A Study In Seduction

chapter Thirty-Three




Lingering scents of the wedding breakfast filled the house—spiced apples, wine, galantine. Flowers bloomed from crystal vases, a few bright petals dusting the carpeted floors. Sun streamed through the curtains and bathed the drawing room in a golden glow.

“I have been contemplating it for the past two weeks,” Lord Rushton said, his brow furrowed. “It was all very interesting, what the professor imparted, though I confess to still not understanding one word.”

“I’d be pleased to explain it in more detail, my lord, if you would—”

“Never mind, Lady Northwood.” Rushton waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll take your and Dr. Sigley’s word for it.”

“Very wise, Lord Rushton.” Mrs. Boyd nodded her approval.

Lydia caught Alexander’s eye from across the room, as he sat playing a game with Jane. He winked at her. She smiled, her heart filling with so much love, so much gratitude, that she felt as if she were swimming in radiance.

For so long, her soul had been tight, crumpled, like a piece of clean white paper crushed into a ball. But now every time she sensed Alexander’s warm gaze on her, every time he touched her, she felt herself unwrapping, smoothing out. Releasing.

“Lydia, did Alexander tell you one of the most prominent mathematicians in St. Petersburg is a woman?” Talia asked. “You ought to meet her straightaway.”

“Our brother Darius might be acquainted with her,” Sebastian said as Alexander and Jane approached the group around the hearth. “He’s not a very social sort, but he knows a number of people. You will not lack for companionship.”

“Perhaps he might provide you with the names of suitable piano teachers so Jane might continue her lessons,” Mrs. Boyd said.

“Must I?” Jane made it sound as if her grandmother had asked her to dig a well. Sebastian grinned.

“Knowing Darius, he’s more likely to want to discuss insect species with you.” Talia gave Jane a smile. “I plan to visit you there as well. Are you looking forward to the trip?”

“Oh, yes.” Jane brightened. “I’ve always wanted to travel, you know, but we’ve only been as far as Brighton. This will be tremendously exciting. And Lord Rushton has agreed to take care of my fern while we’re away.”

The happy anticipation in her daughter’s voice made Lydia’s heart sing. She tightened her arm around Jane. Just a short time ago, she would not have imagined possible a future of hope and promise and freedom. A future in which she could be Jane’s mother in every sense of the word, could give the girl everything Lydia never had.

Over the past two weeks, a lovely calm had settled over Lydia’s soul, secured by the knowledge of her and Alexander’s love and devotion. And somehow, too, by the knowledge that this life on which she was poised to embark was the life her own parents would wish for her.

A life in which she would never be alone again.

“We will likely return to London in a few years’ time.” Alexander put his hand on Lydia’s shoulder and squeezed, as if he sensed the emotions tumbling through her. The heat of his palm burned through her clothes to warm her skin. “Once things have settled.”

“Yes.” Rushton’s brow furrowed deeper. “This will not ignite another public scandal.”

“It certainly will not, my lord,” Mrs. Boyd replied. “Especially considering how hard Lord Northwood has worked to restore your reputation.”

The earl slanted her a glance.

Mrs. Boyd thumped her cane for emphasis. “It is an impressive man who takes the reins and does what he can to rectify a perilous situation. Lesser men than Lord Northwood might have hidden themselves away. You are to be commended for raising such a strong-minded son.”

The earl frowned.

“After all,” Mrs. Boyd continued, “what is more important than looking after one’s family? And when Lord and Lady Northwood leave London, I trust you will carry out your duties with the honor and dignity that befits a man of your stature and position who—”

“Mrs. Boyd.” Rushton interrupted the woman’s sustained lecture by slamming his large hand against the mantel. “I thank you for your very strong views on the matter.”

Northwood coughed. “Mrs. Boyd, if you wish to remain in your house, I will ensure it is fully staffed. Perhaps you would also consider retaining a companion.”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Boyd nodded again, looking to where Jane sat beside Lydia. “As for Jane, I expect you all to return on occasion so I might see her. And I might not be adverse to making the trip myself once or twice, provided suitable accommodations are arranged.”

“I do wish you’d come along,” Lydia said. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone.”

“For heaven’s sake, I will not be alone, Lydia. I have my work, my circle of friends. And quite frankly, it seems to me that Lord Rushton might do well to engage himself in meaningful Christian good works, for which I am pleased to offer my assistance.” She nodded at the earl. “Please take no offense, my lord.”

Lord Rushton looked as if he indeed took a great deal of offense, but Alexander spoke before his father could bluster.

“We plan to leave before the end of the month,” he said. “I expect to have things settled with the Society by then.”

“Excellent.” Rushton straightened both his spine and his lapels. “You’ve produced an unconventional idea, Northwood, but a good one. Well done.”

He nodded at Talia and Sebastian to indicate they should all take their leave. As the party prepared to depart, Lydia approached Lord Rushton. He looked at her with kindness and took her hand.

“My son once told me you are like no one he’s ever met,” he said. “I must say I’ve rarely heard a truer statement.”

“We’ve only room left for truth, my lord,” Lydia replied, covering his hand with her other one. “And the truth is that I’m honored to be part of your family. I love your son with all that I am.”

She glanced at Alexander, who was watching her with a smile so filled with love that her heart somersaulted, a riotous combination of joy and expectation spilling through her.

“The girl.” Rushton’s voice was gruff. “Jane. Take good care of her. I’ve become quite fond of her.”

He gave her hand a brief but tight squeeze, a gesture that told Lydia all she needed to know. She embraced Talia and her grandmother, then bent to gather Jane into her arms.

“I’m glad you married him.” Jane hugged her tight. “It’ll be an adventure, won’t it?”

“Of the very best kind.”

After everyone had left, Alexander moved forward, and then Lydia was in his arms, her face against his shirtfront, the warm strength of his body solid against hers.

Jane was right. Their future in a new country would be an adventure—complex, unpredictable, exhilarating. Like her relationship with Alexander. Like life.

“Are you happy?” he whispered against her hair.

“Completely.” She looked up at him. “Are you?”

“For the first time ever.”


His weight lay heavy and delicious on top of her. His fingers gripped her hips. The coarse hair of his legs abraded the soft skin of her inner thighs. His breath heated her shoulder. Her breasts pressed against his chest. His shaft throbbed inside her.

God.

Lydia clutched Alexander’s back, her face buried in the side of his neck. His scent filled her head. She shifted, a moan escaping her throat as he pushed deeper. A low curse rumbled from him. She tightened her legs around his thighs. Her hands slicked down his back, smoothing over taut muscle and skin.

She arched her hips upward. Sensations crashed through her, centering on the juncture of their union—the pulsing, the yielding flesh, the spiraling pressure. He tightened his hold on her hips, then pulled back and thrust forward. Again. Again. Oh, glorious loving… again.

She moaned. Panted. Writhed. Then felt his body begin to tense, his long muscles coiling and flexing against her hands, his hips pushing…

“Oh, wait…” She gasped, shifting to ease away from him, her hands moving to seek his erection. “Wait, I… let me…”

He stopped, still embedded inside her. He planted his hands on either side of her head and lifted himself to look down at her, his eyes simmering with heat and the need for release.

“Lydia.” His voice was hoarse, thick with desire. “We’re married.”

“Yes, but…” She stared up at him, her gaze sliding over the sweat-damp angles of his face. The underlying meaning of his statement pierced through layers upon layers of love and urgency, striking her right in the middle of the heart.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You mean…”

His lips brushed her damp forehead, stirring loose tendrils of hair. He encircled her wrists with his big hands, pressing her arms to the sides of her head and immobilizing her. Then he thrust into her again, so powerfully that her whole body shuddered.

“Alexander…”

He responded with another push, another pull, an enthralling rhythm that had her blood burning and her need intensifying.

“Take me,” he hissed against her throat. “All of it.”

Her eyes stung with tears. She gripped his back, parted her legs wider, feeling that unmistakable surge toward bliss. And beneath the exquisite sensations, the pure carnal pleasure, anticipation sprang to life. Hope, love, and happiness swirled in her blood and merged into an outright joy that spread through her entire being.

“Take me,” he repeated, his voice barely more than a growl.

“Yes.” Lydia gasped, her hips bucking up against him as pleasure began to cascade through her body, shimmering and flowing. “Yes, I will… I want…”

“Now.” He thrust fully inside her as his body began to shake with release, his shaft pulsing.

“I feel it.” A cry ripped from Lydia’s throat. “Oh, yes, I… I feel it…”

She pushed herself closer to him, clutched him against her, pressed her cheek to his shoulder. Brilliant colors of purple and blue swept across her mind, reds and yellows surging through her blood as her husband spilled his seed into her body and made her his all over again.


Afterward, he pulled her into the crook of his arm and stroked a hand through her tangled hair. Lydia closed her eyes and breathed. She placed her hand on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart, and for a moment she imagined that her own heart beat in perfect unison with his. A sense of wonder lit within her as she realized there was still so much about him she had yet to discover. Still so much they had to share and plan.

“You were right,” she murmured.

“Was I?” His voice was deep, lazy with satisfaction. “About what?”

“There’s a story written by Mrs. Mary Shelley.” Lydia shifted to look at him, propping her head on her hand. “It’s about an alchemist who drinks a potion that will grant him immortality. But he drinks only half the bottle and then wonders what is one-half of infinity?”

“A question for the ages,” Alexander mused.

Lydia gave him a light tap on the nose. “But the question,” she continued, “is meaningless. Infinity isn’t a number. It can’t be measured or multiplied or halved by some mathematical calculation. It’s a concept, an idea of something that goes on forever. Without end. Without boundaries.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek and stroked a hand down his chest.

“That’s what you were right about,” she said. “I’ve tried to quantify attraction and desire, to develop differential equations to explain the relationships between men and women. But it’s impossible. Life and love are immeasurable. They cannot be quantified or calculated. Life extends beyond death in ways that we will never comprehend. And love… love is as complex, as boundless, as infinity itself.”

“Mmm. You are brilliant indeed, Lady Northwood.” He slipped his hand up her back. “Brilliant and beautiful. You’ll cause a sensation in St. Petersburg. Though I will never let you forget that you said I was right.”

Lydia smiled. “I’d expect no less of you.”

Alexander’s thumb moved to caress her neck, sliding back and forth in an echo of the way he had touched her that first time in his drawing room.

“And I love you infinitely,” he said, cupping her nape as he drew her closer. “Forever.”

As their lips met again, Lydia’s heart filled with a love powerful enough to banish all regrets. She knew then that her future had begun during that first midnight encounter. Warmth, light, and hope had bloomed within the shadows and flourished into this lovely place of here and now.

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A Passion for Pleasure.



“Mr. Hall.” She tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear, hugging the head closer to her chest. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

She frowned, glancing at his wrinkled clothes, his unshaven jaw and scuffed boots. For an uncomfortable moment, he wanted to squirm under that sharp assessment. He pulled a hand through his hair in a futile effort at tidiness, then experienced a sting of annoyance over his self-consciousness.

“Are you…” He shook his head to try to clear it. “I’m afraid this room is closed in preparation for Lady Rossmore’s ball.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t remember me.”

Oh, hell.

Out of sheer habit, Sebastian attempted to muster a charming smile, though it had been so long since one had come naturally to him that his face felt like pulled clay.

“Well, far be it from me to forget a woman as enchanting as yourself. Your name has slipped my mind, though of course I remember… that is, I must be out of my wits to—”

“For pity’s sake.” She seemed to be trying hard not to roll her eyes. “My name is—was—Clara Whitmore. My brother and I both took piano lessons from you years ago when we stayed in Dorset.”

Sebastian struggled to make his brain work as he looked at her round, pretty face, her curly brown hair pulled into an untidy knot. A streak of grease or oil smudged her cheek. She looked like a thousand other ordinary women—a shopkeeper’s daughter, a clerk, a schoolteacher, a milliner’s apprentice.

Except for her eyes. And a tiny black birthmark punctuating the corner of her smooth left eyebrow, like the dot of a question mark.

“Does your father reside in Dorset still?” Sebastian asked.

“No, I’m afraid that property has been long abandoned.” Her eyes flickered downward, shading her expression. She shifted the head to her other arm. “So, Mr. Hall, I’ve continued to hear great things about you over the years. You were at Weimar last summer, were you not?”

The admiring, bright pink note in her voice clawed at him. His fingers flexed, a movement that caused tension to creep up his arm and into the rest of his body.

“Yes.” His voice sounded thin, stretched.

Clara blinked, a slight frown tipping her mouth again. Her eyes were really the strangest shade—a trick of the light, surely. No one had eyes that color. He certainly didn’t recall having noticed them when she was his student. He didn’t even recall having noticed her.

Discomfort pinched Sebastian’s chest. He wouldn’t have noticed her back then. Not when women had flocked to him with bright smiles and hot whispers. Among such birds of paradise, Clara Whitmore—even with her unusual eyes—would have been a plain brown sparrow.

She still is, he told himself.

He straightened his shoulders, glancing at the waxen head with an unspoken question.

“My uncle is debuting an automaton tomorrow evening at Lady Rossmore’s ball,” Clara explained. “Well, I’m debuting it on his behalf, as he was called out of town rather suddenly.”

A surge of comprehension rolled through Sebastian as the pieces began locking together in his blurred mind.

“Then you are Mr. Granville Blake’s niece,” he said. “I’d expected… that is, Lady Rossmore said he might be here.”

“He’d intended to be, but owing to the circumstances, I’m to carry out his duties.” Clara touched the automaton’s head, drawing Sebastian’s gaze to her long fingers. “This is Millicent, the Musical Lady. Part of her anyhow. She plays four tunes on the piano.”

“How”—ridiculous—“interesting.” Though he’d heard Granville Blake dabbled in all sorts of mechanical toys and automata, Sebastian was interested in only one of the man’s many projects.

And now he apparently had to be interested in the man’s niece as well.

“You oughtn’t be here alone,” he told her. “Especially at this hour.”

“We’ve permission to set things up,” she replied. “This is the only opportunity we have to assemble Millicent and her piano. And I’m not alone. My uncle’s assistant Tom is just outside loading the remaining crates.” She glanced behind him to the piano resting beside the stage. “Will you be performing at the ball?”

His jaw tensed. If Lady Rossmore had not told him Mr. Granville Blake would be in attendance, Sebastian would have spent the following evening wreathed in the smoke and noise of the Eagle Tavern.

“I will be in attendance,” he said, “but not performing.”

“Oh. Well, I do apologize for the interruption. I didn’t even know anyone else would be here. Once Millicent is assembled, we’ll leave you to your work.”

Work. The piano was all the evidence she needed to assume he’d been working.

He was about to respond with a sharp tone—though he had no idea what he’d say—when a needle of rational thought pierced the fog in his brain.

At the very least, he needed to be civil to Clara Whitmore if he wanted to learn more about her uncle’s projects.

Or perhaps he should be more than civil. Women had always responded to his attentions. Even if now those attentions were corroded with neglect, Miss Whitmore didn’t appear the sort who had much to judge them—or him—by.

“Would you care for a currant muffin?” She opened the basket. “I thought I’d better bring something to eat since I don’t know how long Tom and I will be here. I’ve also got apples and shortbread…”

She kept talking. He stopped listening.

Instead he stared at the curve of her cheek, the graceful slope of her neck, revealed by her half-turned head. He watched the movement of her lips—a lovely, full mouth she had—and the way her thick eyelashes swept like feathers to her cheekbones.

She looked up to find him watching her. The hint of a flush spread across her pale skin. With a sudden desire to see that flush darken, Sebastian let his gaze wander from her slender throat down across the curves of her body, her tapered waist, the flare of her hips beneath her full skirt. Then he followed the path back to her face.

There. Color bloomed on her cheeks. Her teeth sank into her lush lower lip. Consternation glinted in her lavender eyes. He wondered what she’d look like with her hair unpinned, if it would be long and tangled and thick.

“I… er… I should get to work,” Clara went on, ducking her head. “Tom will be in momentarily, and there’s a great deal to do. Please, take a muffin, if you’d like.”

Sebastian rolled his shoulders back. A cracking noise split through his neck as he stretched. He realized for the first time that day he’d almost forgotten the headache pressing against his skull.

“Thank you.” Again he experienced that wicked urge to provoke a reaction. “I’m not hungry. Not for food.”

Her lips parted on a silent little gasp, as if she wasn’t certain whether to be offended by his suggestive tone or to ignore it altogether. Expressing offense, of course, meant she’d have to reveal that she had recognized the implications of his words.

She gave a nonchalant shrug and shifted, then held Millicent’s head out to him. “If you please, sir—”

“I please, Miss Whitmore.” His voice dropped an octave. “Often and well.”

He was drunk. Or recently had been.

That didn’t explain why Clara’s heart beat like an overworked clock, or why the rough undercurrent of Mr. Hall’s words heated her skin, but at least it explained him.

She tried to breathe evenly. She couldn’t recall ever having had this reaction to him. She remembered him leaning over her shoulder as he demonstrated the position of his fingers on the piano keys. She remembered the assured tone of his voice as he spoke of quarter notes and major scales… but he’d been distant then, a brilliant pianist, a dashing young man who attracted beautiful women, who would keep company with kings and emperors.

Now the distance had closed. He stood before her close enough to touch. He had aged, diminished somehow. Had he… fallen?

A tiny ache pierced Clara’s heart. Sebastian Hall had always been disheveled, but in a rather appealing fashion suited to his artistic profession.

I’ve no time to fuss, his manner had proclaimed. I’ve got magic to weave.

And he had, with kaleidoscope threads and fairy-dust needles. At dinner parties and concerts, Mr. Hall spun music through the air and made Clara’s blood echo with notes that had never before moved her.

Not until Sebastian Hall had brought them to life. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair tumbling across his forehead, he’d played the piano with a restless energy that could in no way be contained by the polish of formality.

But now? Now he was just… messy. At least three days’ worth of whiskers roughened his jaw, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them for even longer than that. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He appeared hollowed out, like a gourd long past Allhallows Eve.

Clara tilted her head and frowned. Although Mr. Hall’s eyes were bloodshot, they contained a sharpness that overindulgence would have blunted. And his movements—they were tense, restless, none of his edges smeared by the taint of alcohol.

She stepped a little closer to him. Her nose twitched. No rank smell of ale or brandy wafted from his person. Only…

She breathed deeper.

Ahh.

Crisp night air. Wood smoke. The rich, faintly bitter scent of coffee. Clara inhaled again, the scent of him sliding deep into her blood and warming a place that had long been frozen over.

“Miss Whitmore?”

His deep voice, threaded with cracks yet still resonant, broke into her brief reverie. Such a pleasure to hear his voice wrap around her former name, evoking the golden days when she had been young, when William and their mother had been alive and sunshine-yellow dandelions colored the hills of Dorset like strokes of paint.

She lifted her gaze to find Mr. Hall watching her, his eyes dark and hooded. Her face warmed.

“Sir, are you… are you ill?” she asked.

The frank question didn’t appear to disconcert him. Instead a vague smile curved his mouth—a smile in which any trace of humor surrendered to wickedness. A faint power crackled around him, as if attempting to break through his crust of lassitude.

“Ill?” he repeated. “Yes, Miss Whitmore, I am ill indeed.”

“Oh, I—”

He took a step forward, his hands flexing at his sides. She stepped back. Her heart thumped a restive beat. She glanced at the door, suddenly wishing Tom would hurry and arrive.

“I am ill behaved,” Mr. Hall said, his advance so deliberate that Clara had the panicked thought that she would have nowhere to go should he keep moving toward her. Should he reach out and touch her.

“Ill considered,” Mr. Hall continued. Another step. Two. “Ill content. Ill at ease. Ill-favored. Ill-fated—”

“Ill-bred?” Clara snapped.

Sebastian stopped. Then he chuckled, humor creasing his eyes. An unwelcome fascination rose in Clara’s chest as the sound of his deep, rumbling laugh settled alongside the delicious mixture of scents that she knew, even now, she would forever associate with him.

“Ill-bred,” he repeated, his head cocking to the side. “The second son of an earl oughtn’t be ill-bred, but that’s a fair assessment. My elder brother received a more thorough education in social graces.” Amusement still glimmered in his expression. “Though I don’t suppose he’s done that education much justice himself.”

Clara had no idea what he was talking about. She did know that she’d backed up clear across the room to the stage. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could see how the unfastened buttons of his collar revealed an inverted triangle of his skin, the vulnerable hollow of his throat where his pulse tapped.

A prickle skimmed up her bare arms, tingling and delicious.

Sebastian kept looking at her, then reached into his pocket and removed a silk handkerchief. “May I?”

She shook her head, not certain what he was asking. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have”—he gestured to her cheek—“dirt or grease.”

Before she could turn away, the cloth touched her face. She startled, more from the sensation than the sheer intimacy of the act. Sebastian Hall’s fingers were warm, light and gentle against her face.

He moved closer, a crease of concentration appearing between his dark eyebrows as he wiped the marks from her face with the soft handkerchief. Clara’s breath tangled in the middle of her chest. She stared at the column of his throat, bronze against the pure white of his collar, the coarse stubble roughening the underside of his chin.

She didn’t dare raise her gaze high enough to look at his mouth, though she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. The urge made her fingers curl tight into her palms, made a strange yearning stretch through her chest.

The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed, his hand falling to his side. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

With his attention turned away from her, Clara noticed the weariness etched into the corners of his eyes, the brackets around his mouth, the faintly desperate expression in his eyes that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with fatigue.

Fatigue. That was it. Sebastian Hall was bone-deep exhausted.

He met her gaze.

No. The man was exhausted past his bones and right into his soul.

Before she could speak, Sebastian stepped back, turning toward the front of the room. Tom pushed open the doors and maneuvered a trolley loaded with four crates. He glanced up, his face red with exertion. “Almost done, miss.”

Clara hurried to meet him. They conferred briefly about how best to organize the various parts of the machine; then Clara turned back to the stage. Sebastian Hall was gone.