A Passion for Pleasure(2)

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,” he said. “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, though a blue-gold thread of amusement wove into her voice. “My name is…was Clara Whitmore. My younger 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 dressmaker, a governess, 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.

“I was your student for a scant few months the summer I turned sixteen,” Clara continued, as if unaware of his scrutiny. “You weren’t much older, but people already spoke highly of your talent. I enjoyed many of your performances at various events in Dorset.”

A piece settled into place in Sebastian’s mind. Ten years ago he’d lived in Dorset, teaching, performing, and entering contests in an attempt to pay for a trip to the Continent that his father had refused to fund.

“Where did you live in Dorset?” he asked.

“Not far from Weymouth.”

“And does your father reside there still?” Sebastian asked.

“No, I’m afraid that property has long been 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 conducted at Weimar this past summer, did you not?”

The admiring, bright pink note in her voice clawed at him. The fingers of his right hand 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 really were 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. Never mind the knot of regret that he couldn’t remember her—Clara Whitmore with the violet eyes that took his measure in one sweeping glance. No one could hide from that assessment. Not even him.

He straightened his shoulders, tucking his right hand into his pocket. He looked at the waxen head with an unspoken question.

“My uncle is introducing an automaton at Lady Rossmore’s ball,” Clara explained. “Her ladyship thinks it will be great entertainment if Uncle Granville demonstrates one of his musician automata at a Society of Musicians’ event. So I’m doing some of the initial preparations for him, as he was called out of town.”

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

“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. Not for himself, but for his younger brother Darius.

And now he apparently had to be interested in Granville Blake’s niece, as well.

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