A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Two


She dreamed of him again. For two nights after seeing Sebastian Hall for the first time in a decade, Clara’s slumberous mind filled with images of the man she remembered from her past. The handsome young musician whose eyes creased with smiles, whose graceful hands flew across the piano keys like soaring birds. She dreamed of herself, so many years ago when she, William, and their mother had lived within the enchanted land of Wakefield House, when they had greedily seized those summer days like children grabbing cream-filled cakes.

She dreamed of the grassy hills cresting around the warm, rustic stones of Wakefield House, the wildflowers popping up in fragrant clusters, the gliding foam of the sea as it surged forth to meet the sandstone cliffs hugging the coast.

Sebastian Hall was inextricably woven into the fabric of those very memories because it was there, in Dorset, where Clara had first encountered him in all his vibrant, unruly glory. At balls and dinner parties, he’d enticed people with the beauty of his performances and the allure of his attention.

She’d watched him from a distance, delighted by the way his charm seemed so genuine. He looked directly at people when he spoke to them. He listened. He laughed. He wore his prestige and talent like a cloak that had been bequeathed to him—not as if he deserved the honor but as if he knew he was fortunate to have received it.

And when she woke from the secret warmth of such dreams, the ash-colored light of London spilling into her room, Clara remembered that in the past ten years, all of that had fallen away.

For her. And now, it seemed, for him. But why? How?

Her encounter with Sebastian in the Hanover Square rooms had kindled an intense curiosity to know the truth of what had happened to him. Now, with dreams still clinging to her like threads, that curiosity almost eclipsed her persistent ache of loss.

Clara dressed quickly and splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it returning her to her senses. Nothing could divert her from her purpose, not even memories of a man who had once seemed the epitome of everything she wanted. Everything good and kind.

She scrubbed a towel over her face and took a wooden box from her dressing table. She removed the lid and looked at the contents—a dozen satin ribbons jumbled together in a rainbow of colors.

Red, yellow, blue, green. She dumped them onto the scarred table. The ribbons spilled into a heap like the tangled cobweb of a vivid, exotic spider.

Clara rubbed the length of a red ribbon between her fingers, then a green one. Although she knew it wasn’t the case, she imagined that each ribbon felt different. The red ribbon was slippery and warm, the green smooth-textured like a new leaf, the yellow coarse like the rind of a lemon, the blue polished as a tissue-paper sky.

As she stood looking at the ribbons, a threadlike sunbeam sliced through the fog and shone against the vibrant satin. More recent memories flashed through her. She pushed aside the dark ones in favor of happier thoughts of her boy with his chestnut hair and missing front tooth. When she thought of Andrew like this, she could almost believe she would one day hold him in her arms again and live within the folds of joy and safety.

Clara tucked the ribbons back into the box and went downstairs. Tom had lit fires in the hearth and turned on the lamps in the drawing room, which served as the main exhibition room of Blake’s Museum of Automata. Years ago, her uncle had purchased the town house as both his residence and workshop, but when word of his creations began to grow, he opened the house to visitors.

Dozens of his automata and mechanical toys were displayed on shelves, alongside various machine parts, wires, and tools that Clara was forever trying to contain. Since coming to live with her uncle over a year ago, she had tried to make the museum more of a profitable business, which meant turning the main rooms into exhibition spaces and trying to convince Uncle Granville to keep the mechanics in his workshop.

She opened the curtains in the drawing room and parlor, admitting a watery grayish light. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with adjustable animals, painted musical boxes, novelty clocks with moving pictures, and mechanical performers and musicians. Clara straightened the objects, cleared away a tangle of wires her uncle had left on a table, and dusted the surfaces.

“Mrs. Winter?”

Clara left the room, schooling her features into a polite expression of cordiality. Mrs. Rosemary Fox stood in the foyer, which also served as the reception room for the museum. She pulled off her rain-speckled cloak, her tall figure slender and rigid as a tree branch.

“Is it nine already?” Clara glanced at the clock, a bit disconcerted to think she’d lost track of time.

“Only just.” Mrs. Fox rubbed her gloved hands together and shivered. Her skin was bleached of color, her sharp, elegant features pinched from the dreariness and cold. “I don’t expect we’ll receive many visitors in this weather.”

“Mrs. Marshall hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll fetch you a pot of tea.”

“There’s no need to bother.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was a bother.” Clara went to the kitchen while Mrs. Fox began straightening the papers and ledgers that covered the front desk.

After brewing the tea, Clara found several currant buns and put them on the tray along with a cup and saucer. She brought it all to Mrs. Fox and placed it on the desk, where the other woman had stacked the museum’s admission receipts.

“Any word from Mr. Blake?” Mrs. Fox poured her own tea and added sugar.

“Yes, he’s expected to return tomorrow, thank goodness, so he’ll be at Lady Rossmore’s ball. It would be a great misfortune if we missed the opportunity to secure her patronage.”

After seeing one of Granville’s mechanical toys on display at a gallery on Regent Street, Lady Rossmore had paid a visit to his Museum of Automata. She’d been utterly delighted with Granville’s creations and insisted that he create something entirely new and astonishing for debut at one of her famous balls in support of the Society of Musicians. Only after Clara had convinced him had Uncle Granville agreed to present Millicent, the Musical Lady, an automaton on which he had been working for months.

“Lady Rossmore has already expressed interest in commissioning an automaton with dancing dolls,” Clara said.

Mrs. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but her dark-lashed eyes flickered upward for an instant. “I believe it’s more important that Mr. Blake continues to work as he wishes, rather than be indebted to a patron.”

“He won’t be able to work without patronage,” Clara replied, her voice tart. “We’ve several appointments next week to discuss special commissions, so it’s important that Uncle Granville be present.”

“I’m certain Mr. Blake views no other meeting as important as that of consoling and assisting Monsieur Dupree’s bereaved family.” Mrs. Fox held her teacup in both hands, as if attempting to warm her chilled fingers. Her eyes remained steady on Clara’s face.

Clara stepped back. Shame curdled in her stomach. Of course, Rosemary Fox was right. Her uncle had remained close to Monsieur Dupree and his family in the twenty years since completing his apprenticeship. When Granville received word that his mentor and former teacher had died, he’d wasted no time in procuring a ticket to Paris.

“Yes, well, he’ll return in time to conduct the demonstration, so that’s what matters,” Clara said. “I expect Millicent will garner a significant amount of attention from her ladyship’s guests as well.”

“If you believe that is for the best, then I shall not argue,” Mrs. Fox murmured.

Clara’s shoulders tightened with irritation. In the thirteen months since she had come to live with Uncle Granville, Clara had found that though Mrs. Fox was sometimes circumspect with her opinions, every flicker of her gaze, every nuance of her expression, carried a weight of meaning.

Self-righteous meaning, Clara thought. Mrs. Fox possessed the air of a woman who had never done anything wrong in her life, who shaped herself to the world rather than expecting the world to accommodate her.

Safe though it might be, how one actually accomplished anything with such a manner, Clara had not the faintest idea. Then again, Mrs. Fox likely had little reason to harbor fear so caustic it would forever scrape her throat like salt water.

Feeling as if the scales of balance had tipped decisively in Rosemary Fox’s direction during this conversation, Clara nodded toward the array of ledgers and papers on the desk.

“I’ve ordered new curtains for the front room. Please ensure the bill is listed in the museum accounts and not those of the household.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Fox nudged a stack of letters toward her. “The morning’s post, I believe.”

Clara leafed through the stack. Her heart stuttered when she saw one stamped with the seal of her uncle’s solicitor. Clutching the letter in her fist, she hurried toward the music room.

With shaking fingers, she tore open the letter.

Dear Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter,

We regret to inform you of the final ruling handed down 4 October 1854 by the Court of Chancery at Lincoln’s Inn Hall, Chancery Lane, regarding the ownership of Wakefield House, a property located at…

Several neat rows of writing swept across the page, but individual phrases jumped out and stabbed one by one into Clara’s heart.

Upheld conditions of the trust…possession of the house remains in the hands of Mrs. Clara Winter…prohibited from selling or bequeathing the house…

Regret.

Our deepest apologies.

Final ruling.

No further recourse.

The letter fluttered from Clara’s limp fingers. She stared at a table piled high with layers of silk and tangled ribbons. For a moment, she was numb, trying to deflect the emotions converging upon her with the force of a battering ram.

Wakefield House was the only point of advantage she had against her father, the only thing she possessed that Lord Fairfax wanted. The financial obligations of Manley Park, including a new studhorse and the cost of a new wing he’d added onto the house, as well as the mortgages of his other properties, had left him facing bankruptcy.

If Wakefield House were transferred to his name, Fairfax could then sell it and use the funds to settle some of his debts. But the terms of the trust forbade Clara from either selling or signing over the property to anyone, which meant she could not offer it to her father with the proposal that he relinquish custody of Andrew in exchange.

Now the courts had made the terms of the trust inviolable.

Regret…apologies….regret…no further recourse…

Clara’s heart was crushed like a piece of paper. Anguish roiled through her. The clock chimed. She clenched her hands as a gleaming image of her son rose through her despair.

She had to think of another strategy to get him back. She had no other choice. There would never be another choice except to fight and fight and fight again.

Her father’s soul had twisted long ago like tangled ivy choking the breath from a tree. And if Clara didn’t do something now, Fairfax’s grip would suffocate both her and her son.



Sebastian stepped from the carriage in front of Blake’s Museum of Automata. He hadn’t expected that helping Darius locate the plans for some incomprehensible machine—plans purported to be at this museum—would mean an excuse to see Clara Whitmore again. That alone lent his task a new and welcome sense of purpose.

Anticipation flickered to life in him as he thought of his encounter with her two nights prior. He couldn’t ask her outright about the machine plans that Darius sought, but perhaps he could convince her to reveal what she knew.

If anything.

Even if his efforts came to naught, the moment to approach her could not have been better—she knew him from her past, and he might see her again at Lady Rossmore’s ball. Like a cat seeking entry into a garden mouse hole, all he needed to do was paw at the opening until it widened just enough.

A fence wrapped around the front garden of what appeared to be a former town house. Wrought-iron balconies and pedimented windows perforated the façade of the building, and a crooked metal sign hung on the fence proclaiming the museum’s hours.

Sebastian knocked on the door and waited, hunching his shoulders against the cold morning drizzle. He knocked again, louder. He checked his pocket watch, then turned the door handle and stepped inside.

A single light glowed in the foyer, illuminating a long desk covered with papers. The doors to what had once been the dining and drawing rooms stood open. Mechanical toys, boxes, and clock parts cluttered the tables and shelves along with an array of tools—saws, chisels, planes, hammers—and limbs of porcelain dolls and animals.

Eerie place with its dismembered dolls, twisted bits of metal, and frayed wires. Dirty windows. Faded wallpaper, peeling paint. Musty smell, greenish brown like decaying moss.

Not wanting to hear the sound of his own voice in the silence, Sebastian ventured farther. Another door stood open at the end of a corridor, spilling light onto the worn carpet. Placing his hand on the door, he pushed it open.

And stopped. Sunlight bloomed through the vast windows of what must have once been the music room. Tables were strewn with brilliant fabrics—green silk, red velvet, blue satin. Ribbons and gold braid cascaded from their spools, spilling onto the floor in colorful puddles. Paintbrushes, wires, balls of thread, and pots of paint cluttered a shelf, along with feathers, flowers, bits of tulle and gauze, garlands.

In the midst of this bright wonderland, Clara Whitmore sat, her dark head bent as she worked a needle through a piece of cloth. She wore a plain cotton dress protected by a white apron. Stripes of blue and red paint smeared the bodice. The coil of hair at the back of her head had loosened, streaming tendrils over her nape.

Something crackled through Sebastian at the sight of her, an energy that made his spine straighten and his blood warm.

He cleared his throat. She didn’t move.

“Miss Whitmore?”

She looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She put down her sewing and hurried around the table. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“I knocked.”

“I didn’t hear. Mrs. Fox must have stepped out.” She stopped, as if suddenly aware who had entered. “Mr. Hall.”

“Good morning, Miss Whitmore.” He glanced at her paint-covered apron. “New fashion, is it?”

She gave him an odd look, as if he’d said something entirely stupid. Which he supposed he had.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he crushed a swell of embarrassment. He’d have to scrape the rust off his once-effortless charm, abandoned in recent months, if he intended to beguile this woman.

“Winter,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My surname is Winter.” Her jaw tensed. “I am Mrs. Clara Winter.”

A stone sank in Sebastian’s stomach. “Ah. I apologize. I wasn’t aware.”

“I am a widow, Mr. Hall. My husband passed away over a year ago.” Just as it had the other day when he asked about her father, a shutter closed over her features, rebuffing further query. She reached behind her to unfasten the ties of her apron. “Now how may I assist you?”

Sebastian knew well enough not to press her. Not now, at least.

“Have you word on your uncle’s return?” he asked.

“I expect him back tomorrow.”

If Sebastian had thought the lights of the Hanover Square building were responsible for the strange color of her eyes, he’d been mistaken. Sunlight exposed the truth of all appearances, and even now, Clara Winter’s eyes gleamed with violet and blue flecks.

Then those unusual eyes flickered to look at his mouth…and lingered. Her intent perusal affected him with a tangible power, warming his skin like the caress of fingertips and making him want to feel that rich gaze sliding across the rest of his body.

She lifted her eyes back to his. Faint color crested on her cheekbones, as if she’d done something she shouldn’t do. As if she’d thought something she shouldn’t think.

Sebastian hoped she had. Certainly his goal would prove easier to attain if Mrs. Clara Winter were intrigued by him from the outset. Not to mention that he rather enjoyed her disconcerted reaction, the touch of heat in her eyes and the blush surging across her pale skin.

Yet he also needed to ensure Clara was at ease in his presence. To deflect her embarrassment, he swept a hand behind him to encompass the house.

“In your uncle’s absence, perhaps you would be good enough to provide me with a tour?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She placed her apron on a table and slipped past him to the corridor.

Sebastian followed. Cold air swirled in from the foyer. Before him, Clara stopped at the sight of an older woman removing her cloak. She turned to look at Clara. As their gazes met, a tension brittle as spun sugar threaded the air.

“Mrs. Fox, please do inform me should you step out,” Clara said.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winter.” The other woman’s tone was the dry, brownish yellow color of a dead leaf. She tossed a newspaper onto the front desk. “I went to fetch a paper since it appears Tom forgot to this morning.”

She swept to the desk, adjusting her skirts as she settled behind it like a queen taking to her throne. She lifted a ledger from a stack with long, gloved hands and proceeded to open the thick tome and peruse the pages.

Sebastian saw irritation lace across Clara’s straight shoulders. He stared at the nape of her neck, the slender white column softened by wisps of hair, cupped by the collar of her gown. Her supple muscles tightened as she strode forward into the space between her and Mrs. Fox.

“This is Mr. Sebastian Hall.” Clara spoke with precise formality. “I shall be providing him with a tour of the museum. If you would please inform Mrs. Marshall, we’ll take tea after the tour is concluded.”

Mrs. Fox gave a short nod. “Of course.” She ran her finger over a column in the ledger. “You’ve not recorded the admission.”

“Mr. Hall is here as my guest.”

“Nonetheless.” Mrs. Fox gave Sebastian a look sharp enough to slice through leather. “The admission fee, sir, is one shilling.”

“I’ve no coin at present, but my footman—”

“You needn’t pay, Mr. Hall,” Clara hastened to assure him. “Please, do come into the drawing room. We’ll begin there.”

“Mrs. Winter, I must protest your decision to allow a visitor to enter without paying the admission fee,” Mrs. Fox said.

“And I, Mrs. Fox, must protest your concern.” Clara opened the door and bade Sebastian precede her. “In my uncle’s absence, my decisions are not to be countermanded and my guests are certainly not to be insulted. Please inform Mrs. Marshall about the tea tray.”

Sebastian ducked past the older woman’s aura of disapproval and into the safety of the drawing room. Clara half-closed the door behind her.

“I apologize,” she said. “Mrs. Fox possesses an unfortunate tendency to believe she knows best. Her departed husband used to be Uncle Granville’s assistant.”

“I don’t wish to cause ill feelings between you,” Sebastian said, though it was clear such acrimony already lived between the two women. “I’ll tell my footman to—”

“No, Mr. Hall. I’ve said you are my guest, and my guest you shall remain. Mrs. Fox handles the museum’s accounts, but she has no authority in the running of the place.”

She spread her hands over the front of her dress. Uncertainty flashed in her violet-blue eyes for an instant, belying the confidence of her tone. “Well. Let us begin with the mechanical toys. My uncle sells them at the bazaar and gives them to children’s homes.”

She stepped forward to a shelf lined with toys and proceeded to show him how the turn of a key prompted a monkey to beat a tiny drum, a clown to whirl around a trapeze, a pair of geese to glide over a pond crafted of glass.

Rather in spite of himself, Sebastian was charmed by the movements of the little creatures, the delicacy of their painted faces, and costumes of bright ribbons and gauze.

“My uncle devotes most of his time to the larger automata, like Millicent,” Clara explained. “But he still derives great enjoyment from toys such as these. This one is my favorite. A colleague of Uncle Granville’s made it, which is why the musical element works well. Uncle Granville hasn’t yet perfected that in his own creations.”

She reached behind a flower-laced birdcage to twist a key, then stepped back. Two lemon-yellow canaries inside leapt from bar to bar as their beaks opened and closed in accompaniment to a melodious, chirping tune.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Clara asked. She smiled with evident pleasure as she watched the birds perform another dance.

“Indeed.”

Clara glanced up to find him watching her. Her smile faded into an expression of disconcertion, warmth again coloring her pale skin. She turned away from him, her hands twisting the folds of her skirt.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you my uncle’s workshop and the room where we display the larger automata,” she said.

They went into the foyer and past the redoubtable Mrs. Fox, who gave Sebastian another of her keen glances. He responded with an engaging smile that had the impact of a feather against stone, for all of Mrs. Fox’s reaction to it.

Pity, Sebastian thought. The older woman had thick-lashed eyes and fine, elegant features that might be quite pleasing if softened with even a scrap of affability.

As he followed Clara down another corridor, a pulse swept through his chest, diluting the anxiety that had plagued him since he’d discovered the unnerving disability of his right hand. Now pleasure subsumed that dismay, sparked by the anticipation of something new.

His instincts told him that Clara Winter was intrigued by him. That meant a few well-placed, sweet words and persuasive smiles would have her revealing what he wanted to know before the week’s end.

Five months ago, he’d have ensured she revealed it before the day’s end.

They entered a former library, larger than the music room and cluttered with gears, wires, and the entrails of various machines. Clara paused beside a metal-framed figure seated on a bench.

“My uncle is currently working on this,” she said, placing her hand on the curved bow of the top. “It’s to be a scribe writing at a desk. Uncle Granville is planning to have him write three different poems in both English and French.”

Sebastian lifted a brow. That sounded impressive, even to him. “He’s ambitious, your uncle.”

She didn’t respond, and for a moment he didn’t think she’d heard. He repeated the remark.

Clara glanced at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your uncle. I said he was ambitious.”

“Yes. You spoke earlier, didn’t you?” She waved her hand beside her ear, as if batting at a pesky fly. “I don’t hear very well with my left ear, so if I’m turned away I sometimes miss things.”

Sebastian didn’t recall her having a hearing loss when she’d been his student. Then again, he reminded himself, he didn’t recall much about her at all. Shame flickered in the pit of his stomach.

“At any rate, yes,” Clara said. “Uncle Granville is constantly thinking of ways to make his inventions ever more complex and unique. His mentor was a very renowned toy and clockmaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Monsieur Jacques Dupree?”

Sebastian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Clara moved on to a different automaton.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with my uncle to learn about the actual mechanics involved,” she said. “This one will be a couple dancing.”

“Does your uncle make such things only for amusement’s sake?” Sebastian asked, selecting his words with care.

“He makes clocks on occasion, which of course are eminently practical.”

Aha. And Darius had told Sebastian that coding machines contain similar mechanisms as clocks. So if Granville Blake did indeed possess the plans for the blasted thing, then Blake would not discuss it with just anyone.

And if Clara knew about it, she certainly would not come right out and tell him.

Yet.

“But for the most part, yes,” Clara continued. “Uncle Granville invents the automata for his own enjoyment. We are hoping that after Saturday evening’s demonstration, Lady Rossmore will offer her patronage to the museum.”

“Your uncle is seeking a patron?”

“He receives a number of commissions, but a patron is always a benefit,” Clara admitted. “In the meantime…perhaps I ought not to chide poor Mrs. Fox for insisting our guests pay the admission fee.”

“My footman will—”

She laughed—lush, dark purple—a sound so unexpected that Sebastian’s heart twisted with both bewilderment and delight, as if he beheld a rainbow in a thunderstorm. Clara’s eyes crinkled with warmth, and a quick shake of her head made curls of hair dance against her neck.

God, but she was lovely.

“I do hope your footman considers himself fortunate to be entrusted with the care of your purse,” she said. “But really, Mr. Hall, I didn’t intend to cause you any guilt. There is no need for you to pay the fee. Now please, join me for tea before you depart.”

Sebastian followed her to the parlor, his heart still strumming with the echo of her laughter.

Ah, yes. Mustering the desire to charm Clara Winter would require no effort at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so looked forward to something.



What does he want?

Clara concentrated on the task of pouring tea as the question revolved around her mind.

She couldn’t quite believe Sebastian Hall was here solely to view the automata and mechanical toys. She had thought that the case when he first arrived, but his reaction to the inventions was curious at best, as if he appreciated their novelty but had little interest in the technical details of the machinery.

But why else would he want to speak with Uncle Granville? If he were considering commissioning a piece or patronizing the museum, then he would have simply said so.

Wouldn’t he?

A scratching noise made her turn. Sebastian stood before a shelf, studying a copper cricket that rubbed its wings together and produced a sound akin to a nail scraping over glass.

“That’s what I referred to when I said my uncle hasn’t yet perfected the accompaniment of music to his inventions,” Clara explained.

“Clearly.”

“Are you…ah, may I ask the reason you need to speak with him?” Clara placed a cup on the table.

He turned, sliding his hands into his pockets with a pianist’s grace. “Lady Rossmore spoke so highly of his work that I thought to see it for myself.” He glanced back at the cricket. “Perhaps I can offer him advice on the musical component.”

“If you’ll leave your card, I would be happy to give it to my uncle upon his return. I’m certain he’ll contact you straightaway to arrange an appointment.”

She waited for him to agree and take his departure. Instead he stood looking at her, an intense gaze that appeared to contain more than mere scrutiny.

His perusal skimmed over her body, heating her from the inside out like hot cocoa on a snowy night. A tingle of warmth skimmed up her arms. Clara’s heart pulsed, a light, gentle tapping reminding her of raindrops on a windowpane.

Oh, what a pleasure. So different from the thump of dread that constantly beat through her, drowning her in fear. Now, here in this moment with Sebastian Hall watching her with those warm, appreciative brown eyes, a waterfall of light spilled across the black of her soul. His look even seemed powerful enough to soothe her still-blistering knowledge of the court’s final ruling about Wakefield House.

Sebastian stepped closer. His delicious scent filled her nose, sliding into her veins, awakening a spark that spread through her entire body.

Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth. She could not help but be fascinated by the shape of his mouth, the curve of his smile, the tilt of his lips. She wondered how it would feel, that beautiful mouth pressed against hers, his whiskers scraping her cheek.

Oh, dear Lord.

What was she thinking? What kind of woman was she to imagine such things when all she wanted, the only thing she wanted was to have…

He touched her. Sebastian slipped his left hand beneath her chin and raised her head so that she had to meet his eyes again. His palm was warm, cupping her chin with the same gentleness he might use to hold a jeweled music box. He studied her face as if he were assessing the value of a rare artifact, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes filled with curiosity.

Questions lingered in his expression. Clara did not know how to answer them, but her body responded with a quickening tempo that made her breath uncoil in her chest.

Kiss me.

The wish bloomed hard, a bright, red rose in midwinter, filling her with the glow of anticipation.

Kiss me and banish the fear.

Clara blinked against the sting in her eyes. Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around Sebastian’s wrist, though whether to ease his hand away or urge him to keep touching her, she did not know.

She did know that his wrist was strong in her grip, his pulse beating against her fingertips. She imagined his blood ran hot and swift through his veins, inciting his force, his intensity. She wanted to slide her hand farther up his forearm, to feel the taut muscles and sinews, the brush of coarse dark hairs across her palm.

He didn’t move away. She didn’t release him.

And then he lowered his head and kissed her. So warm, so light was the touch of his mouth that the center of Clara’s being melted like ice sliding over a hot pane of glass.

She swallowed, parting her lips to draw in a breath. His nearness, his rough energy, sank into her blood and filled her with sensation, heat, and a yearning for something she had never known.

“Oh.” Her whisper slipped like a delicacy into his mouth.

He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Their breath mingled. He tasted like cinnamon. His tongue darted out to touch the corner of her lips, a delicious swipe that made shivers cascade through Clara’s entire body.

Who have you become?

She remembered him so well from all those years ago, that affable, talented young man who could keep company with both kings and peasants. Now he was different, like a creature from mythology, filled with complexities that she could not begin to untangle. Exuding an allure that she could not resist. Wrapping her in a heat that felt instinctively comforting and safe.

She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat and sank into the kiss as if it could last forever, and in that instant, she wanted it to. She wanted to stand here for all eternity with Sebastian’s hand cupping her neck and his mouth caressing hers because once he stopped, once he lifted his head away from her, Clara knew the anguish would swamp her once again.

Her grip on him tightened. His kiss deepened. Her blood exploded with colors and light, born from the memories of who they had once been—a girl holding fast to the good in the world, and a young man of such patience and kindness.

That man would help her now, if he still existed. Clara grasped the truth of that belief as if it were sacred, and a spiral of hope filled her. She spread one hand over his broad chest, feeling his heart thump against her palm through the material of his shirt and coat. His teeth closed gently over her lower lip, whisking heat over her nerves.

The middle of Clara’s soul softened at Sebastian’s nearness, the warm strength he exuded, at the nascent longing that he might prove her ally in the desperate pursuit to reclaim her son.

Andrew.

Coldness swept down her spine at the unbidden thought. Shame cut through her desire like a blade ripping into silk. She yanked herself away from Sebastian, holding her hands to her blazing cheeks as she turned away. Her heart hammered in her throat.

She had forgotten. For one brief, aching moment she had forgotten her son.

Clara inhaled a deep breath to quell her turbulent emotions before she turned back to face Sebastian. His eyes sparked with both lingering heat and wariness, as if her abrupt withdrawal had incited his own confusion.

Her heart still pounded. Oh, heavens. As a young woman, she had imagined what it would feel like to be kissed by Sebastian Hall, but she had never dreamed it would be like this.

And never had her imagination conjured the intricate weaving of emotions binding her now, all securing the strange but firm knowledge that Sebastian Hall could somehow help her.

“I…I think you’d best go now,” she stammered.

“Shall I return tomorrow?”

“My uncle should be back in the morning. If you’d like to speak with him, you are welcome to return.”

“My card.” His composure again intact, Sebastian removed a card from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winter.”

Clara nodded and watched him leave. Her heartbeat began to calm. She moved closer to the door so that she could hear his voice rumble from the foyer as he exchanged a few words with Mrs. Fox, and then the front door closed.

Clara hurried to the window, ducking into the shadows as she watched his tall figure descend the steps. He moved with ease and a masculine grace, as if he were comfortable in his skin. He spoke to the footman, then clapped the man on the shoulder before climbing into the waiting carriage.

Odd behavior to bestow upon a footman, but such familiarity seemed suited to a man like Sebastian Hall. He’d never appeared to be the sort concerned with propriety or the opinions of others—though clearly something had happened in recent months to fray the edges of his character.

He is still the son of an earl. Powerful, surely, in his own right.

Anticipation flared in Clara’s heart, burning away the shame of the thought. For so many years, she had tried so hard to be good, to be the woman her father and husband wanted so that, God willing, their lives would be free from turmoil.

She had agreed to marry Richard Winter, a man thirteen years her senior, because her father wanted to seal a business partnership and because her father’s status would aid Richard’s bid for a parliamentary seat.

And while the marriage had allowed Clara to escape her father’s house, she remained firmly within his domain. Only by being an exemplary wife and daughter—quiet, practical, polite—could she avoid inciting her father’s anger.

But when Andrew was born Clara discovered how love could overwhelm all practical thought, like a waterfall thundering over a rocky cliff. She learned how emotion could fill her heart to bursting, how joy and fear could tangle her soul into inextricable knots. She knew what it meant to love another person without condition, without thought. She knew what her own mother had felt.

For the sole purpose of being with her son again, however, Clara would suppress even the memory of such emotions and be as calculating, as shrewd, as was necessary.

If she dared.