A Passion for Pleasure(35)

To make Clara his alone.

Apprehension rose to dilute his unforeseen emotions. Her approach to this agreement was calculated and practical. She needed Wakefield House transferred to his name. She spoke of warm feelings toward him, but her admiration had been directed toward the man he once was. Not the man he was now. Whereas he was drawn to all the complexities and turmoil of Mrs. Clara Winter, the woman who had sustained suffering and still burned with vital determination.

He remembered the young woman she had once been. He only wished he’d looked beyond himself far enough to actually see her.

He lowered his head to her damaged ear and spoke in a whisper that he knew she would not hear. “Now I see no other woman except you.”

She turned, her forehead creasing. “I’m sorry?”

No, he couldn’t allow her to hear such a confession. Not when her admiration for him was so misguided.

He released her and stepped back, unsettled. “I will come back tomorrow to help you look for the plans.”

A flicker of confusion passed across her expression before she glanced away. “Yes, of course. I…I’ve explained to my uncle about Wakefield House. He remains cautious, but as trustee he would not hinder the transfer of the property to you. Should we come to an agreement.”

Her voice leveled out into a practical tone, as if she sought to remind them both of the conditions underlying her proposal. And yet even with that reminder, Sebastian could not forget his caveat that their marriage would be both real and immutable.

Heat coursed down his spine. He would bind his emotions tightly because he would not lay himself bare before a woman who looked at him through the lens of the past, whose desire to marry him sprang from a practical and desperate purpose. And he would not lose sight of his own agreement with Darius, now laced with suspicions about his brother’s motives.

“Tomorrow then.” He fisted his right hand and headed for the foyer.

“Tomorrow,” Clara echoed.

Sebastian gave a short nod and opened the door.

“Sebastian?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn to face her.

“Thank you.” Clara paused, then added, “I’m glad we both remember how to dance.”



Clara didn’t want to believe it.

Not him. Not the talented performer who wove music like an intricate tapestry. Not the man who drew people into the warmth of his disarming presence. Not the man who had colored her Wakefield House days with brilliant strokes of red, green, and purple. Not the man who danced with a lean, masculine grace that made her feel as if she were floating.

Not him. Her heart ached, even as she knew the captivating man of her youth was still there, locked behind the despair of a new and indescribable infirmity.

She threw an empty box into the corner of the room and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Perspiration trickled down her backbone. Her hands were dry and grimy from breaking open crates and boxes, rummaging through machine parts and papers that made no sense to her.

Disappointment roiled through her. Monsieur Dupree might have written pages and pages of hieroglyphics, for all she could understand of his notes.

Every time she found a diagram that appeared to resemble a machine, she handed it to Uncle Granville for translation. Every time he shook his head.

“Music box,” he said, placing another drawing atop the pile already at his side. “A clock made of a birdcage. Letter keyboard. A cabinet with chimes. Look for a drawing that contains a cylinder and a rotating circuit wheel.”

“I am looking,” Clara replied with a touch of annoyance. They had been looking all morning, and so far had found nothing resembling a telegraph machine. “Perhaps he didn’t send them to you after all.”

Granville didn’t respond, which Clara interpreted as agreement. She thrust another empty crate to the side and reached for a box.

“Mrs. Marshall has breakfast prepared, if you’re both hungry.” Mrs. Fox appeared in the doorway, her eyes skimming the room in one glance. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

“Not yet.” Granville stood and stretched, pressing a hand to his lower back. “Clara, come break your fast. You’ve been up since dawn.”

“You go. I’ll be in later.”

Granville’s hand closed on her shoulder. “Don’t make yourself ill over this.”

Clara whirled to pin him with a glare. “I’ve been ill since the moment I left Manley Park, Uncle Granville.”