Rushton said would have altered his desire to live as he pleased.
Now he could no longer do that, even if his father hadn’t issued a command.
Finding it difficult to draw in air, Sebastian headed through the adjoining room toward the gardens. Alexander would help him financially if he asked. But asking meant he would have to divulge more than he wanted. Asking would mean disrupting Alexander’s own life, now finally one of happiness and contentment. Asking would mean defying Rushton and forcing Alexander to do the same.
Asking would mean eliciting his brother’s pity.
Not for the first time, Sebastian experienced a pang of envy at the thought of his elder brother.
Alexander fixed things. If he were in Sebastian’s position, he would force things back into place—by the strength of his will alone if there were no other method. He wouldn’t capitulate to their father’s wishes because he had no other choice.
Then again, Rushton wouldn’t give Alexander an ultimatum of any kind. Since the scandal and divorce, Alexander’s successes had only illuminated Rushton’s failings as both a peer and a father. Now that Rushton’s new appointment as Undersecretary at the Home Office had garnered a degree of prestige among his fellow peers, he intended to ensure that the rest of his family fell into a straight and precise line right behind Alexander.
Starting with Sebastian.
Chapter Two
She dreamed of him again. For two nights after seeing Sebastian Hall for the first time in a decade, Clara’s slumberous mind filled with images of the man she remembered from her past. The handsome young musician whose eyes creased with smiles, whose graceful hands flew across the piano keys like soaring birds. She dreamed of herself, so many years ago when she, William, and their mother had lived within the enchanted land of Wakefield House, when they had greedily seized those summer days like children grabbing cream-filled cakes.
She dreamed of the grassy hills cresting around the warm, rustic stones of Wakefield House, the wildflowers popping up in fragrant clusters, the gliding foam of the sea as it surged forth to meet the sandstone cliffs hugging the coast.
Sebastian Hall was inextricably woven into the fabric of those very memories because it was there, in Dorset, where Clara had first encountered him in all his vibrant, unruly glory. At balls and dinner parties, he’d enticed people with the beauty of his performances and the allure of his attention.
She’d watched him from a distance, delighted by the way his charm seemed so genuine. He looked directly at people when he spoke to them. He listened. He laughed. He wore his prestige and talent like a cloak that had been bequeathed to him—not as if he deserved the honor but as if he knew he was fortunate to have received it.
And when she woke from the secret warmth of such dreams, the ash-colored light of London spilling into her room, Clara remembered that in the past ten years, all of that had fallen away.
For her. And now, it seemed, for him. But why? How?
Her encounter with Sebastian in the Hanover Square rooms had kindled an intense curiosity to know the truth of what had happened to him. Now, with dreams still clinging to her like threads, that curiosity almost eclipsed her persistent ache of loss.
Clara dressed quickly and splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it returning her to her senses. Nothing could divert her from her purpose, not even memories of a man who had once seemed the epitome of everything she wanted. Everything good and kind.
She scrubbed a towel over her face and took a wooden box from her dressing table. She removed the lid and looked at the contents—a dozen satin ribbons jumbled together in a rainbow of colors.
Red, yellow, blue, green. She dumped them onto the scarred table. The ribbons spilled into a heap like the tangled cobweb of a vivid, exotic spider.
Clara rubbed the length of a red ribbon between her fingers, then a green one. Although she knew it wasn’t the case, she imagined that each ribbon felt different. The red ribbon was slippery and warm, the green smooth-textured like a new leaf, the yellow coarse like the rind of a lemon, the blue polished as a tissue-paper sky.
As she stood looking at the ribbons, a threadlike sunbeam sliced through the fog and shone against the vibrant satin. More recent memories flashed through her. She pushed aside the dark ones in favor of happier thoughts of her boy with his chestnut hair and