Questions lingered in his expression. Clara did not know how to answer them, but her body responded with a quickening tempo that made her breath uncoil in her chest.
Kiss me.
The wish bloomed hard, a bright, red rose in midwinter, filling her with the glow of anticipation.
Kiss me and banish the fear.
Clara blinked against the sting in her eyes. Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around Sebastian’s wrist, though whether to ease his hand away or urge him to keep touching her, she did not know.
She did know that his wrist was strong in her grip, his pulse beating against her fingertips. She imagined his blood ran hot and swift through his veins, inciting his force, his intensity. She wanted to slide her hand farther up his forearm, to feel the taut muscles and sinews, the brush of coarse dark hairs across her palm.
He didn’t move away. She didn’t release him.
And then he lowered his head and kissed her. So warm, so light was the touch of his mouth that the center of Clara’s being melted like ice sliding over a hot pane of glass.
She swallowed, parting her lips to draw in a breath. His nearness, his rough energy, sank into her blood and filled her with sensation, heat, and a yearning for something she had never known.
“Oh.” Her whisper slipped like a delicacy into his mouth.
He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Their breath mingled. He tasted like cinnamon. His tongue darted out to touch the corner of her lips, a delicious swipe that made shivers cascade through Clara’s entire body.
Who have you become?
She remembered him so well from all those years ago, that affable, talented young man who could keep company with both kings and peasants. Now he was different, like a creature from mythology, filled with complexities that she could not begin to untangle. Exuding an allure that she could not resist. Wrapping her in a heat that felt instinctively comforting and
safe.
She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat and sank into the kiss as if it could last forever, and in that instant, she wanted it to. She wanted to stand here for all eternity with Sebastian’s hand cupping her neck and his mouth caressing hers because once he stopped, once he lifted his head away from her, Clara knew the anguish would swamp her once again.
Her grip on him tightened. His kiss deepened. Her blood exploded with colors and light, born from the memories of who they had once been—a girl holding fast to the good in the world, and a young man of such patience and kindness.
That man would help her now, if he still existed. Clara grasped the truth of that belief as if it were sacred, and a spiral of hope filled her. She spread one hand over his broad chest, feeling his heart thump against her palm through the material of his shirt and coat. His teeth closed gently over her lower lip, whisking heat over her nerves.
The middle of Clara’s soul softened at Sebastian’s nearness, the warm strength he exuded, at the nascent longing that he might prove her ally in the desperate pursuit to reclaim her son.
Andrew.
Coldness swept down her spine at the unbidden thought. Shame cut through her desire like a blade ripping into silk. She yanked herself away from Sebastian, holding her hands to her blazing cheeks as she turned away. Her heart hammered in her throat.
She had forgotten.
For one brief, aching moment she had forgotten her son.
Clara inhaled a deep breath to quell her turbulent emotions before she turned back to face Sebastian. His eyes sparked with both lingering heat and wariness, as if her abrupt withdrawal had incited his own confusion.
Her heart still pounded. Oh, heavens. As a young woman, she had imagined what it would feel like to be kissed by Sebastian Hall, but she had never dreamed it would be like this.
And never had her imagination conjured the intricate weaving of emotions binding her now, all securing the strange but firm knowledge that Sebastian Hall could somehow help her.
“I…I think you’d best go now,” she stammered.
“Shall I return tomorrow?”
“My uncle should be back in the morning. If you’d like to speak with him, you are welcome to return.”
“My card.” His composure again intact, Sebastian removed a card from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winter.”
Clara nodded and watched him leave. Her heartbeat began to calm. She moved closer to the door so that she could hear his voice rumble from the foyer as he exchanged a few words with Mrs. Fox, and then the front door closed.
Clara hurried to the window, ducking into the shadows as she watched his tall figure descend the steps. He moved with ease and a masculine grace, as if he were comfortable in his skin. He spoke to the footman, then clapped the man on the shoulder before climbing into the waiting carriage.
Odd behavior to bestow upon a footman, but such familiarity seemed suited to a man like Sebastian Hall. He’d never appeared to be the sort concerned with propriety or the opinions of others—though clearly something had happened in recent months to fray the edges of his character.
He is still the son of an earl. Powerful, surely, in his own right.
Anticipation flared in Clara’s heart, burning away the shame of the thought. For so many years, she had tried so hard to be good, to be the woman her father and husband wanted so that, God willing, their lives would be free from turmoil.
She had agreed to marry Richard Winter, a man thirteen years her senior, because her father wanted to seal a business partnership and because her father’s status would aid Richard’s bid for a parliamentary seat.
And while the marriage had allowed Clara to escape her father’s house, she remained firmly within his domain. Only by being an exemplary wife and daughter—quiet, practical, polite—could she avoid inciting her father’s anger.
But when Andrew was born Clara discovered how love could overwhelm all practical thought, like a waterfall thundering over a rocky cliff. She learned how emotion could fill her heart to bursting, how joy and fear could tangle her soul into inextricable knots. She knew what it meant to love another person without condition, without thought. She knew what her own mother had felt.
For the sole purpose of being with her son again, however, Clara would suppress even the memory of such emotions and be as calculating, as shrewd, as was necessary.
If she dared.
A
ll has gone well thus far with Lady Rossmore?” Granville Blake asked. He opened the cherrywood case of a clock whose face was decorated with a landscape scene and a moving windmill.
“Indeed.” Perched on a nearby stool, Clara watched her uncle fiddle with the springs and chronometer contained inside the clock. Having Uncle Granville back at home restored Clara’s sense of balance and purpose, which had been so askew since Sebastian Hall had reentered her life.
“Tom and I brought Millicent and the bench to the Hanover Square rooms,” she continued, “so it’s just the harpsichord now. Lady Rossmore said you could assemble the rest on Friday afternoon.”
“Good, good.” Granville pulled at a pinion wire and picked up a small lathe. Tufts of blond hair fell over his forehead as he frowned at an uncooperative mechanism.
Warmth spun through Clara’s heart as she watched him. Her love for her uncle was stronger than ever, unstained by anger and bitterness. For many years he had tried so hard to protect her and her mother from Fairfax. Granville had kept Wakefield House out of Fairfax’s hands. He had hired solicitors to wrestle Fairfax in the courts and written countless letters to her father pleading her case.
All to no avail, but Clara knew her uncle would pound a stone wall until his hands were broken and bleeding if it meant she would have her son back.
A delicate cough came from the doorway. Mrs. Fox stood there with her ramrod shoulders and cold, elegant face.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fox.”
“Mrs. Winter.” She nodded at Granville. “Welcome home, Mr. Blake.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Fox.” Granville wrenched at a part inside the clock, tossing her a quick glance over the tops of his glasses.
“How is Monsieur Dupree’s family?” Mrs. Fox inquired.
“Grieving, but well,” Granville replied. “Monsieur Dupree’s son is shipping several more crates of machinery and supplies to me. Should arrive within a week or so. He thought I could make good use of them.”
“Kind of him, especially considering the circumstances,” Mrs. Fox murmured. She glanced at Clara again. “You’ve had no visitors yet?”
“We’ve been open only fifteen minutes,” Clara replied.
“Yes, but the front desk should be staffed at all times during open hours.”
“Uncle Granville would hear the front bell if anyone comes in.”
“Anyone who enters should not be obliged to wait for someone to welcome them.” Mrs. Fox turned to Granville. “And Mr. Blake, I’m certain you wish to rest after your long journey.”
Granville muttered something under his breath, his attention on the entrails of the clock.
“Your bags have been brought upstairs, Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Fox continued. “And Tom is filling a bath. I suggest you make haste before the water cools. Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake!”
At the heightened pitch to her voice, Granville glanced up. “Oh, er, much obliged, Mrs. Fox.”
He picked up a scape wheel and examined the pointed teeth at the edges as he walked to the door. After he’d left the room, Mrs. Fox turned to Clara.
“I’ve rescheduled an appointment this morning so that Mr. Blake might have a bit of time to rest,” she said.
“Not Mr. Hall?”
Mrs. Fox frowned. “Mr. Hall is not listed in the appointment book.”
“He told me he would come sometime this morning.” Clara couldn’t prevent the surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again, even with the memory of their kiss burning like a dark star in the back of her mind.
“Well, really, Mrs. Winter, this is not terribly convenient,” Mrs. Fox said. “Shall I send word to Mr. Hall to postpone the appointment?”
“No. He has been wanting to speak with Uncle Granville for several days.”
“Very well, then.” Mrs. Fox narrowed her eyes with disapproval and swept from the room with her skirts trailing like coal dust behind her.
Annoyance prickled at Clara’s spine as she returned to the studio. She picked up her sewing again and was soon immersed in the rhythmic motion of pushing and pulling the needle through the heavy silk, a cadence that allowed her to focus on the task and empty her mind of thought.
“Meant to give this to you.”
Granville came into the room and extended a mechanical toy to Clara. “From Monsieur Dupree’s wife. She said he’d been intending to send it to you as soon as he finished it.”
Curious, Clara took the toy. A slender male figure wearing a harlequin’s costume and ruffled collar balanced on his hands atop a narrow table.
Clara found the key at the base of the platform and twisted it. The acrobat braced his hands on the table and lifted his body into the air, then executed a graceful somersault that curled his entire form before vaulting back to his original position.
She laughed, delighted by the intricate, whimsical action.
“For your collection,” Granville said, his smile edged with sadness.
Clara dragged a large wooden chest out from beneath a table and unlatched the lock. Several dozen toys lay inside the chest, some mechanical inventions that sprang into action at the turn of a key and others well-crafted stationary figures.
All were decorated with great care, bearing costumes of silk and satin, tiny jewels and buttons, intricately painted faces. There were ducks that waddled and quacked, dancing animals, wooden trains, singing birds, spinning tops, a shepherd who piped a tune on a flute, and a Turkish conjurer who concealed three silver balls beneath golden goblets.
“I’ll write Madame Dupree a letter of thanks this afternoon,” Clara said.
“She’ll appreciate that.” Granville gazed at her. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’ve instructed my solicitor to look into the matter of selling or transferring Wakefield House to your father again, but there’s not much one can do against a final ruling.”
Clara gripped the acrobat. “Perhaps we could appeal to the justices themselves?”
Granville just looked at her, his blue eyes swimming with sympathy. Clara’s heart closed in on itself as she sank down onto a chair and rested her face in her hands. A second later, her uncle’s arm circled her shoulders.
“Never give up hope, my dear,” he murmured.
“Such a fool I am,” Clara whispered, swallowing hard against a rush of tears.
“No mother is a fool who wants her child back,” Granville said.
No, but she was a fool to think she could ever appease her father into giving up custody of Andrew.
No further recourse, the solicitor claimed.
Clara could not believe it. She could not fathom a world in which a defenseless boy, her
son,
would be condemned to a life of isolation. And that she, as his mother, would have
no further recourse.
Not wanting her uncle to bear witness to her dismay yet again, Clara pushed herself upright. She swiped at a stray tear and straightened her skirts. “Well, we’d best get back to work. There’s a great deal to do before Lady Rossmore’s event.”
Granville looked as if he wanted to say more, but of course they both knew there was nothing left to say.
After Granville returned to his workshop, Clara picked up the acrobat and turned the key again to watch the dexterous flip and spin. How Andrew would love such a creation. For once, a flutter of happiness rather than pain followed the thought.
She put the acrobat on a nearby table so she could see it from her sewing chair. She sat down and picked up the green silk again.
Push, pull. Push, pull. Don’t think. Don’t remember.
“I believe she might have granted me a smile.”
The deep, clear voice came from the doorway. Clara looked up with a start. Sebastian Hall stood with one hand on the jamb.
“What…oh.” She embedded the needle into the silk. “Do you refer to the formidable Mrs. Fox?”
“I do indeed. At least, I think it was a smile. Might have been more of a grimace, now that I think on it.”
Clara smiled. She felt his appreciative gaze from across the room, heating her like sunshine.
“Now
that,
” he said, “is most assuredly a smile, which I could never mistake for something else.”
A surge of pleasure reddened Clara’s cheeks. Oh, but he was still charming, wasn’t he? Even with that combination of fatigue and restlessness clinging to him, his eyes warmed as he looked at her.
And Clara was glad of it. Glad of the evidence that Sebastian Hall’s allure still appeared intact, though buried beneath his soul-weary exterior.
“You’re here to see my uncle,” she said, putting the sewing aside.
Disconcertion flashed across his features. “Your uncle has returned already?”
“Yes, just several hours ago.” Clara suppressed the sudden thought…no, the
hope
…that perhaps Sebastian had come to see her and not Uncle Granville. Again, that hope was followed by the instinctive sense that he could prove her ally, even if as yet she had no idea how.
Sebastian continued to watch her as she rose and smoothed her apron. He paused beside a table covered with folds of silk and satin and sank his gloved hand into a swath of orange silk.
Clara watched his long fingers caress the material, then slid her gaze over the length of his arm, across his shoulder to his face. He looked much as he had yesterday—clad in a forest-green, superfine coat and snow-white linen shirt, but still with shadows smudging his dark eyes, and furrows bracketing his mouth.
What does he want?
The question sprang into her mind again, a riddle she couldn’t solve. Sebastian Hall might well enjoy the spectacle of the automata, but Clara could not believe he held the mechanisms in abiding interest. He’d hardly cast Millicent a glance when they’d first met in the Hanover Square building.
Perhaps that had been because he’d been too occupied looking at Clara.
Warmth suffused her entire body as she recalled his tangible scrutiny. She couldn’t recall another man, not even Richard, appraising her with such blatant thoroughness.
And appearing to like what he saw.
Pushing aside the unexpected pleasure of the thought, Clara ducked her head and hurried past Sebastian. “If you’ll wait here, please, I’ll fetch my uncle. I told him to expect you.”
She went to seek out Granville and found him opening several boxes of machine parts Tom had delivered yesterday. Upon hearing of their visitor, he washed the dust from his hands and accompanied Clara back to the studio.
“Mr. Hall, welcome to our museum.” Granville extended his hand.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blake.” Sebastian greeted Granville with a nod, ignoring the other man’s outstretched hand.
A frown tugged at Clara’s mouth as an awkward pause filled the air before Granville lowered his arm back to his side.
Sebastian spoke in a pleasant tone, as if nothing untoward had just occurred. “Your niece has been most accommodating in your absence.”
“Pleased to hear it,” Granville said. “How else might I assist you?”
“I’m interested in learning more about how the automata are actually put together. And how you intend to use music in an auxiliary fashion to correspond with the actions of the figures.”
Clara blinked. Perhaps she was wrong about Sebastian’s interest in mechanics.
Out of curiosity, she followed him and Granville back to his workshop, where Granville proceeded to drone on about clockwork mechanisms, bellows, pin joints, and cylinders. He took Sebastian to the former dining room of the town house, where he drafted his diagrams, and unfurled scrolls etched with detailed plans for toys and automata.
Sebastian nodded as Granville waved his hand over the drawings and explained how he intended to bring them to fruition.
“Your niece mentioned you also make clocks?” Sebastian asked.
“On occasion, yes. Usually when commissioned. Not quite as interesting as automata, I’ve found, though often the mechanisms are similar.”
“And do you construct anything else?” Sebastian asked.
Granville shrugged. “I could make anything, I suppose, with the right plans. Why? Have you got something in mind?”
“I’ve a sister-in-law who is a mathematician,” Sebastian said. “She and my brother live abroad now, but she once told me there are machines that can calculate sums. Have you heard of such a thing?”
“Certainly,” Granville said. “Quite interesting. My mentor, Monsieur Dupree, has done a bit of work with arithmometers, but there’s some difficulty with the multiplying element. Did you wish to commission such a machine?”
“Possibly, though I’m also inquiring for my younger brother Darius. He lives in St. Petersburg as well and is far more mechanically minded than I am.”
Ah. That explained it a bit, then,
Clara thought.
“Darius heard there are also machines that can transmit messages in cipher,” Sebastian continued. “Do you know about those?”
“Not in any detail, no,” Granville said. “Though if you’d like, I can give you the address of a gentleman who lives in Southwark. He knows more than I do about machines such as those. Perhaps your brother might like to correspond directly with him.”
“I’d be much obliged.”
As Sebastian turned away from the table, Clara swore she saw frustration flash in his dark eyes.
“If you’ll both go into the drawing room, I’ll bring tea in,” she suggested. “You can discuss this further.”
Thoughts tumbled through her mind as she went to find Mrs. Marshall. Again she was seized by the sense that Sebastian Hall could prove useful. She didn’t know how, but surely the son of an earl would have access to resources she lacked. And she was not too proud to plead for anything, not where Andrew was concerned.
She brought the tray into the drawing room and began to pour the tea. Sebastian twisted the key on a mechanical birdcage that Uncle Granville had been working on. The birds whistled a reedy melody that seemed at odds with the delicacy of the feathered larks.
“You ought to use Haydn,” Sebastian remarked.
“Haydn?” Granville repeated.
“‘The Lark’ Quartet, opus sixty-four, number five,” Sebastian said. “The first violin imitates the call of larks, which would be more suitable than…what is that supposed to be? A cello?”
Granville straightened and scratched his head. “I don’t know. Found it at a music shop and tried to translate it into the engineering mechanism. Doesn’t quite work, does it?”