Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  “There she is,” Clara said to Mrs. Gunther, who was still unaware of what Clara had been up to when she was supposed to be sipping punch. She was now pressing Clara for answers. “Let’s go and tell her that we’ve arrived.”

  Mrs. Gunther led the way around the perimeter of the room. Sophia’s face lit up with a radiant smile when she noticed them. Wearing a Charles Worth gown with gold lace and jewel trimmings, topped off by a sparkling tiara—a requisite among married ladies when royalty was present—Sophia met them halfway, leaving her husband to socialize with a group of gentlemen.

  “Where were you?” Sophia asked. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

  Clara spoke breathlessly. “We went to the wrong ball.”

  “The wrong ball? Which one? And why do you look so pale? Are you unwell?”

  Mrs. Gunther spoke haughtily to Sophia. “It was a disgrace.”

  Clara gazed imploringly at her sister, who knew her well enough to guess that she wished to speak privately. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Gunther. Perhaps Clara and I could have a moment alone. Would you excuse us?”

  Mrs. Gunther’s brow furrowed, but she nodded in agreement and snapped open her plumed fan. “I will wait by the fountain.”

  As soon as Mrs. Gunther left them, Sophia led Clara aside to a private corner. “What happened? You look as white as pastry dough.” She reached into her jeweled purse for an embroidered handkerchief and used it to dab at Clara’s forehead. “Perhaps we should find somewhere to sit down.”

  “I don’t need to sit down. I’m fine. I just need to know where I was.”

  Sophia paused. “How can I possibly—”

  “We had to wear half-masks, and there were no dance cards. Everyone was drinking a tart punch that kicked like a mule, and no one wished to be introduced.”

  Sophia covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “Oh, dear.”

  “What was it?” Clara asked. “Please, tell me.”

  “Were you at Livingston House?”

  “Yes, and what do you mean, ‘Oh, dear’? Tell me, before I lose my mind.”

  “You went to a Cakras Ball,” Sophia finally explained. “But how in the world did you get in?”

  “We had an invitation.”

  “From where?”

  “Mrs. Gunther picked it up from your desk. She couldn’t remember the address of where we were supposed to meet you, so she went through your invitations and thought that Livingston House was the place.”

  Sophia shook her head. “Do you still have the invitation with you?”

  “Yes, here.” Clara pulled the tattered card out of her purse.

  Sophia examined it and touched the small medallion in the corner. “Oh, Clara, I can’t believe you went there. Did anyone see you?”

  “Yes, but we were wearing masks.”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  “Yes. And I danced—twice. No, wait. Three times, actually.”

  “That’s all? You just danced?”

  When Clara didn’t answer right away, Sophia regarded her warily. “Clara, what did you do? Are you all right?”

  The room seemed to be spinning. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “But I was very lucky,” Clara said.

  “How so? What do you mean?”

  Her cheeks flushed with heat at the mere memory of what had occurred with the handsome stranger. “I danced with a man who was very charming. He took me for a glass of punch.”

  “That punch,” Sophia said quietly, “is pure Jamaican rum, with a little juice added for color.”

  “I only had a few sips,” Clara explained. “But then he took me to look at a painting, and we lingered there awhile. He was very handsome and—”

  “Clara, what did you do?”

  “Nothing!” she insisted. “Or rather…something. I went with him into the shadows under the stairs.”

  Sophia went pale. “Did he kiss you?”

  Clara’s inability to answer the question was all that needed to be said. She gazed at her sister imploringly.

  “Was it awful?” Sophia asked.

  “Oh no, it was nothing like that,” Clara replied. “But that’s what makes this so confounding.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Even when I knew it was wrong, I wanted him to kiss me. How is it possible that I could have risked my reputation like that? Again? I thought I’d learned my lesson.”

  Sophia took Clara’s hand. “Hush, now. I know how important it is to you, to be cautious and prudent. But take heart. It could have been worse. He might have believed that you wanted more than just a kiss.”

  “I think he did believe it. At first anyway.”

  “But you told him otherwise? And he accepted that?”

  “He was surprised,” Clara explained, “but as soon as he discovered I was an innocent debutante, he marched me straight back to Mrs. Gunther and insisted that we leave.”

  Sophia shook her head in disbelief. “You were very fortunate to have met that man, Clara, whoever he was. Others might not have been so understanding.”

  “That’s exactly what he said.”

  They stood in silence, listening to the orchestra play a minuet. Finally, Clara’s heart rate slowed.

  “It was like some kind of dream world,” she said. “What are these Cakras Balls?”

  Sophia glanced over her shoulder to ensure that no one was listening. “The Cakras Society is a secret club that no one is supposed to speak about outside of the gatherings, so I must be discreet. They hold balls where the guests may leave the dance floor to engage in trysts in the bedrooms of the house. The MWO stands for ‘married women only,’ and all social rules are relaxed in favor of anonymity and liberation, but most importantly, in favor of pleasure.”

  Clara stared dumbfounded at her sister. “Do husbands and wives go there together?”

  “Some do, but I suspect that most who attend keep their spouses in the dark.”

  “That’s appalling. You mean to tell me that every person I saw there tonight was being unfaithful to a spouse?”

  “Not all of them,” Sophia replied. “As I said, some married couples go together, and many single gentlemen attend.”

  “But how do you know about it, Sophia?”

  Her sister colored. “James was a member of the society before we met.”

  “James, your husband?”

  Sophia nodded. “Yes, and...well... we attended a few of the balls together when we were first married.”

  “You went there? I thought I was the only one who ever did anything wild.”

  Sophia glanced over her shoulder again. “He never left my side, and I must admit, it was wicked fun. We danced as much as we pleased, drank champagne, and slipped away when we felt like it, finding some dark alcove to be alone together.”

  Clara grinned at her. “Sophia, I’m shocked.”

  Her sister gave her a mischievous little smirk. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying one’s husband, and a happy marriage is a gift to everyone involved, including one’s children.”

  Clara laughed quietly. “Leave it to you to find the charity in lovemaking.”

  “You can find anything you desire in lovemaking, Clara, but I should not be telling you these things. Mother would throw me to the hogs if she could hear me now. The point is, you are not yet married, and you should not have gone to that ball.”

  “I’m quite aware, Sophia, but it cannot be undone. You must help me get out of this as smoothly as possible. The last place I want to be is at the center of another scandal.”

  Sophia nodded and walked with Clara around the ballroom. “You told no one who you were? You wore your mask the entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are fortunate in the fact that one of the rules of the Cakras Society is that g
uests do not attend any other social functions in the same evening, to avoid being seen and recognized. We must pray that everyone will be judicious tonight.”

  “There’s a chance they won’t?”

  “A chance, yes. Some people simply don’t care. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to burn that dress you are wearing, and don’t wear that diamond pendant again. And that comb in your hair—bury it at the bottom of one your trunks.”

  Clara glanced anxiously about the room. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “No, you can’t leave now. You still have to dance with the Prince.” She began to primp the trimmings on Clara’s gown. “He has an open mind when it comes to foreigners, being half German himself, and thankfully for us, he has an eye for pretty ladies. And you, my dear sister, are among the prettiest.”

  Sophia smiled, but Clara recognized the worry in her eyes.

  “You must forget about what happened tonight,” Sophia continued, “and bring some color back to your cheeks. I have already spoken to Bertie about you, and he has requested a spot on your card, so you cannot leave without insulting the Crown.”

  Clara nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Then let us find James. It’s time for your Season in London to begin. This time, we’ll begin it properly. Then we’ll take you straight home.”

  Chapter 3

  Dear Adele,

  I take back what I wrote before about London gentlemen being as dull as the Knickerbockers. I met a most fascinating man the other night. I won’t tell you how I met him, only that he was very handsome and very exciting....

  Clara

  “It has become an unqualified stampede.”

  Quintina Wolfe, the Marchioness of Rawdon, tossed the Morning Post onto the breakfast table and reached for her gold-trimmed teacup. “Have you read this yet, Seger?” she asked her stepson, the marquess. “Another American heiress has waltzed into a London ballroom, bold as brass, and danced with the Prince of Wales, and she’s made headlines because of it. I ask you, what is the world coming to?”

  Seger had not read the society pages. He never read anything in the society pages, nor did he ever wish to, but when his stepmother spoke about it that morning, he found himself instantly diverted. He glanced up from his own copy of the paper.

  “I beg your pardon? Did you mention an American?”

  He had not yet managed to sweep last night’s brief but consequential encounter from his mind. He could still hear the young debutante’s sultry voice in that irresistible American accent, and the appealing way she’d purred and shivered when he’d whispered in her ear. He had left the ball early, for he had lost all interest in “dancing” with anyone else after she had departed, but a lot of good that had done him. Through the night, in bed, he could still smell her perfume on his hands, and he couldn’t seem to forget the luster in her eyes. It was a luster he had known only once before in his life, and it bloody well kept him awake all night, tossing and turning like a flounder.

  Quickly, he attributed his sleeplessness to the fact that their “encounter” had been cut short, and because of that he was frustrated. He was, after all, not accustomed to being refused. He had become an expert at spotting fruit that was ripe, and ripe fruit was generally eager to be picked and tasted. Not in many years had he bothered to approach the type of woman who would not be willing or able to take things to the finish. What in God’s name had induced him to mistake a debutante for a seasoned trifler?

  Perhaps it was because she resembled Daphne in certain ways—her dark hair and brown eyes, and her facial expressions. He supposed he had needed a closer look.

  Quintina stabbed the paper with her long, bony finger. “It’s all there in black and white. Read it for yourself. Another tart with obnoxious manners and objectionable breeding has arrived with trunks full of American dollars, hoping to become one of us. Pox on her. She’s a trollop, like all the rest. Honestly, what can they be thinking?”

  Barely listening to his stepmother’s open rant about the Americans, Seger reached for the paper.

  “Did you know,” she said, “that she’s the sister of the Duke of Wentworth’s young American wife, who came from a hovel somewhere in the middle of the country where her ancestors were bootmakers and butchers. But then again…”—Quintina waved a hand— “the duke was not exactly in an enviable position in society, was he? Being so deeply in debt....”

  Seger picked up the paper and found the headline: another american heiress joins stampede to acquire english title.

  The article went on to describe the estimates and sources of her father’s wealth, the young woman’s unparalleled charm, and the details of her attire, mainly her fashionable Worth gown. “It was the color of a fresh magnolia,” the writer said, “with pale blue flower sprays. She wore a diamond pendant and pearls and lilies in her thick, mahogany hair.”

  Seger’s gut began to twist and roll as he read word after word of the excruciatingly disturbing article. The beautiful, bewitching—and idiotic—young temptress from the Cakras Ball. Her name was Clara Wilson.

  What the bloody hell was wrong with the girl? Did she not know she would attract attention by dancing with the Prince of Wales, and that every man who laid eyes on her at Livingston House would be making the connection that morning, licking his chops, and planning how he was either going to ruin her entirely, or use what he knew to squeeze the largest wad possible from her rich American father?

  Everyone had seen Segar dancing with her, too, and Seger was more than recognizable, even in his mask. He was one of the regulars at the Cakras Balls and had never tried to hide it. All of society knew he avoided ambitious young debutante’s like he avoided the plague, for he was not interested in becoming anyone’s prized acquisition.

  He knew what real love was. He’d had it once, and he knew it could not be arranged, or bought, or snuffed out by a strict and sometimes cruel social code.

  He would not marry to please his tenants or the royal court or his stepmother. Especially his stepmother. Such a path had been forced upon him once, and it would not be forced upon him again. It was a matter of principle now. He would not surrender to it. Besides, he preferred his life exactly the way it was.

  He gazed coldly at Quintina. There were many things not yet forgotten. Or forgiven.

  Seger raked a hand through his hair and pushed the still-glowing embers of resentment down into the deepest corners of his being where they belonged. They did him no good out in the open. What was done was done, and he could not change the past.

  He turned his attention back to the paper and read the rest of the article about the American. No doubt, there would be conjecture about his intentions if their encounter at the Cakras Ball became known. Everyone would wonder if he would marry her. Some would expect him to, for he had compromised her reputation by disappearing with her under the stairs.

  “Bloody hell.” Seger crumpled the paper in his fist, whirled around and threw it into the fire. This was precisely why he did not flirt with debutantes. He did not wish to marry until he was good and ready, and he was not ready now. He would not be forced. His marriage would be on his own terms.

  Seger watched the newspaper shrink as the red flame consumed it, then he faced the table again.

  His stepmother was staring at him in stunned silence, her thin-lipped mouth dangling open. After a second or two, she raised an eyebrow. “Well done, Seger. That’s exactly what I wanted to do with that paper.”

  Just then, her niece, Gillian Flint, entered the breakfast room. Gillian was visiting from Wales, enjoying her first London Season under the chaperonage of her aunt. From what Seger had heard from his stepmother, the young woman had been a great success so far.

  Gillian removed her spectacles, smoothed her skirt and sat down.

  Quintina furiously buttered her roll. “I wish we could do the same to that American heiress, and all the others
like her. Throw them into the fire. We have our own English girls to arrange into marriages and we should not have to suffer this kind of vulgar, garish invasion. They think they can buy their way in. It is simply shocking.”

  Nostrils flaring, she returned to her breakfast, and Seger turned his attention away from her. He could not eat another bite, however, for he now knew the American girl’s name.

  It was Clara. Clara Wilson.

  Seven days later, Clara waited in the drawing room at Wentworth House for Sophia, James, and Mrs. Gunther. They were about to embark upon yet another exhausting evening of society balls and assemblies.

  She gazed at herself in the enormous gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace, fiddled absentmindedly with one of her earrings, and wondered if the mysterious masked Casanova she had met a week ago would recognize her if they met again.

  Thankfully, no one else had recognized her. At least she didn’t think so. There had been some concern after that crass article in the paper, but when Clara went out the next evening and the evening after that, nothing untoward had occurred. It seemed the English were as discreet and reserved as they led the rest of the world to believe. Or perhaps no one wanted to stir up a scandal and make a fool of the Prince of Wales.

  Clara moved away from the mirror and sat down, wondering who she might meet that night. She had become acquainted with dozens of young aristocrats over the past week, but could picture none of their faces now, though she had been able to look at them fully and without restrictions for many minutes. The only face she could conjure in her imagination possessed a pair of striking green eyes and a full mouth, a deeply dimpled chin and a strong, square jaw below a narrow black mask. Clara knew she would spend most of her evening thinking about her secret paramour, searching room after room for that thick, golden hair and striking, charismatic presence.

  Sophia, James and Mrs. Gunther entered the room, and they all made their way through the doorway and into the coach.