A Passion For Pleasure (8 page)

Clara stopped, shocked by the bitterness discoloring her voice. She turned her back to Sebastian and stepped to the windows, fighting to calm her inner turmoil.

A lengthy silence stretched, almost vibrating with tension.

“And you?” His deep voice was close. Too close. Clara could almost feel the heat of his body behind her. She wrapped her arms around her middle and struggled to contain her shaking.

“Me?” she whispered.

“What would anyone of consequence in Surrey have to say about Mrs. Clara Winter, should I ask?”

Clara stared unseeing out the window. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her. “They would tell you she was so distraught by her husband’s untimely death that she fled to London for recuperation. They would tell you that she sees her son regularly when Lord Fairfax brings the boy to London. They would tell you she has crafted a quiet, respectable life for herself in honor and memory of her beloved husband.”

Silence again, as if Sebastian were analyzing all she said, working it through his mind like a mill separating the wheat from the chaff.

“But,” he said quietly, “they would all be horribly wrong.”

“Does it matter?”

No. To anyone else, it mattered not a whit. The story was romantic and tragic, and they all loved to speak of it as if it were something from a penny novel and not ripped from the pages of Clara’s life. As if it hadn’t burned her soul to ashes.

Clara whirled around, a rush of hot anger crawling up her throat.

“It doesn’t matter at all, not to them,” she snapped, some part of her shocked by the way she allowed control to slip so easily through her fingers. “If you agree to this, you would marry a virtuous, well-bred widow, a peer’s daughter whose son lives a fine life with his grandfather in Surrey. No one would know anything of Wakefield House or my desperation to have Andrew again. Except…”

“Us,” Sebastian finished.

Us.
The word flowered in Clara’s soul, pushing a fresh stalk of green through the dry, cracked dirt.

“Us,” she whispered.

No. There could be no
us
in a marriage of practical ends.

Could there?

Sebastian stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her. He moved with a confidence that belied his initial surprise, as if her revelations had yielded for him some conclusion. As if he’d already decided upon his response.

“It could…it could be a marriage in name only,” Clara stammered, voicing the thought that had twisted her dreams, the condition she already knew he would never accept.

“Name…” Sebastian stared at her for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “That’s what you think, is it? That I would assent to a marriage in name only?”

“Well, a p-pragmatic union is one that…”

Her remark faded as he stepped closer, studying her in that unnerving way he had, as if she were some unusual species of insect that he’d happened to find flitting about the house. She stared at his cravat, the perfect knot nestled at the base of his throat.

“Make no mistake, Clara,” he said, a low warning rippling beneath his words. “I desire neither a marriage in name only, nor one that holds even the faintest possibility of separation.”

Her heart throbbed. “I…I understand.”

“Five days, then.”

“Five…?”

“My brother wants the plans by Tuesday next,” Sebastian said. “If you find them by then, I will consider marrying you.”

“You will
consider
marrying me?” Her spine stiffened. “Why should I agree to help you without any commitment on your part?”

“Because this gives you time to reappraise your request,” Sebastian said. “If you conclude that my conditions are unacceptable, you may change your mind and withdraw your proposal.”

He stepped away from her and turned to the door. “You must be very certain you know what you ask of me, Clara. And what I shall ask in return.”

S
moke and noise coated the air of the Eagle Tavern. Tankards thumped against the wood of the trestle tables, voices rose in argument over card games, the fire hissed and snapped. The familiarity of the disorder eased some of Sebastian’s apprehension over Clara’s proposal earlier in the day. Despite all she had revealed, he couldn’t prevent the sense that she had not told him the entirety of her story.

He sat hunched over the piano, trailing his left hand over the keys without thought or pleasure. He put his right hand into position on the keys and sounded a C-major chord, then waited for the strings’ reverberations to cease. He played the chord again in its first inversion, then again in its second. He imagined a melodic line in the bass, something dark and menacing like the advance of gray fog at twilight.

For as long as Sebastian could remember, sound had been infused with color. Voices, noise from the street, the crackle of a fire. In music, every note had its own color, and color and shape were inexorably linked in his compositions. The various tones, harmonies, and pitches wove through his mind in endless patterns. As he wrote his compositions, guided by what colors and shapes fit together, he saw the music as moving paintings.

Since losing the use of his right hand, he still saw a shadow of those patterns, felt the intense yellow of major C, the pink of the E note, the rich brown of G…but the colors were pallid now, faded, like bright linens left too long in the sun.

He played another chord. Then it happened again—his fourth and fifth fingers faltered as if the strength had suddenly drained from them. Sebastian kept his hand on the keys and tried to repeat the octave. The two fingers resisted control, curling toward his palm instead of obeying his internal command. The muscles of his forearms snarled and contracted clear up to his shoulder.

Sebastian swore and slammed his hand flat on the keyboard. The crash caused several patrons to glance up.

He twisted his neck from side to side and shook his arm to ease the tension. Forcing the thin remnants of color away, he rose from the piano stool and went to the taproom, where Darius sat. He slumped down at the table across from his brother, clots of smoke stinging his eyes.

Darius slid a tankard of ale across to him. Sebastian grabbed it with his left hand and took a swallow, then wiped his mouth.

“Didn’t you once play here regularly?” Darius asked. “Annoyed Alexander to no end, if I recall correctly.”

“Indeed. Probably one of the reasons I did it.”

Amusement flashed across Darius’s expression. “Does Pater know you still come here?”

“No. He’s occupied with his own work these days.” Sebastian realized only then the truth of the remark. “For the first time since his wife left, the old bird is out and about again. Has a new position with the Home Office. Spends time at his club, the theater, balls. And he seems to have earned himself a bit of attention from the ladies.”

“Good.” Darius swallowed some ale and leaned back, his gaze narrowing on Sebastian. “And you?”

“Me?”

“You’re not quite well, are you?”

Dammit. Sebastian curled his right hand into a fist. Of course he shouldn’t have expected to hide anything from Darius. For all of his brother’s impassivity, Darius was like a hawk who, with one sweep of his keen eyes, missed nothing. Not unlike Rushton.

“I’m fine,” Sebastian said. Ridiculous word.
Fine
. Thin and watery, ashen blue.

His brother’s attention remained steady, unwavering. “Why did you resign the Weimar position?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Sebastian flexed his fingers. “They wanted to amend one of my compositions.”

“You would not dishonor your patrons or Monsieur Liszt by resigning over such a trivial matter. Especially after the debacle of our parents’ divorce.”

Wary, Sebastian reached for his ale. He knew his brothers. Knew their temperaments, their idiosyncrasies. Darius was the practical, level-headed twin who could sense both deception and danger like a bloodhound following a scent to ground. And when he came upon it, he would stare the threat down, his calculating brain assessing risks and tactics with military precision before he made his move.

A reluctant smile tugged at Sebastian’s mouth. Their brother Nicholas would react in the opposite manner, plunging headlong into the fray with neither evaluation nor decorum. Even as boys, the twins had complemented each other with an accuracy that mimicked the riposte and parry action of a fencing match.

“You’ve not spoken with Rushton recently?” he asked.

Darius shook his head. “Last time I did, I asked about the countess. A mistake, obviously. Rushton ordered me never to speak of her again and left the room.” He paused, then rerouted the conversation neatly back to Sebastian. “I heard that the grand duchess still wishes to fund a tour of the Continent for you.”

Sharp longing twisted through Sebastian. He shook his head.

“Appears as if it would do you some good,” Darius remarked. “And the payment is substantial.”

“No.” Not long ago he’d have grabbed the opportunity and not looked back.

“Then what?” Impatience wove through Darius’s usually placid tone. “You’ve no intention of reviving your career? You’re not even teaching anymore. What do you intend to do?”

“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“Why?”

Rushton’s ultimatum crashed through Sebastian’s mind—marry or risk his allowance and possibly even his inheritance. Rushton didn’t know about Sebastian’s medical debts, or his attempt to restore his funds by helping Darius.

Yet Darius’s promise of compensation for the cipher machine specifications hinged on one uncertain premise—Sebastian had to actually find the plans. If he failed, and without the income from concerts and investors, he was destined for that clerk position with the Patent Office. And if he succeeded, if
Clara
succeeded, he would be bound to accept her proposal.

An outcome that became more tempting every time Sebastian thought about it. Marrying Clara would solve his troubles, but beyond that he would gain a lovely, intelligent wife with violet-colored eyes that seared him with each glance, whose full lips laced him with arousal. A woman who reminded him of the power of unflinching determination.

And certainly no one would expect him to marry someone like her, especially not his father, which made the notion even more appealing. He might have done such a thing ages ago, long before events of the past year had numbed the genial rebelliousness he’d once possessed.

He took another gulp of ale. A restive urge vibrated inside him, like a hammer striking a piano string over and over again. He wondered if his mother had felt like this before she’d fled for another life.

“Clara Winter asked me to marry her,” he confessed.

Darius blinked. “Why on earth would she do that?”

Sebastian almost grinned at the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “I am, after all, the second son of an earl and still rather known for my dashing ways.”

“Exactly so,” Darius replied. “And I understand that Mrs. Winter is the quiet sort not given to swooning over men like you. So I fail to fathom why she would propose such an alliance. Unless…” His eyes sharpened behind his glasses. “Has this anything to do with the cipher machine plans?”

“More to do with Rushton’s insistence that I marry soon.”

Yet Clara’s proposal was so tangled up with other reasons that Sebastian could no longer find the thread of his father’s ultimatum. He needed the cipher machine plans, he needed money to pay off his debts, he needed to find his way out of the bleakness following the end of his career, he needed to help Clara….

Sebastian took another drink. A waltz played at the back of his mind, but the chords and notes blurred into the sound of Clara’s blue-gold voice, the steady cadence of which could not conceal the turbulence of her suppressed emotions.

“And Mrs. Winter knows about Pater’s decree?” Darius asked.

Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to divulge Clara’s secrets. “She asked me to marry her for reasons of her own. I told her I would consider it.”

Darius stared at him for an instant, then threw back his head and laughed. “You’re considering marriage because a woman proposed to you? That was all it took? How many women have set their caps at you over the years, but stood waiting for
you
to be the one to ask?”

Amusement flickered to life in Sebastian. “There is a great deal more to Clara than her forthrightness, though you are welcome to spread the word that
all
she did was propose. I’d find the resulting gossip very diverting.”

He would, too. There would be no disgrace attached to lighthearted speculation about his potential engagement, and it might even obscure the lingering questions about his abandonment of his music career. Not to mention giving Rushton a bone to chew on.

Still grinning, Darius tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Be assured I will do my utmost to ensure people know that Sebastian Hall has been caught in parson’s mousetrap. My only hope is that Mrs. Winter proves worth your capitulation.”

She already has.

The thought startled Sebastian. He shook his head.

“I haven’t yet capitulated,” he said.

“Yet?” Darius’s keen perception shone through his amusement. “This is the first time you have ever considered marriage, Sebastian. Is she the reason you refuse to embark on a new tour?”

“No.” Sebastian frowned, suddenly wishing he’d kept quiet. “If I do marry Clara Winter, it would be for practical reasons.”

“You never do anything for practical reasons.” Darius reached for his tankard. “You only ever do things because you want to.”

That had once been the truth. Sebastian wrapped his left hand around his right, squeezing it into a fist. In the adjoining room, a man began playing a lively tune on the piano. The sound drifted into Sebastian’s ears in ribbons of yellow and white.

Although he had no wish to respond to his brother’s probing, Sebastian realized he was somewhat grateful for it. Darius knew him. Sebastian disliked the secrets that snaked through his family now, but his brothers and sister remained his only solid ground in the turmoil of the past five months.

And as his brothers knew him, he knew his brothers. Darius’s motivations for doing anything were rarely as simple as they first appeared.

“You’re here for more than the cipher machine plans, aren’t you?” Sebastian asked. “Why?”

“Bring me the plans.” Darius skimmed his sharp gaze over Sebastian again. “Eight o’clock next Tuesday. I’ll explain then.”

Sebastian pushed his chair away from the table and left without looking back. He walked down the street, skirting around pedestrians. Carts and horses rattled on the cobblestones, and lights began to glow in the windows of the braziers’ workshops lining Houndsditch. He hired a cab and instructed the driver to leave him at Blake’s Museum of Automata on Old Bond Street.

Mrs. Fox was pulling on her cloak when he entered the foyer, and she gave him a somewhat severe frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, but the museum is closing. I intend to lock the door behind me.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Fox, as I’m not here for a tour. Are Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter available?”

She sighed. “You’ll have to go look for yourself. Mrs. Marshall is fixing dinner, so you’d best not disturb her.”

Sebastian nodded, flinging his hat and greatcoat onto the rack before heading into the depths of the museum. He found both the music room and parlor empty, then paced to Granville’s workshop, which was cluttered with boxes and machine parts.

Clara knelt beside an opened crate, leaves of creased paper and disordered notebooks scattered around her. Dust covered her apron. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and long tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to wind around her throat.

Sebastian’s fervent urge from earlier returned, this time thumping in time with the beat of his heart.

“Hello, Clara.”

“Oh.” She started and rose to her feet. She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Just arrived. Nearly skewered by Mrs. Fox’s glare. Deadly as a poisoned arrow.”

She smiled. He thought he’d do anything, including stand on his head and whistle a tune, if she would continue to smile at him like that. He moved closer. Close enough that her skirts brushed his legs like the glide of fingertips.

“Why have you come back?” she asked.

“I wanted to see you,” Sebastian said, only recognizing the truth of the statement after he spoke. With her standing in front of him, all other reasons and motivations faded away and left only the bright, shining possibility of Clara becoming his wife.

She looked at him. He inhaled her scent and lifted his left hand to wind a stray lock of hair around his fingers. He brushed his thumb against her neck and felt the quickening beat of her delicate pulse even through his glove.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. He was so close to her he could have counted her eyelashes. The color of her eyes was muted, but the blue flecks in her irises sparkled like light on snow.

She was silent, her gaze skimming across his mouth, warming his lips. A tremble coursed through her, vibrating against his palm. His breath almost stopped as he waited for her response.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The word escaped her on a whisper. She lifted her hand to his mouth. Heat pooled low in his body at the touch of her fingertips, the stroke of her thumb in the indentation beneath his lower lip.

He captured her hand in his and turned her palm upward. Rough scrapes lined her skin, gritty with dust. She closed her fingers and tried to pull her hand from his. He didn’t allow it, stroking his forefinger over the thin scratches. “You haven’t found them.”

“I will.” A tremble shuddered in her voice despite the declaration. “Uncle Granville is helping, but there are at least twenty crates and boxes to inspect, not to mention the sheer number of papers and diagrams. If Monsieur Dupree didn’t write down the purpose of his inventions, I have to ask Granville to interpret them for me. It all takes…time.”