A Passion for Pleasure(37)
“Yes.” Sebastian rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, discomfort flashing across his expression. “He wrote to me from St. Petersburg asking for my help. He has since come to London. He wants to present the constructed machine to the Home Office, with full credit to Monsieur Dupree as the inventor. I would venture to say that should a patron wish to fund the project, Darius will ensure the profits go to Monsieur Dupree’s family.”
Granville looked steadily at Sebastian. For a moment, a wealth of questions and answers seemed to pass between the two men, heightening Clara’s impatience.
The devil himself could have the plans, for all she cared. Anyone could have them if it meant a chance she would be reunited with her son.
“So that’s it, then,” she said. “Give them to your brother and have the whole thing done with.”
Granville placed his hand on the diagrams, the stack of notes. “Clara, please understand Monsieur Dupree must have sent them to me for safe-keeping. I cannot allow the originals to leave my possession.”
“Make copies, then,” Clara said. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Granville didn’t respond, his forehead creasing. Clara clenched her fists.
“Please,” she said.
Her uncle looked at her. His eyes flashed with a wavering combination of reluctance and concern.
“Only for you, Clara,” Granville said, “will I agree to this.” He turned to look at the notes and diagrams, then nodded. “I’ll start right now. Should take me a day or two.”
Relief flooded Clara alongside a strange apprehension—the portent of what finding the machine plans actually meant to her future. The uncertainty of it all undulated before her like heat rising from cobblestones, hazy and indistinct.
She stared at Sebastian. A thin stream of light glinted off his dark hair and illuminated the golden flecks in his brown eyes.
He began questioning Granville about the cipher alphabet and transmission methods, his voice a deep cascade over the dusty sunlight.
Clara took the opportunity to escape the room, her heart pounding like a wind-whipped leaf. Her breath came rapidly as she stopped in the foyer and struggled to calm her turmoil of emotions.
“Counterpoint.”
His voice echoed against the walls. Settled into her blood, her bones. She turned to watch him approach, his footfalls oddly silent on the marble floor. He stopped before her, his dark gaze intent.
“I beg your pardon?” Clara said.
“In music, counterpoint involves independent melodic lines that harmonize when played together,” Sebastian explained. “As in our situation, we can now give each other what we desire.”
Clara’s shoulders tensed, even as the word desire rippled through her.
“Have…” She swallowed to moisten her dry lips. “Have you considered all the implications of marriage to me?”
“I have, indeed. And you know my expectations?”
Clara’s breath burned her throat. She knew the expectations. She’d known of them since the idea of marriage had first occurred to her. She knew, because Sebastian Hall was not the type of man who would accept a platonic marriage, even one based on calculated ends.
She knew because thoughts of these expectations had seared her mind as she lay in bed at night, the thin sheets twisting around her legs, her body pulsing with restless palpitations she could not comprehend.
She told herself again she could do it. She could agree because Sebastian was a good man who would fulfill his part of the agreement. All she needed to do was give him copies of the plans. All she needed to do was take her vows and prove a loyal, good wife.
All she needed to do was share his bed.
A hot flush flooded her cheeks. She turned away to collect her composure.
Really, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known a man before. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what to expect. If Sebastian Hall was anything like Richard, he would climb beneath the coverlet, push her nightdress up to her hips, then have the whole business over and done with in a scant few minutes.
All she needed to do was lie there and wait for him to finish.
So why was apprehension swirling through her belly at the mere idea? Why could she not erase the image of Sebastian from her mind—him looming above her in the dark, the weight of his body heavy atop hers, his long-fingered hands brushing her bare skin as he slid her gown over her thighs…
Oh, God. Clara closed her eyes. She could not fathom the source of such imaginings. What on earth would the man think if he knew about them? If he knew how her body reacted to such thoughts of him?