A Passion For Pleasure by Nina Rowan Page A

Even with the recent struggles that had disheartened him, whatever they might be, Sebastian still found pleasure in a warm autumn day, the scent of baking, making an elderly housekeeper blush. He still found pleasure in life.
    Although Clara was fiercely glad that those qualities she had so admired as a young woman were very much a part of Sebastian Hall, she didn’t believe they would advance her cause. A man like him would see no purpose in agreeing to a marriage based on practical ends. A man like him would desire a marriage of attraction. A joyous union of love and passion.
    A flush swept up Clara’s neck to sting her cheeks. She could offer him none of those things, and for a moment she faltered in her resolve. This was a fool’s errand, a—
    “I’ll just fetch Mrs. Winter, if you’ll wait in the parlor, sir,” Mrs. Marshall said. “I thought she’d be down by now, so prompt she usually is.”
    Clara inhaled a hard breath and straightened her spine. She descended the stairs with measured steps, nerves twisting through her belly.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Hall.” For the housekeeper’s benefit, Clara managed to keep her voice steady, pitched low, edged with just the right amount of warmth one would use with any welcomed visitor. “Do forgive my tardiness.”
    Sebastian watched her approach the foyer, his dark brown gaze sweeping her from head to toe in an appraisal that sent ripples of heat over her skin. “The two minutes I’ve been standing here were worth the wait.”
    Clara tried to resist the pull of his compliment, but the pleasure of it lightened her heart just a bit, easing her tension. She paused at the foot of the stairs and allowed herself to look at him. His morning coat was pressed and his boots shining, his face shaved clean of whiskers to reveal the hard edges of his cheekbones and jaw. And yet that rough energy still emanated from him with crackling force, as if proclaiming that this man could never be contained by propriety.
    “Do come in.” Clara gestured to the parlor. “Tea, please, Mrs. Marshall.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper puffed off toward the kitchen.
    Clara led Sebastian inside and bade him sit. Her eyes traveled swiftly over the room, though she had spent the morning instructing Mrs. Marshall and Tom on how best to clean and arrange the furnishings.
    Now it appeared perfect—the windows gleaming, every surface clean of dust, the wood polished to a shine. Several vases of flowers bloomed, perfuming the air with sweetness. The bouquets were an expense the household could ill afford, but Clara had only one chance at this, and she needed all the weapons at her disposal. Flowers brightened the room, adding splashes of color that pleased the eye, and their fragrance could soothe an intemperate disposition.
    Moreover, not five minutes ago Sebastian had encouraged Mrs. Marshall to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather, so surely the man would appreciate the beauty of the bouquets.
    Clara swept her hand over the surface of a table, collecting a few shed petals in her palm. She walked to the settee, dropping the petals discreetly into a Grecian urn before taking her place across from her guest.
    “Thank you for coming,” she said.
    He nodded. Although his clothing was pressed to perfection, his hair was still overlong and mussed by the wind. He lifted his left hand as if to drag it through the dark strands, then seemed to think better of the gesture and lowered his hand to his knee. His right hand remained tucked into his pocket. “Is your uncle here?”
    “No.” Now her heart began to pound tangibly. “I don’t expect Uncle Granville back until supper. And Mrs. Fox has gone to the shops.”
    “Ah, well.” He shifted, his shoulders moving beneath the stretch of his coat. A shallow crease formed between his eyes. “So what is this about then, Clara?”
    She loved the way he said her name, as if his voice were embracing it.
    Heat suffused her. She rose in a rustle of