the distance between them, to slide onto the bench beside him and curl her body tight against his. She could almost feel him—the hard, lean length of his muscles, his broad chest, the weight of his arm as he draped it across her shoulders and pulled her closer.
She wanted the haven of his warmth and strength, a safety she had never known. Her untold longing was made all the more potent by the knowledge that he would not turn her away. Not physically, at least.
Clara forced her gaze to the window, aware of the danger Sebastian Hall posed. Her soul was already so threaded with cracks, brittle from repeated breakage and vain attempts at repair. If she allowed Sebastian to slide between those cracks and find his way into her heart, she would then give him the power to deliver a fatal, crushing blow.
And yet she would not renege on her proposition, dangerous as it was to her very being. She could not retreat now, did not want to, or everything would be lost.
She stared at the passing streets. Shadows and waning light skated across the storefronts, the narrow tenement buildings, the fruit stalls and horse-drawn carts. Before long, elegant town houses swept into view, the brick façades adorned with curved balconies and slender pilasters.
The carriage shuddered to a halt. Clara leaned forward, sliding the curtain farther aside to enhance her view of the house across the street. A gleaming black door barred the entrance, and the windows blinked like eyes in the reddish light. A menacing silence seemed to emanate from the house, as if warning passersby that nothing good lurked within.
No lamps shone through the windows. The expected disappointment pierced her heart, sharp as a driven nail.
“They’re not at home,” she murmured. “Or he’s not at home.”
Sebastian leaned across and settled his hand on her knee. The heat of his palm burned clear through her skirts and petticoats. Clara made a fist to prevent herself from placing her hand atop his and tracing the long lines of his fingers.
She continued watching her father’s house. An ache built in her throat. She heard Sebastian’s breath, the sound weaving into her ear alongside the increased beat of her heart.
He did not take his hand from her leg. After an interminable period of time, she relaxed her tight fist and allowed her hand to spread over his. Not looking at him, she pulled off her gloves. He turned his palm upward. His strong fingers knotted with hers.
Desire sheared into her soul like the clip of scissors, both the physical reaction of warmth and the longing not to feel so utterly alone anymore. Even her beloved uncle with his unflagging support could not ease Clara’s sense of cold isolation.
But the clasp of Sebastian’s hand in hers reminded her of his presence and assuaged the loneliness. Just a bit. Just for now.
She tightened her fingers on his as a black carriage pulled in front of the town house. She recognized the matching grays that came to a stop, their sleek manes rippling in the twilight, their polished hooves stamping the cobblestones.
Her spine stiffened. In one swift movement, Sebastian was beside her, peering past her through the window. “Is that your father?”
“H-his carriage.”
Fairfax’s driver had parked at an angle that allowed her to see the space between the carriage and the front of the town house. When the footman swung open the carriage door, Clara gripped Sebastian’s hand so tightly her knuckles burned.
Her father stepped down—a tall, slender figure in a blue greatcoat and hat, his gloves white as bone in the diminishing light. Fairfax carried himself with an elegance that masked his brutal streak, like a gleaming sharp sword concealed within an ivory-tipped cane.
Even as dark memories and anger rushed at her in a torrent, Clara’s heart wrenched at the sight of the man who had sired her, clothed and fed her, the man who might still, somewhere, harbor an emotion resembling love for her.
Fairfax spoke to the footman. No one followed him down from the carriage.
Clara tried to deflect the arrow of disappointment, realizing only in that moment of bitter dejection how much she had hoped today would be different from all the other times she had sat in desperate surveillance, wishing for one glimpse of her son.
She turned to Sebastian, seeking his eyes, needing his assurance. “You can tell your dri—”
“Clara.” Holding her gaze, he nodded to the window.
She looked…and gasped. The footman held the door of the carriage again to