A Passion for Pleasure(70)

“Davies, what do you know of this?” Clara grasped the man’s sleeve in desperation. “Why is my father sending Andrew away? What’s happened to him?”

Something wavered in the butler’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I do not know, Mrs. Hall.”

“Please tell me! You’ve known me since I was a child, Davies, you know I only want the best for my son. What is wrong?”

“Lord Fairfax has requested that you depart, Mrs. Hall,” he replied.

Sebastian cursed. He tossed Clara’s cloak around her shoulders and grabbed his greatcoat, stalking to the carriage with a hard, determined stride.

Clara hurried beside him, fighting for breath and calm. Sebastian handed her into the carriage and ordered the driver to return to Mount Street. Shaking with cold, she lunged across the space to collapse onto the seat beside him. Her chest rattled with dry, wrenching sobs.

He locked an arm around her, pulling her body hard against his. Clara pressed her face into his shoulder and absorbed his warmth. Yet not even Sebastian could rid her of the new, icy reality shearing into her soul.

She had nothing left to offer.



Bastard.

Now more than ever bloodlust gripped Sebastian. He not only wanted to kill Fairfax—he first wanted to see the man suffer. He wanted to induce the suffering himself. The feeling clawed at him as he wrestled for a solution in the midnight hours following their confrontation with Fairfax.

Sebastian stared at the papers he’d spread out on the desk—accounts, expenses, budgets, bills. His father afforded him a generous allowance, the funds of which would continue owing to his marriage to Clara. Sebastian also had Darius’s payment for the cipher machine plans, and he’d a small fund left from the proceeds of his tours and performances. Still, even if he didn’t use the money to pay the remainder of his medical obligations, he doubted it would be enough to appease Fairfax. And money was all he could think of with which to bargain.

Sebastian groaned, clamping the bridge of his nose between his fingers. God in heaven. What chaotic hell would flare if his father and elder brother discovered the truth of all this?

He’d crush his pride to sand if he thought begging would generate their help. A portion of Rushton’s and Alexander’s combined fortunes would cover Fairfax’s debts, no matter how dire.

But that would mean confessing all. And once Rushton and Alexander learned about Catherine Leskovna…

“I won’t let you do this.”

Clara’s gentle voice swam into his thoughts. He dragged a hand through his hair and straightened, watching her approach. A deep russet merino dress trimmed in brown enclosed her slender figure, and her chestnut hair cascaded in a long ribbon over her shoulder. She looked like a wood sprite, pale and delicate, her unusual eyes veiled with caution.

An ache gripped Sebastian’s throat. More than anything, even more than wanting the use of his hand again, he wanted to help her. He wanted to give her that which she desired most. He wanted to ease her pain, to make her happy. He wanted to protect her.

He’d failed spectacularly at doing any of those things.

Her warm hand slid beneath his chin, guiding his face toward hers. “I won’t let you,” she repeated. “You will not ruin yourself because of my father’s threats.”

“Then what? You’ll let him send your son away?”

Clara drew back, her hand dropping away from him. Sebastian sighed and snared her wrist. “Sorry.”

Clara twisted her wrist from his grip and tangled her fingers with his. He pushed the chair away from the desk, putting his hand at her back to draw her closer. Clara lowered herself to his lap, her knees hugging his hips, her orange-spice scent flavoring the air. He grasped the streamer of her hair and let the loose tendrils glide through his fingers.

She placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “I never wanted this. Never meant to drag you into the vile swamp of my father’s domain. I honestly hoped he would accede to my request, that he wanted Wakefield House enough to release Andrew.”

She shook her head and bit her lower lip, creating little indentations Sebastian wanted to soothe with a sweep of his tongue.

“He thinks Andrew will never be worth anything,” Clara said. “Andrew is a quiet boy, studious. He likes to read and draw. He likes animals. He’s skilled at archery and fencing, but my father insisted that he learn shooting, hawking, riding, wrestling…he thought Andrew should be adept at all such masculine pursuits, even at seven years of age.”