A Passion For Pleasure (7 page)

Possessive anger filled Sebastian’s chest at the idea of his brother approaching Clara and interacting with her. His suspicion flared anew. Darius was not the sort of man to openly reveal his interest in a woman, so for him to speak of Clara—

Sebastian’s fists clenched as his gaze clashed with his brother’s. Though Darius’s expression remained impassive, a faint smile tugged at his mouth.

The breath escaped Sebastian’s lungs in a hard rush.

“Asshead,” he muttered, forcing his fingers to relax.

Darius’s smile widened. “I’d wager ten guineas you didn’t anticipate encountering someone like her when you agreed to my offer.”

“She’s a means to an end,” Sebastian said, painfully aware of the hollow tone to his words. “Nothing more.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Sebastian glowered, disliking the reminder that his brother perceived so much more than Sebastian wanted to reveal. It made Sebastian wonder what other secrets Darius might detect. Secrets he needed to keep concealed.

He shoved his right hand into his pocket and paced to the window. Frustration tightened his chest.

He spun on his heel and gave his brother a defiant glare.

“I told Mrs. Winter what I was looking for,” he said.

Darius blinked, and for an instant Sebastian thought he’d succeeded in rousing his brother’s annoyance. But then Darius merely lifted an eyebrow.

“And what did she say?” he asked.

“You specifically instructed me not to tell anyone.”

“Yes, but I did not expect you to find the plans yourself or steal them,” Darius replied. “I assumed you would have to discuss the matter with Mr. Blake or Mrs. Winter. Must admit I’d have chosen Mrs. Winter as my confidante as well.”

Chosen.
The word struck Sebastian hard, overshadowing his irritation. Had that been what he had done? Had he chosen Clara?

After so many months of feeling as if circumstances had been forced upon him—the infirmity and resignation, the failure of the surgery, the position with the Patent Office, Rushton’s ultimatum—Sebastian welcomed the idea that he had chosen to confide in Clara.

“She has no idea where the plans are,” he told Darius. “Or even if her uncle has them.”

“Yet it won’t be a hardship for you to continue searching.” Darius removed a folded note from his pocket. “Contact me here when you find them. I’ll need them by the middle of next week, and I promise to compensate you handsomely.”

“Why next week?”

“The Home Office has already appointed members for a select committee on wartime correspondence,” Darius explained. “If I can secure the funds, I want to construct the machine before their next meeting. First, however, I need to analyze the plans and determine if construction is even possible.” He extended the note to Sebastian. “It’s an important machine, Bastian, one that might prove extraordinarily effective in both war and as part of telegraph and railway systems. That is precisely why Jacques Dupree wanted to ensure its secrecy.”

Sebastian took the note. Suspicion flared beneath his heart, adding fuel to the fire that had burned since he’d received Darius’s initial letter. Never had he been given cause to suspect one of his brothers of malice, but Darius’s evasiveness left too many unanswered questions.

Then again, Sebastian hadn’t been truthful of late either.

He sighed. Since their parents’ divorce, secrets had begun to spear through his relationships with his brothers, cracking walls that had once seemed indestructible.

He turned away from Darius, trying to smother his suspicions. He’d never have even felt suspicious of his own brother had it not been for their mother’s betrayal. She’d been the one to incite doubts in all of them, for if the Countess of Rushton, the very epitome of the
haut ton,
could conceal such a reprehensible secret, were not the rest of the Halls capable of hiding secrets?

None of them had talked much about the former countess. Though Sebastian knew that Alexander and Talia had renounced all mention of their mother, he’d had little opportunity to learn Darius’s thoughts on the matter.

Then again, discerning Darius’s thoughts was like attempting to read and understand the Rosetta stone.

Sebastian shook his head as a humorless laugh stuck in his throat. God in heaven. The rest of the world was done with it. His brothers and sister were done with it. What would it take for Sebastian to bury the past?

C
lara stared at herself in the mirror. The bodice of her merino gown enclosed her curves in a close embrace, then cascaded over a wide crinoline. Mrs. Marshall had proven her skill with a comb by arranging Clara’s hair in a smooth chignon softened by tendrils that curled over her bare neck. Jet earrings matched the brooch pinned to her collar.

She looked well, but her expression betrayed her nerves—her eyes dark, her jaw tight with tension, her skin pale as milk.

She smoothed her skirts and turned to go downstairs. The sound of the doorbell rang faintly in her good ear. Her stomach jumped. She stopped in the corridor, out of sight, as Mrs. Marshall opened the door to admit their visitor.

Sebastian’s deep voice rumbled from the foyer as he greeted the housekeeper. Clara strained to hear.

“Lovely day out, Mrs. Marshall,” Sebastian said. “I suggest you pay a visit to the park if you’ve got a moment.” He paused, apparently to remove his greatcoat and hat. “Is that your exquisite apple cake I smell? I hope I’m fortunate enough to be offered a piece.”

A teasing lilt in his deep tone had Clara pressing a hand to her chest, the thump of her heart like a bird’s wing against her palm.

Such a thing of beauty was the man’s voice, especially when edged with that beguiling note that spoke of pleasure. Even with the recent struggles that had disheartened him, whatever they might be, Sebastian still found pleasure in a warm autumn day, the scent of baking, making an elderly housekeeper blush. He still found pleasure in life.

Although Clara was fiercely glad that those qualities she had so admired as a young woman were very much a part of Sebastian Hall, she didn’t believe they would advance her cause. A man like him would see no purpose in agreeing to a marriage based on practical ends. A man like him would desire a marriage of attraction. A joyous union of love and passion.

A flush swept up Clara’s neck to sting her cheeks. She could offer him none of those things, and for a moment she faltered in her resolve. This was a fool’s errand, a—

“I’ll just fetch Mrs. Winter, if you’ll wait in the parlor, sir,” Mrs. Marshall said. “I thought she’d be down by now, so prompt she usually is.”

Clara inhaled a hard breath and straightened her spine. She descended the stairs with measured steps, nerves twisting through her belly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hall.” For the housekeeper’s benefit, Clara managed to keep her voice steady, pitched low, edged with just the right amount of warmth one would use with any welcomed visitor. “Do forgive my tardiness.”

Sebastian watched her approach the foyer, his dark brown gaze sweeping her from head to toe in an appraisal that sent ripples of heat over her skin. “The two minutes I’ve been standing here were worth the wait.”

Clara tried to resist the pull of his compliment, but the pleasure of it lightened her heart just a bit, easing her tension. She paused at the foot of the stairs and allowed herself to look at him. His morning coat was pressed and his boots shining, his face shaved clean of whiskers to reveal the hard edges of his cheekbones and jaw. And yet that rough energy still emanated from him with crackling force, as if proclaiming that this man could never be contained by propriety.

“Do come in.” Clara gestured to the parlor. “Tea, please, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper puffed off toward the kitchen.

Clara led Sebastian inside and bade him sit. Her eyes traveled swiftly over the room, though she had spent the morning instructing Mrs. Marshall and Tom on how best to clean and arrange the furnishings.

Now it appeared perfect—the windows gleaming, every surface clean of dust, the wood polished to a shine. Several vases of flowers bloomed, perfuming the air with sweetness. The bouquets were an expense the household could ill afford, but Clara had only one chance at this, and she needed all the weapons at her disposal. Flowers brightened the room, adding splashes of color that pleased the eye, and their fragrance could soothe an intemperate disposition.

Moreover, not five minutes ago Sebastian had encouraged Mrs. Marshall to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather, so surely the man would appreciate the beauty of the bouquets.

Clara swept her hand over the surface of a table, collecting a few shed petals in her palm. She walked to the settee, dropping the petals discreetly into a Grecian urn before taking her place across from her guest.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

He nodded. Although his clothing was pressed to perfection, his hair was still overlong and mussed by the wind. He lifted his left hand as if to drag it through the dark strands, then seemed to think better of the gesture and lowered his hand to his knee. His right hand remained tucked into his pocket. “Is your uncle here?”

“No.” Now her heart began to pound tangibly. “I don’t expect Uncle Granville back until supper. And Mrs. Fox has gone to the shops.”

“Ah, well.” He shifted, his shoulders moving beneath the stretch of his coat. A shallow crease formed between his eyes. “So what is this about then, Clara?”

She loved the way he said her name, as if his voice were embracing it.

Heat suffused her. She rose in a rustle of skirts and went to the door to hide her discomfort.

“Let’s have tea first, shall we?” She forced herself to sound casual and airy as she peered into the foyer. “Ah, here we are. Thank you, Mrs. Marshall. Apple cake too, how lovely.” She waited for the housekeeper to depart, leaving the door ajar, before returning to the sitting area.

She concentrated on pouring the tea before extending a cup and saucer toward Sebastian. She glanced up and saw that he was watching the movement of her hands.

Her lips parted, but no words emerged. Her body reacted as if he were touching her, heat searing across her skin. She put the cup down on the table in front of him. The cup rattled in the saucer, betraying her slight tremor.

Clara sat back and curled her fingers into her palms. Her corset and bodice constricted around her, shortening her breath. She watched Sebastian as he brought the teacup to his mouth, his lips closing over the paper-thin rim.

The heat intensified. Clara tore her gaze away. Not daring to lift her own cup for fear of revealing the unsteadiness of her hands, she rose again and went to the windows. She waited a few heartbeats for Sebastian to enjoy his tea and a slice of cake. Wouldn’t do to have the man hungry as well as shocked.

“Sebastian, I…I’ve asked you here for a specific reason.” Her voice, at least, remained even. She waited for him to set his cup down and turn to face her.

Again, no surprise flashed across his features, only a faint curiosity. “And what reason is that?”

She had rehearsed this. She had a speech prepared. For hours last night, she’d lain in her bed and practiced it over and over again in her mind. She knew where to start, where to pause for effect, how to list her reasons in a tone that was both persuasive and practical. She intended to call upon every determined technique she possessed in order to convince Sebastian Hall that he must agree to marry her.

And yet all her intentions fell away as she blurted out the words with hasty desperation. “Sebastian, I wish to present you with a marriage proposition.”

There it was. The shock he hadn’t yet exhibited now flared in his eyes, spread across his features. He blinked. His mouth opened and closed.

Clara clenched her fists and cursed inwardly. Now he’d think she was mad. She held up a hand to forestall his stammered response.

“Please, hear me out.” She forced a wry note into her voice. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, though I can’t imagine what other reaction I expected.”

He stared at her for a second, then barked out a laugh. “Of all the reasons I could imagine for you inviting me here, that most certainly was not one of them.”

He chuckled again and shook his head, reaching for his teacup. He took a sip and looked at the contents as if wishing they were something much stronger, then set the cup aside and rose.

Clara stepped forward, not wanting to give him the opportunity to bolt from the room before she’d had a chance to present her case.

“Sebastian.” His name flowed like honey across her tongue. She swallowed and felt the sound warm her chest from the inside out. “Please allow me to explain. This involves my son, Andrew, whom I have not seen in over a year.”

Sebastian frowned. “You told me he lives with your father in Surrey.”

“Yes. My father is his legal guardian.” Clara could not prevent the bitter tone underscoring her voice. “He keeps me from Andrew…or keeps Andrew from me, as the case may be. He has very rigid ideas about how Andrew ought to be raised and does not care for my interference.

“My late husband, Richard, God rest his soul, left his money for Andrew’s inheritance, which of course is as it should be. However, he also returned to me a property that once belonged to my mother. Wakefield House.”

“He returned it to you?” Sebastian asked.

“Prior to our marriage, Wakefield House belonged to me,” Clara explained. “It was handed down in trust from my grandfather with Uncle Granville designated as the trustee. When I wed Richard, Wakefield House was transferred to him but he returned it to me in his will. And my father would very much like to own it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s been in rather dire financial straits since my husband died,” Clara admitted. “Wakefield House is an extensive property. It’s been long deserted, but with the right management and repairs, it could sell for a substantial sum. Of course, in order to sell it, my father first must own it.”

“Can you sell it?” Sebastian asked.

Clara shook her head. “A condition of the trust is that the house be bequeathed to my firstborn. I am not allowed to sell it.”

“And Wakefield House is the sole reason your father keeps your son from you?”

“No.” She couldn’t confess the darkest reason behind her father’s severance of their relationship. She would not be able to bear it if Sebastian looked at her with suspicion or, worse, revulsion.

“My father was quite close to Richard,” she explained. “They were both great sportsmen and shared the same interests. It was easy for them, natural.”

“And yet it was not so for you.”

Clara gave a quick shake of her head and spoke the words she’d repeated to herself so often, the phrase whose truth lodged like a burr in her chest.

“Nothing for me was easy with my father.”

“What happened?”

“Richard died after being thrown from his horse while out riding.” Her eyes stung. “I was shocked to learn that he had designated my father as Andrew’s guardian. When I resisted my father’s rules, he threatened to send me away to America. I left Manley Park before he could.

“I arrived here at my uncle’s determined to find a way to regain custody of Andrew. All my and Uncle Granville’s efforts have come to naught. We attempted to try to sell Wakefield House in the hopes of appeasing my father, but by the terms of the trust and inheritance, I’m unable to do so.

“However”—she inhaled a hard breath—“if I were to marry again, the house would transfer into my husband’s name and
he
would be allowed to sell it.”

For a moment that seemed to stretch forever, Sebastian looked at her. A swath of hair fell across his forehead, almost into his eyes. Clara was seized by the urge to brush away the thick strands, to tunnel her fingers into the dark mass of his hair.

She clenched her fists tighter.

“So,” Sebastian finally said. “You want to marry me so I can give Wakefield House to your father.”

He spoke with a straightforwardness that made Clara jerk her gaze to his. Perhaps she needn’t have rehearsed her speech after all.

“I’ve one thing to offer you in exchange,” she said.

His brows rose as he waited for her to continue.

“The plans for the cipher machine you seek.”

Sebastian’s breath hissed out in a rush. “You told me you’ve no knowledge of it.”

“I didn’t. I still don’t. But before his death, Jacques Dupree sent my uncle numerous crates and boxes of machinery and plans. His son sent even more after Monsieur Dupree died. It’s entirely possible the cipher machine plans are among those possessions. If so, I will find them.”

“And if they aren’t there?”

“Then you are free to terminate our agreement.” Clara spoke with a bravado she didn’t feel. She spread her hands, glad that the tremors in them had eased. “Have you anything to lose?”

Except your freedom?

Sebastian didn’t speak, didn’t turn his gaze from her face.

He hadn’t rejected her. The realization shone like sunlight through her fog of anger and despair. She clung to that thread of hope and used it to force down the rage, to prevent it from boiling into her blood.

“I ask…no, I
beg
for your help in getting Andrew back,” Clara said, hating the desperate note in her voice. “I have no claim to him, Sebastian. My father is his sole and legal guardian.” She paused for breath. “Wakefield House is the only asset I have, and it’s one that my father wants. If I can offer it to him
through you,
I have a chance of getting my son back.”

Sebastian rubbed his right hand with his left, a movement that appeared unconscious. Clara watched him for a moment before he stopped and pushed his hand into his pocket abruptly. “Have you gone to the courts to seek custody of your son?”

“I considered it, but the risk is too great. It would be scandalous for my father’s reputation, not to mention my own, regardless of the outcome. We might not be a well-connected family, but gossip has never surrounded us. I certainly cannot cause any now.”

She drew in a ragged breath. The misshapen difference between society’s view of her life and the brutal reality still had the power to unnerve her, even as she recognized her good fortune in the distortion. If her behavior had caused scandal to erupt in Fairfax’s domain, Andrew would truly be lost to her forever.

“Not even my falling-out with my father caused a whisper in society,” she admitted. “Ask anyone of consequence in Surrey and you’ll hear of my husband’s tragic accident, how brilliant he would have been had he been elected to Parliament, how magnanimous my father was in taking him under his wing, and how devastated he was to have lost the young man he’d considered his second son. You’ll hear how my father dotes upon his grandson, and how fortunate Andrew is to have such a devoted grandfather.”