A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Eight


Moonlight shone gray and pallid through the fog. Sebastian dragged his fingers across the piano keys, the resulting cacophony echoing the restless pulse of his blood. Colors tumbled together, as if they were spinning inside a storm. He slammed both hands down on the keys with a crash. A cramp knotted the fingers of his right hand. He shoved away from the piano, then paced to the hearth.

A mistake. The whole bloody thing was a mistake—his reckless capitulation to his father’s demand, his agreement to help Darius, his acceptance of Clara’s proposal, which had seemed so practical at the time and was swiftly becoming fraught with more complications than he could bear.

The most prominent being that he wanted to kill Fairfax himself.

A brittle fiber of levelheadedness, one that would have made Darius proud, had prevented Sebastian from attacking the baron and forcing his surrender to Clara’s pleas. He knew they required an advantage before Fairfax would agree to speak to them—and even then, Sebastian doubted the man’s willingness to negotiate.

Didn’t appear likely, given Fairfax’s reaction to seeing Clara.

Bastard.

Breath billowed from Sebastian’s lungs as if someone had punched him in the gut.

The front bell rang, bringing his attention to the clock. Nearly seven o’clock. He waved off one of the footmen, then went to the door and opened it. The folds of a hood shadowed Clara’s features, but could not conceal the resolve burning in her violet eyes. Unease lanced through Sebastian as he glanced behind her to the black cab waiting at the curb.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Uncle Granville finished the copies just after dinner,” Clara said. Her voice shook, a shiver of pale blue-gold.

Sebastian pulled a hand down his face as a curse ruptured his thoughts. Emotions flared in him—anticipation, relief, disquiet, pleasure. Fear.

“Where is your uncle now?” he asked.

“At home. He’d planned to deliver the plans to you tomorrow. I hadn’t told him you need them tonight.”

“Did you come here alone?” Sebastian yanked open the door and ushered her in.

Clara stepped into the foyer. With a trembling hand, she brushed her hood back from her head. The folds cascaded into a puddle around her long, slender neck, drawing Sebastian’s gaze to the hollow of her throat. The sight of her pale skin roused his lust, which he had fought to keep contained since their encounter in his carriage yesterday.

Arousal coiled through his lower body. Heated memories swept his mind in flashes of color—the hot cavern of Clara’s mouth, the delicious press of her thighs against his aching erection, the tight way she’d locked her legs around him and clung as if she would never let go, as if she belonged to him and him alone…

Christ. Heaviness settled low in his groin. Although he knew he’d done the right thing in putting a stop to matters, he bitterly regretted the circumstances that had forced him to take such measures.

Because God knew he wanted her. Not even the restless sting of half-sleep could smother the desire that burned him during the night, the hot imaginings twisting through his mind of Clara splayed beneath him with her hands gripping his naked back and her gasps hot against his ear.

With every breath, he wanted her more.

And he would have her. One day soon, he would have her until the earth fell away beneath them.

Sebastian swallowed, his agitation tempered by the knowledge that they now had an agreement. If he thought it a mistake, he could not retreat now, even if he wanted to. And with Clara standing in front of him, the folds of her cloak draping over her slender curves, her unpainted lips full and parted, a pulse tapping in her lovely throat…Sebastian knew he would sell his soul to the devil if it meant having her as his wife.

She watched him warily. “Do you still intend to meet with Darius?”

“Yes.”

“And give him the plans?”

“Yes.”

“Then you won’t…”

“I have no intention of reneging on our agreement.”

Her throat rippled with a swallow. “What about your father?”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “He has approved of our engagement and no doubt learned whatever he could about you and your father from the members of his club. We owe him no further information.” He forced his fingers to unclench from the doorjamb. “I will return you to the museum before meeting with Darius.”

“I want to go with you.”

Sebastian jerked his gaze to hers. Alarm split through him at the unyielding determination in her expression.

“Why?” he asked.

“Monsieur Dupree entrusted the plans to my uncle,” Clara said. “And though Uncle Granville would never admit this, I know he feels as if he has somehow betrayed his mentor by making copies of the plans. Yet he did it for me, because he trusts me. I will not see his faith in me misplaced. I must insist upon knowing more about what your brother intends to do.”

Bloody hell. Even Sebastian didn’t know all the details of what Darius intended to do. He would find out tonight. But because he was suspicious of his brother’s hidden motives, Sebastian did not want Clara to hear anything directly from Darius. He didn’t want her to know that Darius had promised to compensate him financially. And he especially did not want to subject her to his brother’s knife-edged perception.

“You can’t go with me,” he said.

“Why not?” She stepped forward. “I’m to be your wife. You made it quite clear we will not wed in name only, so I’ve a right to accompany you.”

Sebastian’s teeth came together hard. “I will tell you what you want to know after—”

“No. I want to go with you. If you do not allow it, rest assured I will follow you.” She paused. “And I will not give you the plans until we arrive at our destination.”

He stared at her for a long minute, convinced this was some form of punishment for having arrested things in the carriage the previous day.

“Where are the plans?” he asked.

“I’ll give them to you when we arrive at the meeting,” she repeated, turning back to the door. “I’ve told the driver to wait, but we’d best hurry so we’re not late.”

Sebastian swore aloud this time, his fists clenching as he glanced at the clock. Whatever game Clara was playing, he had no time for it, not if he intended to settle the bargain with his brother. And settle it he must, for he hadn’t gone to such drastic lengths—the promise of marriage, for the love of God—to risk the whole thing going to hell now.

He yanked his greatcoat from the rack and stalked after Clara to the carriage. The plans had to be inside. Once he had them, he’d pay the driver a handsome sum to ensure Clara’s safe return to the museum.

He gripped the door and hauled himself into the cab, throwing Clara a dark and fulminating glare. She merely blinked at him.

“Where are the plans?” Sebastian asked through gritted teeth.

“I told you when I would give them to you.” She tilted her head and gave him a look that was both amused and considering. “And I thought I was the one with the hearing loss.”

A growl rumbled in Sebastian’s throat as he leaned out to snap the address at the driver. Then he slammed the door as the cab jolted into motion. Clara looked out the window, her expression impassive as porcelain—the polar opposite of her heated desperation the last time they had shared a carriage.

Sebastian grimaced, shifting as the memory rushed heat through his lower body. What did the infuriating woman hope to accomplish with this? Whatever it was, in any case, he ought to leave her at the museum. Wake Granville and tell him not to let Clara from his sight until Sebastian had settled with his brother.

Except that he couldn’t settle anything with Darius unless he had the goddamned plans.

Right. Everything about the whole affair was a mistake. And he was a bloody fool to have thought any differently.

He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Clara through the shadowed light, thrusting aside the knowledge of what their agreement would entail. If he allowed himself to imagine her as his wife, his brain would flood with intoxicating images of all the acts sanctified by the marriage covenant—and several especially gratifying ones that weren’t.

An unwelcome speculation surfaced regarding her previous marriage. What had been the true nature of her relationship with Richard Winter? Had the man made her happy? Had he satisfied her?

Sebastian’s fingers dug into his palms, anger cording his back at the idea of another man, even a former husband, touching Clara.

Mine.

The word exploded like a star behind his eyes, drenching him in feelings of possession, lust, want, need…

“You look a bit peaked tonight,” Clara remarked.

A hoarse laugh shook his chest. “Do I?”

“Haven’t you slept well?”

“I never sleep well.” Irritated by her implacable calm, especially in the face of the storm foaming and cresting inside him, he shoved across and fell beside her on the bench. “And with thoughts of you invading my mind at every turn, I’m not certain I even want to sleep. Why invite unwanted dreams when I can lie awake and imagine in perfect, crisp detail all the erotic things I want to do to you, all the places I intend to put my hands, my mouth—”

“Sebastian!” Clara’s intake of breath stirred his grim satisfaction. “You speak indecently.”

“I will act even more indecently,” Sebastian assured her, “when you are naked and trembling in my arms with your—”

“Stop.” Clara whirled to face him, her calm dissolving in the violet turbulence of her eyes. Their breath mingled in the heated space between them, energy crackling in the air.

“I gave you the opportunity, did I not?” Clara hissed, her gaze sweeping down to stroke his mouth. “I threw myself at you and acted a perfect wanton. You quickly forestalled the entire incident, so don’t think now you can shock maidenly blushes from me with your lewd remarks.”

Sebastian grabbed the folds of her cloak and pulled with such force that she fell against him with a gasp. His mouth descended on hers with an utter lack of decency, heat firing his nerves. Clara’s body arched back like a strung bow, her hands splaying over his chest to prevent his advance. He deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue across her lower lip, pulling a moan from her that went straight to his blood.

The tension slid from her frame like melting honey. She parted her lips and whispered his name, drawing him into her. He forgot himself, sank into the warm, sweet haven of her mouth, inhaled the essence of her skin. She thrust her fingers into his hair, angling her head so their mouths locked together seamlessly.

Mine. The word burst through him again, but it wasn’t just a word. It was a vow, an assertion, a command.

A truth.

“Sir? Sir.” A rap thumped the cab from above.

Sebastian surfaced from the haze of passion, aware the vehicle had ceased moving. He cursed on a breath of frustration and shoved to his feet, blocking Clara from sight in case the driver had descended from the bench.

Shoving open the door, Sebastian sucked in a lungful of cold air and fought for control. Light smeared the dirty windows of the Eagle Tavern. Patrons lurched outside, voices thick with drink, laughter gathering like rain clouds.

Clara’s voice came from behind him, clear and steady. He turned as she spoke to the driver and held out a pouch weighty with coin. The driver doffed his cap and clambered back to the bench. He opened the box and withdrew a scroll of papers, which he extended to Clara as if it were a sword, both fearsome and precious.

She nodded her gratitude and approached Sebastian. He tried, and failed, to smother revived anger. His fist crushed the scroll as he took it from her.

“Wait in the cab,” he said, then added through the pain of a clenched jaw, “Please.”

Clara shook her head, the folds of her cloak rippling like a stream. She pivoted and started toward the tavern.

Sebastian grabbed her arm too hard in his haste to delay her. Her soft skin yielded under his grasp, but her spine straightened with determination. Her eyes flashed as she met his thundering glare.

“All right then,” Sebastian snapped. “But keep silent and do as I say.”

Still holding her arm, he strode into the tavern. Noise swelled through the hot, smoke-drenched interior—shouting, arguments about card games, the shrill whistle of a pipe. A fire blazed in the hearth, logs shifting and crackling.

One sweeping glance told Sebastian that Darius had not yet arrived. He shoved two chairs away from a table strewn with smudged, empty cups and spills of drink. After seating Clara with a firm hand to her shoulder, he gestured to the barman for two ales. A serving girl came to clear the table and plunked down the foaming tankards.

Sebastian downed half the ale in three swallows and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I do enjoy your maidenly blushes.”

Clara’s eyebrows rose, a mixture of surprise and unexpected pleasure flashing blue-violet in her eyes. She parted her lips to speak just as the lanky figure of Darius approached, weaving like a needle through the tapestry of jumbled tables.

“I wasn’t certain you’d come.” Darius slid into the opposite chair, his gaze arcing from Sebastian to Clara. “Mrs. Winter, isn’t it? I certainly did not expect you, but find your presence most agreeable. I welcome the opportunity to thank you in person for your assistance with my request.”

“You are welcome.” Her brows pulled together, caution evident in the corded lines of her neck. “Mr. Hall.”

“Darius, please.”

“Darius.”

Darius smiled, clearly pleased by the way his name swam through her voice. He took her hand in greeting. Jealousy rustled in Sebastian’s gut. He rose to his feet, wrenching his brother’s hand away from Clara.

“Why here?” he asked Darius bluntly.

“Away from the possibility of Rushton’s discovery,” his brother replied.

“Why are you so goddamned intent on avoiding Rushton?” Sebastian snapped. “What are you hiding?”

Clara cupped her hand beneath Sebastian’s elbow, silently urging him to sit. He did, fighting the burn still crawling across his chest.

“You have the plans?” Darius asked.

Sebastian tossed the scroll onto the table. The pages scattered like leaves, absorbing puddles of spilled ale before Darius rescued them from damage with a sweep of his hand.

“We’ll pay a visit to the bank tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll transfer funds into your account.”

Sebastian no longer cared about the funds. He restrained the urge to grasp Darius’s arm again. “Tell me what’s going on or I’ll tell Rushton you’re here.”

Darius sat back. Behind his glasses, his gaze was unflinching. “Catherine Leskovna.”

“Catherine…”

“Our mother. She wants to see you again.”

Sebastian couldn’t have been more surprised if the roof had fallen in. Past the sudden shock, he heard Clara’s intake of breath.

Christ. He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her to know anything about his godforsaken mother.

He swallowed another gulp of ale and then, as if an epiphany burst within him, he had the answer. So obvious. If he’d taken a half-second to actually think, it might have occurred to him much sooner.

“Where is she?” he asked Darius in Russian. The language crunched between his teeth, unfamiliar and stale with neglect.

Darius’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but he responded in kind. “Dare I suspect Mrs. Winter does not speak Russian?”

Sebastian leaned forward, tension knotting his shoulders. Beside him, Clara shifted. He felt the exasperation building in her. Her own damned fault for insisting on this foolishness.

“Where is our mother?” he asked. “What do you know of her?”

“She found me in St. Petersburg earlier this year.” Darius heaved out a sigh and sat back. “She remarried and is now known as Catherine Leskovna. She contacted me because she suspected I would be the only one to agree to a meeting.”

“She was right,” Sebastian muttered. Alexander and Talia would have refused to see her, and Sebastian had no reason to react any differently. Certainly their mother had no way of contacting Nicholas or even knowing where he was. Darius, on the other hand, would allow his intellectual curiosity about their mother to conquer any remnants of anger and hurt.

“She has been following your career,” Darius continued, “and wanted to seek you out after your resignation from Weimar, but feared causing further disruption.”

Sebastian laughed without humor. “Did she consider that when she had a blasted affair?”

“She then approached me asking if I knew what had happened, as she suspected more than a conflict with the Weimar committee.”

Anger twisted hard in Sebastian’s chest. Bloody, bloody hell.

He’d not been any closer to their remote mother than his brothers or sister, but he and Catherine had shared an unspoken love for music—a love Catherine had kept private. Even now, Sebastian remembered hovering in the shadows of the doorway as a child while his mother played the piano to an empty drawing room. Unaware that her son was her only audience.

Sebastian jerked his head toward the scroll Darius had set on an empty chair. “That’s what this was about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I knew your loyalty to Alexander would preclude you from even hearing me out,” Darius said. “And while it’s true that I believe the cipher machine has numerous uses, I also wanted to know if you would agree to my proposition.”

“Why?”

“If you did, it meant that you had nothing else to do. No plans for another tour, no income from concerts or teaching, no work with the Society of Musicians. It verified that you withdrew not only from your public career but from any association whatsoever with music. And your acceptance of financial compensation indicated you were in need of funds, which I’d suspected after I saw Grand Duchess Irina last summer. She informed me you’d refused her further patronage and returned to London without explanation.”

Darius sat back, his gaze flickering to Clara before settling again on Sebastian. No satisfaction over the proof of his deductions appeared in his expression. Rather he appeared dispirited, a shade of sorrow veiling his eyes.

“And that,” he said, reaching for the tankard, “also led me to believe our mother’s suspicions were correct.”

Anger over his brother’s duplicity churned in Sebastian’s gut. He hated the idea that Darius had approached the harshest crisis of Sebastian’s life with logical calculation, as if he were a puzzle that required solving.

Yet still Sebastian was unable to prevent himself from voicing the question that had burned in all their minds for nearly three years.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“After her affair came to light,” Darius said, “she fled first to France with her…paramour…then returned to Russia.”

“So she did go back.” How often had Sebastian wondered that?

“Yes. She lived on her father’s estate in Vyborg when her lover was deployed to the Urals.”

“Who was he?”

“A common soldier,” Darius said. “Alexei Leskov. They met during one of her visits to St. Petersburg. They married shortly before he left for the Urals. Her family opposed, of course, and insisted she remain at their country estate so as not to cause talk in the city. Leskov returned for a time, but last spring was sent to the Baltic Sea. This time, rather than remain confined to the Vyborg estate, Catherine accompanied him.”

“She went with him to war?” Good Lord. Had Sebastian known nothing at all about his own mother?

“She volunteered to assist the nurses. She had no training, but wished to learn because she wanted to help the Russian troops in whatever way she could. At the Battle of Bomarsund against the English and French forces, her husband was killed.”

Darius paused, as if waiting for that revelation to sink into the quicksand of Sebastian’s soul. Sebastian downed another swallow of ale to conceal his reaction of surprise and, to his confusion, sorrow.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Then what?”

“She returned to Russia to live with her sister in Kuskovo,” Darius said.

“And where is she now?”

Darius looked at him for a moment, appearing poised to respond, and then his gaze landed on Clara like a hornet seeking a vulnerable place to sting. He finally spoke in English. “She is in London.”



Clara’s courage had faltered as currents of Russian arced between the two men. She sensed Sebastian’s growing agitation, a simmering pot close to boiling over the course of a half hour, but she began to question her own heedlessness in forcing her presence on him.

Her justifications to herself had seemed so rational and significant not two hours ago—Monsieur Dupree had sent the plans to her uncle, so they were entitled to know the details of the exchange. She wanted to know as much as possible about her soon-to-be husband. She needed to know more about him, because God knew she had laid bare every raw fold of her soul to him…and still she remained bewildered by his incongruities, his restlessness and unease.

But this she had not anticipated.

In the strained hush following Darius’s revelation about their mother’s whereabouts, Clara sought Sebastian’s hand beneath the table. His fingers gripped his thigh, and she splayed her hand across his and pressed. Tension vibrated through his long frame, a violin strung too tight, and before Clara could speak a word Sebastian lunged to his feet and clenched his left fist around his brother’s collar.

“You lied to me.”

“I did not lie.” Darius met his gaze unflinchingly. “What would you have done had I contacted you just to tell you our mother wants to see you?”

Sebastian loosened his grip slightly, pulling back. Even Clara knew he would have ripped the letter up and tossed it to the flames.

Darius unclenched Sebastian’s fingers from his collar and pushed his hand aside. “If anyone is lying, Bastian, that person appears to be you.”

Clara’s throat closed. Sebastian hadn’t told his brother about his disability. Had he told anyone besides her?

Darius caught her gaze. “My apologies for bringing you into this, Mrs. Winter. Bastian, Catherine Leskovna is staying at the Albion. I ask only that you consider a meeting.”

Sebastian shoved away from the table and strode to the door, pushing aside obstacles in his path and leaving behind a chaotic maze of overturned chairs and displaced tables.

Clara hurried after him, nearly colliding into his solid back when she stepped outside. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his fists curled at his sides. She searched the shadows, relief welcome when she saw the cab rolling along the other side of the street. The driver had kept his word to wait.

When the cab was rattling through the streets, Clara gazed at Sebastian across from her, shards of light and shadow slanting across the hard planes of his face, his eyes burning, the black of his hair indistinct against the night.

“Don’t allow her to leave without seeing you again.” Her words came out as a whisper, floating on the dark air.

He didn’t respond, his jaw tight.

“Sebastian. She is your mother.”

“She betrayed us all. She can rot in hell, for all I care.”

“If you…” Her throat constricted. “If you do not give her the chance to make amends, you will regret it forever.”

“I have no reason for regret. She does.”

Pleas twisted through Clara’s mind. She knew nothing about the former Countess of Rushton—only that the other woman was a mother anxious to see her son again. Although Clara could not fathom the reasons behind Catherine Leskovna’s decision to leave her family, she knew all too well how it felt to long for one’s child. And to have that wish thwarted.

Clara started to speak again, but Sebastian held up a hand to forestall her. Words, pleas, faded in her throat.

When they reached the museum, Sebastian pushed open the door and strode to the front steps. Clara fitted the key into the lock and went inside, then turned and watched as he strode away, his back straight and stiff as metal.