A Passion for Pleasure(55)
“I do,” he said, before Clara realized the minister had moved on to address her.
She gripped the folds of her pearl-gray gown with her other hand in an attempt to still the nervous shudders elicited by the gravity of the minister’s words—“a wife shall love her husband”—but her right hand, the one tucked securely in Sebastian’s large, warm palm, did not tremble.
“I do,” she whispered when the minister stopped speaking.
Her fingers tightened around Sebastian’s. Memory flashed through her—the elaborate spectacle of her wedding to Richard, also a union based on practical ends but one launched with a display of wealth and celebration.
The numerous guests, the music, the extravagant feasting—it had been the opposite of this quiet ceremony in Sebastian’s drawing room with only Lord Rushton, Uncle Granville, and Mrs. Fox in attendance, all sitting with twin lines etched on their foreheads.
Clara avoided looking at them until the minister had pronounced her Sebastian’s wife. Her heart caught when he bent to brush his mouth against hers. She allowed herself to feel the pleasure of the contact for an instant before turning to her uncle. Granville moved to embrace her. She gripped his arms and swallowed past the tightness in her throat.
“I promise you I’m doing what is best for us,” Clara whispered.
“Should you need anything,” he murmured in her ear, “you know where to find me. I will do whatever I can to help you. I regret that I have not done more.”
Sadness swelled in Clara’s chest.
“You gave me a place to live,” she said. “You tried to help with Andrew. There was nothing more you could have done.”
“I only hope that this decision”—Granville glanced at Sebastian—“will yield the result you desire.”
So did Clara. The portent of failure loomed before her. She’d devised no strategy for what to do should she encounter it. She couldn’t. Black as oil, impenetrable, failure would swamp her under and take her last breath.
She looked to where Sebastian stood speaking with Lord Rushton. The earl glanced her way and approached. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hall. I wish you and my son much happiness.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Although Clara had no idea how Lord Rushton truly felt about this union, the fact that he approved of their marriage made the idea of having an earl as a father-in-law less intimidating.
Sebastian moved beside Clara, cupping his left hand beneath her elbow with easy grace. “If you’ll all join us in the dining room, I believe there’s quite an elaborate breakfast waiting.”
For Clara, the next few hours passed with rabbitlike speed, although they lingered over breakfast and then, at Granville’s suggestion, went for a walk in the garden of Grosvenor Square to benefit from the brisk autumn day. Rushton returned to his Piccadilly residence, while the rest of the party took some air.
Clara, knowing quite well what awaited her upon their return to Sebastian’s town house, proposed they take the carriage to visit the Regent Street shops for a few hours. They had lunch at Verrey’s restaurant, then went to the Portland Gallery to view the array of paintings and sculptures, an excursion that Clara hoped would take the remainder of the afternoon.
Embarrassment still scorched her when she remembered her behavior in Sebastian’s carriage, the way she’d thrown herself at him with an utterly wanton lack of restraint. Although Sebastian had given her no reason to feel ashamed, Clara knew well that her behavior fell far outside the bounds of decency.
She couldn’t fathom how Richard might have reacted, had she conducted herself in such a manner with him. Then again, nothing about Richard and his detached, stoic presence had ever inspired so much as a modicum of desire in Clara. She hadn’t even wanted to kiss him.
But Sebastian? He was a man who could turn her insides into molten heat with one brush of his fingertips, one intent look from his dark eyes. All she needed to do was gaze at his beautiful mouth, and she was seized by the urge to press her lips to his, feel the sweep of his tongue, drink the hot sweetness of his breath.
Clara shivered at the very idea, turning to study a landscape painting as she attempted to entrap all her wild, furtive imaginings.
Lock your heart, she reminded herself even as she slanted a glance toward her new husband, so disarmingly handsome in a crisp morning coat and a cravat the color of a sweeping, cobalt-blue Dorset sky. The breeze had mussed his unruly black hair and a corner of his cravat had escaped the lapel of his coat, the loose edge rumpling his appearance just enough to remind the world he would not be contained like other men.