched his lips to hers and Clara’s senses leaped in response to the light caress. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to her, kissing him fervently.
The sound of voices was coming nearer. Through the pounding of the blood in her ears, Clara could hear Perch’s tones, soothing and respectful, and in response a voice she recognized all too well—Martin, sounding dangerously angry, along with Lady Juliana, high and anxious.
“We know she is here, Perch. She left a note.”
Sebastian eased his lips from Clara’s. “You left a note?”
Clara hung her head, blushing a little. “I thought it was the right thing to do. I did not want anyone to worry about me.”
“Whereas now that they know you have been all night at my bedside they will be delighted,” Sebastian said dryly. “Your brother is about to call me to account for being a scoundrel and for the first time in my life I am entirely innocent of all wrongdoing.”
The door flew open and Martin Davencourt erupted into the room, Juliana at his heels. Clara’s heart sank as she saw in their wake her sister Kitty; Kitty’s husband, Edward; Juliana’s brother Joss; his wife, Amy; Edward’s brother Adam; and Adam’s wife, Annis, all jostling behind them on the landing.
“Why is everybody here?” she wailed.
A cacophony of noise broke over them and Clara put her hands over her ears.
“He is half-undressed!”
“She is fully dressed!”
“She is in his bed!”
“The place smells like a taproom!”
“Oh, Clara!” said Kitty, sounding both awed and disapproving.
“Scoundrel! Rogue!” Martin was not mincing his words. “To think I ever called you friend! To seduce my sister—” Before Clara could jump up, Martin had lunged at Sebastian and grabbed him by the remnants of his neck cloth, pulling tight. There was mindless fury in her brother’s eyes. Clara heard Seb’s breathing catch and saw his eyes start to bulge as, caught off balance, he tripped over backward onto the bed.
“I did no such thing, I swear!” he choked out, breaking off painfully as Martin pulled viciously on the cravat and brought tears to his eyes.
“Martin!” Clara leaped to her feet and hung on to Martin’s arm. “Let him go! Nothing happened. I am the one to blame!”
Martin cast her one dark, angry look. “Oh, you need not think that I hold you blameless, Clara. I will settle with you when I have settled with him!”
Seb gave a despairing croak as the tourniquet tightened about his throat. Clara felt genuine alarm now. “Juliana!” She spun round to address her sister-in-law. “Do something! I promise nothing happened between us. Sebastian was too drunk—”
She realized this was not the most helpful defense, when Martin’s breath hissed between his teeth with fury and he hauled Fleet to his feet, only to lay him flat out with one well-placed blow.
There was a silence.
“That was very unfair!” Clara said indignantly, scrambling to prop him up. “You have given Sebastian no opportunity to explain himself.”
“It was the least I deserved,” Sebastian said, fingering his jaw. “Would have done the same thing myself if I had a sister.” He looked up at his angry friend and said, “Davencourt, my apologies. I have behaved abominably, even though it is true that your sister is quite unscathed.”
“Because you were too drunk to seduce her,” Martin said through shut teeth.
“Absolutely. And because I respect her and wish to make her my wife at the earliest possible opportunity.”
There was a concerted gasp from the assembled company. Clara thought she saw a slight smile of satisfaction cross Perch’s otherwise impassive expression.
“May I be the first to offer my congratulations, your grace,” he said.
“Congratulations?” Martin’s expression was like boiling milk. “Congratulations? I will not permit my sister to marry such a rogue.”
“Martin, darling,” Juliana said, putting a gentle hand on her husband’s arm, “I completely understand your misgivings but I do think we should consider the matter calmly.”
“Calmly!” Martin spun around. “I am not calm!”
“I think we all realize that, dearest,” Juliana said. “Now, Clara, you will accompany us home. Sebastian, you will join us for dinner tonight, if you please. Great-Aunt Eleanor is staying and if you pass muster with her then I doubt anyone else will object to your suit.”
She took Clara’s arm and propelled her forcibly toward the door.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sebastian said, raising his voice. “Might I beg one moment in private with my affianced wife?” He caught Clara’s hand as Juliana escorted her past.
Martin, who had started to look vaguely placated, started frowning again. “Affianced? You try my patience too far, Fleet. You assume too much.”
“One minute,” Sebastian said. “Please.” He kept tight hold of Clara’s hand.
Everyone backed from the room with good-humored grumbling and Juliana dragged Martin out.
“One minute only,” she warned.
As soon as the door closed behind them Sebastian pulled Clara into his arms.
“I asked you last night but you did not answer,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” Clara said. “I am so glad that you asked. I had quite decided against putting my fate to the touch for a second time. A lady does not wish to appear too desperate.”
Seb caressed her hair. “And the special license? Do you wish me to procure one?”
“Yes, please.” Clara snuggled against his stroking hand. The latent sensuality of her behavior was doing terrible things to both his self-control and his clarity of thought.
“I am still a bit worried about your brother,” he began, knowing there was another matter to be settled.
“We will persuade him,” Clara said. She tilted her chin up. “Kiss me, please.”
They were still engrossed when the door opened and Perch came back in.
“Mr. Davencourt requests his sister’s presence at once,” he said, straight-faced, “or he will go to fetch his duelling pistols.”
SEB FLEET STOOD in the snow outside the house in Collett Square. It was late; the sky was black and cold, and the stars very bright. In all material terms the evening had been a vast success. Lady Eleanor Tallant, matriarch of the extended family, had given her seal of approval to the match between himself and Clara, and had dismissed Martin’s objections in a few pungent words.
“Fleet is solvent, young enough to have his own hair and not require a corset, and influential enough to help your political career,” she had said sharply. “You must have windmills in your head to object to such an offer.” Then her face had softened. “He also dotes upon your sister, should that have more influence with you.”
Martin had then reluctantly offered his hand, and Seb seized it gratefully.
“I do love her, you know, Davencourt,” he said. “I would not wish to live without her.”
He had seen the effort Martin had made to set aside the doubts and fears Seb knew were only for Clara’s happiness. Things were almost back to normal.
Now he was supposed to go home and see his betrothed formally and respectably the next day, when arrangement
s would be made for him to join the family at Davencourt for Christmas, and for him and Clara to be married on Twelfth Night.
But there was one thing he had not done, one thing that required privacy rather than the benevolent observation of the family, one thing he wanted to give to Clara when they were alone.
He watched the lights go out in the house one by one and felt his feet freeze in the hard-packed snow.
Clara’s room was at the back of the house and he let himself in through the small iron gate that led into the gardens. His footprints in the snow would give him away to anyone who spotted them, but this was too important not to take the risk. He suspected that for all their newfound harmony, Martin would allow him very little time alone with Clara until they were wed. Which was as it should be, of course. But he wanted her all to himself for a little.
He set his foot to the base of the ivy that climbed up the back of the house. It shivered under his weight but its branches were sturdy. At least the snow would break his fall if he misjudged the venture.
The ivy shook and trembled, sending showers of powdery snow to the ground, but he clung on as his fingers froze to the branches and he hauled himself up painfully to the first floor. The sharp twigs pricked at his hands and ankles.
He gained the ledge that ran around the first floor, then edged sideways past two windows until he came to Clara’s chamber, at the end of the house. There was a faint light from behind the drapes. He hoped her maid was not still with her. He hoped she had not fallen asleep. He hoped he had not miscalculated and was outside Lady Eleanor Tallant’s chamber instead.
He was wet and cold and scratched. The price of love. He smiled faintly and knocked at the windowpane.
Nothing happened. He knocked again, slightly more loudly. The vine creaked beneath his feet.
Clara’s face appeared at the window, wide-eyed and astonished. In another moment she had thrown up the sash and was leaning out.
“Sebastian!” The whisper carried on the cold clear air. “What are you doing? You will fall!”
The Heart of Christmas Page 17