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something.
      
    What does he want?
    Clara concentrated on the task of pouring tea as the question revolved around her mind.
    She couldn’t quite believe Sebastian Hall was here solely to view the automata and mechanical toys. She had thought that the case when he first arrived, but his reaction to the inventions was curious at best, as if he appreciated their novelty but had little interest in the technical details of the machinery.
    But why else would he want to speak with Uncle Granville? If he were considering commissioning a piece or patronizing the museum, then he would have simply said so.
    Wouldn’t he?
    A scratching noise made her turn. Sebastian stood before a shelf, studying a copper cricket that rubbed its wings together and produced a sound akin to a nail scraping over glass.
    “That’s what I referred to when I said my uncle hasn’t yet perfected the accompaniment of music to his inventions,” Clara explained.
    “Clearly.”
    “Are you…ah, may I ask the reason you need to speak with him?” Clara placed a cup on the table.
    He turned, sliding his hands into his pockets with a pianist’s grace. “Lady Rossmore spoke so highly of his work that I thought to see it for myself.” He glanced back at the cricket. “Perhaps I can offer him advice on the musical component.”
    “If you’ll leave your card, I would be happy to give it to my uncle upon his return. I’m certain he’ll contact you straightaway to arrange an appointment.”
    She waited for him to agree and take his departure. Instead he stood looking at her, an intense gaze that appeared to contain more than mere scrutiny.
    His perusal skimmed over her body, heating her from the inside out like hot cocoa on a snowy night. A tingle of warmth skimmed up her arms. Clara’s heart pulsed, a light, gentle tapping reminding her of raindrops on a windowpane.
    Oh, what a pleasure. So different from the thump of dread that constantly beat through her, drowning her in fear. Now, here in this moment with Sebastian Hall watching her with those warm, appreciative brown eyes, a waterfall of light spilled across the black of her soul. His look even seemed powerful enough to soothe her still-blistering knowledge of the court’s final ruling about Wakefield House.
    Sebastian stepped closer. His delicious scent filled her nose, sliding into her veins, awakening a spark that spread through her entire body.
    Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth. She could not help but be fascinated by the shape of his mouth, the curve of his smile, the tilt of his lips. She wondered how it would feel, that beautiful mouth pressed against hers, his whiskers scraping her cheek.
    Oh, dear Lord.
    What was she thinking? What kind of woman was she to imagine such things when all she wanted, the only thing she wanted was to have…
    He touched her. Sebastian slipped his left hand beneath her chin and raised her head so that she had to meet his eyes again. His palm was warm, cupping her chin with the same gentleness he might use to hold a jeweled music box. He studied her face as if he were assessing the value of a rare artifact, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes filled with curiosity.
    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