A Passion for Pleasure(33)

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.”

Time that neither of them had.

Sebastian looked at the scratches on her hand, disliking the evidence of her pain. He brought her wrist up and pressed his mouth against the middle of her palm.

Clara gasped, her arm jerking in reflex even as her other hand closed around the lapel of his coat. Warmth spread through Sebastian’s chest, untangling the ache of fatigue and restlessness. He lifted his right hand to cover hers, forcing his fingers into the position he would use on a keyboard.

His fingers contracted, then froze. Tension pinched through his forearm. He struggled to make his hand close over Clara’s, but the muscles seized.

Clara stared at his hand, his fingers stiffened into a claw that refused to curl around hers. Fear and dismay roiled in his stomach as he watched the dark comprehension cloud her violet eyes.

“What happened?” Clara whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t…”

Her fingers closed around his. Warmth flowed up his arm, easing the persistent constriction of his muscles.

“You don’t know?” she repeated.

Sebastian shook his head and forced the confession from his tight throat. “It started a few months ago, right after I took the Weimar position. My right hand wouldn’t do what I wanted it to, almost as if it weren’t even part of me anymore. Whenever I tried to play the piano, my fingers froze and curled toward my palm. I went to several doctors, one of whom referred me to a surgeon who said it was a muscle problem. Did a surgery that bent this finger permanently.”

He touched his little finger, which was bent at a right angle. Even if he could regain control over the rest of his hand, he’d have to undergo another surgery to try to fix the damaged joint.

Clara sighed, her eyes veiled by her lashes. She didn’t release his hand. Instead she rubbed her fingers over his, as if soothing the ruffled feathers of a bird. His breath eased a little.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He lifted a hand to her ear. “You?”

Shadows filled her expression, her mouth tightening. “Do you remember my brother, William? He also took piano lessons from you when we stayed in Dorset. He died when he was fifteen. I was seventeen. We were boating on a lake when a storm came up. A wind blew my hat into the water. I leaned too far to retrieve it and tipped the boat over. William hit his head and I couldn’t…”