A Passion for Pleasure(80)

Her throat worked with a swallow, her gaze darting to the scarred box. Just before her lashes lowered, a flash of something—disbelief? guilt?—appeared in her eyes. Sebastian reached out to take the box from her.

Clara started. “What—”

He flipped the lid open. Nestled amid the cobweb of ribbons was the cravat he’d worn yesterday. With a frown, he pulled the blue silk from the box, ribbons spilling away from it, and shifted his gaze to Clara.

Guilt. What the hell did she have to be guilty about? What was she hiding from him?

“It’s…ah, you know I keep the ribbons because they’re precious to me,” she said. “I wanted one of your cravats for the same reason. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right.” Disquieted by her reaction, he dropped the cravat back into the box and snapped the lid closed. “All you need do is ask. You shall have anything you want.”

Not until the words hovered between them did Sebastian realize he had not yet given her her heart’s desire. An oath broke through his mind.

“Come with me to this blasted meeting with my mother,” he said. “Since you’ve met her before, you ought to be there now.”

Clara shook her head. “This must be done between you and her. And what if Fairfax sends word about Andrew? Someone needs to be here.” She took his right hand and gently ran her fingers across his. “Go speak with your mother, please. I’ll be with Uncle Granville most of the day anyway. Everything will be fine.”

Her voice was certain, a cool shade of sapphire blue that belied the darkness shadowing her eyes. She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss against his wrist, on the fraction of skin below his sleeve. Heat shot through his arm.

He wrapped his other hand around her nape and pulled her to him, lowering his mouth to hers. Her soft gasp slid into his blood, settled in the middle of his chest. He kissed her deeply, driven by some unnamed desire to remind her she belonged to him.

“Sebastian.” Clara gripped his lapels, her violet eyes filled with a mixture of emotions that he could not begin to discern. “I want you to remember that you have always meant more to me than you will ever know.”

Sebastian frowned at the strange finality of her words. “For God’s sake, Clara, what are you doing? If you are thinking of approaching Fairfax alone—”

“Bastian.” A knock sounded at the closed door, followed by Darius’s voice. “Best be moving along.”

“Go,” Clara whispered.

With a muttered curse, Sebastian eased away from his wife. Troubled and not knowing how to unravel the source of his apprehension, he pushed his right hand into his pocket and went to the door.



She no longer looked like Catherine Hall, Countess of Rushton, the woman who wore her beauty like delicate armor, whose eyes were cool glass. His shoulders tense, Sebastian stopped in the doorway of the dining room at the Albion Hotel as his mother approached.

Her dress was elegant but simple, and she wore no jewelry. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat chignon, a few tendrils lacing her long neck. As she neared, he saw the silver threads streaking her hair and the thin lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. A tan had darkened her porcelain skin, and freckles dotted her nose.

Freckles.

His mother?

She stopped in front of him, lifting a hand as if she wanted to touch him and then letting it fall back to her side.

“Sebastian,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat, his nerves taut with unease over Clara’s behavior and now this meeting with a woman he hardly recognized. “Hello…Catherine.”

Beside him, Darius clamped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Then he turned and left, leaving Sebastian alone with their mother.

Mustering a bit of chivalry, Sebastian went to pull a chair from one of the empty tables. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“Not yet, no.” She spoke English, though with a bit of hesitation and a more pronounced accent than Sebastian ever remembered hearing. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“I didn’t want to.” Sebastian hadn’t intended the bitter tone, but it was there, coloring his words like the dark smear of a pencil. A thousand questions bubbled and popped in his mind.

As they sat, Sebastian noticed her hands tremble as she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. She sat back and studied him, her dark gaze—so like his brothers’—both wary and hopeful. “Why did you change your mind?” she wanted to know.