A Passion for Pleasure(38)
“It distresses you so much, does it?” He was directly behind her, his voice a deep rumble spilling like warm water over her skin. “The idea of being my wife in all capacities?”
“No.” The word had a bit of force behind it, to Clara’s relief. She did not want Sebastian to think she wavered in her determination. She turned to face him, her pulse hammering. Unable to bring herself to look into his eyes, she stared at his mouth.
A mistake. His beautiful mouth—the shape of his upper lip marked by a slight indent, the smooth curve of his lower lip with the shadowy notch hiding beneath it like a secret—made untold longings spiral through her blood.
God in heaven. Did she want to marry him for more than the need to sell Wakefield House?
She lifted her head and found him watching her, intent but wary, as if he knew a false move would send her scurrying off. She looked away and gathered her resolve.
“I will be your wife in all capacities, Sebastian,” she said.
“You don’t even sound appalled at the prospect.”
“Should I be?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He stepped into the space between them and slid his hand beneath her chin, turning her face to him. “You needn’t be frightened of me, Clara. I will uphold my part of the agreement, but I will not marry for practical reasons alone. I will not tolerate a marriage in name only. We will be husband and wife both in public and in private.”
A tremble rippled through her. “I understand.”
His hand dropped away from her, and he stepped back. A faint consternation flickered across his features, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her response. “I shall make the arrangements. We will be married next week.”
Chapter Seven
Ladies and gentlemen.” Lady Rossmore climbed the steps to the stage of the Hanover Square ballroom and clapped her hands, raising her voice above the din. “May I have your attention, please? I welcome you all and would like to begin a demonstration of an automaton created by the esteemed inventor Mr. Granville Blake.”
Sebastian pushed his right hand into his pocket and maneuvered through the crowd closer to the stage. He stopped beside his father, who stood with his fellow secretary Lord Margrave. Onstage, Lady Rossmore continued her lengthy discourse on Granville Blake’s genius. She then stepped aside when the curtains parted to reveal Granville and the automaton.
Sebastian’s breath stuck in the middle of his chest as his gaze skirted to Clara. She stood beside the harpsichord in a dark blue gown that was at least a year out of fashion but whose color reflected the light and cast a sheen of pink on her pale skin.
“Thank you for the lovely introduction, Lady Rossmore,” Granville said, smoothing wrinkles from his coat with a sweep of his hand as he stepped forward to address the audience. “My niece, Mrs. Clara Winter, and I are honored to be here to demonstrate our newest creation, Millicent, the Musical Lady.”
The crowd laughed at the name. Clara placed her hand on the shoulder of the mannequin, who sat at a small harpsichord, her porcelain fingers unmoving over the keys, her head bent. The mannequin wore a crimson silk gown edged in lace and accented by gold earrings and an ivory cameo. Her face was a model of feminine perfection, her cheeks and lips tinged with pink, her long eyelashes lowered in perfect feathery crescents.
“Millicent is an automaton who plays four tunes on the harpsichord,” Granville continued. “We will demonstrate with three tunes and ask that you watch her carefully, as she moves her fingers, feet, and even her eyes with the utmost accuracy. After the demonstration, I invite you to examine the very intricate mechanisms more closely.”
The audience rustled with interest, several women straining on tiptoe for a better view of the stage. Granville moved to the side of the harpsichord and took hold of the crank handle to wind the machine. He turned it halfway. The crank stuck.
Murmurs buzzed like insects from the audience. Clara moved to her uncle’s side as he pulled the crank back into position and started to wind it again. It jerked at the same sticking point, then rotated. The bellows inside the instrument released an audible expulsion of compressed air, and the wheels began to turn.
Relief flashed across Clara’s face. Granville wound the machine twice more and stepped back to watch Millicent perform. The mannequin’s chest expanded as if she were inhaling air into her lungs, and then her fingers began to move across the keys. A tinny but pleasing melody drifted from the harpsichord.