Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

“It is entirely my pleasure, Miss Wilson.”

  Not knowing what to expect, Clara took a seat next to Sophia, who poured her a cup of tea. The conversation then turned toward the usual topics—the current events in The Times, the most recent debates in the House of Commons, and of course, the most agreeable topic that could always be depended upon for propriety—the weather.

  At the end of the obligatory fifteen minutes, the marquess reached for his hat and walking stick. “I must thank you, duchess, for a delicious cup of tea. It was second to none.”

  His behavior was impeccable. He moved toward the door. One would think he had been a respectable member of society forever.

  He bowed toward Clara. “Miss Wilson.” Then he turned and left the drawing room.

  As soon as the front doors opened and closed downstairs, Sophia rushed to Clara and took hold of both her hands. “He came to call.”

  Clara didn’t know what she felt. She was in shock. She was confused. What exactly did he want—a torrid affair or a proper courtship? Perhaps he had changed his mind after he’d sent the last letter. Perhaps he was giving in to the idea of reforming himself.

  “I wonder if we should call on his stepmother,” Sophia said. “Lady Rawdon seemed to enjoy herself here the other night. I believe she was pleased to receive the invitation. From what I’ve heard, she has not been received in most houses, not since the marquess was involved in that beastly court case.”

  Clara sat down again. She picked up her teacup and took a sip but set it down again when she realized it was cold. Sophia sat beside her. “He came for you, Clara. You’re the one he wanted to see.”

  “But he has a reputation, and I am quite certain that Mrs. Gunther disapproves of him.”

  “It’s your future. You are the one who must choose, and it’s obvious that you fancy him.”

  “But how do I choose when I still know so little about the marquess, except that he is not respectable? The Duke of Guysborough on the other hand is very well regarded, but he does not interest me, not the way the marquess does. Perhaps it’s just a foolish desire to possess something that cannot be possessed—like the wind or the sun.” She gazed imploringly into her sister’s eyes. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. My head is telling me that he is all wrong, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  Sophia rested her hand on Clara’s. “Sometimes the heart does not make sense. It only knows what it feels. I still believe that the marquess should not be ruled out as a possible match for you. He came here today, which suggests that he is at least willing to make an effort to act respectably. Perhaps he does want to change. Perhaps he was only waiting to be invited back into good society, and now that he has been, he will be able to court proper, unmarried young ladies like yourself and look to a brighter future. Perhaps that just wasn’t an option for him before.”

  Clara narrowed her eyes at her sister. “First of all, I do not want him courting proper, unmarried young ladies like myself. I only want him to court me. But do you think there’s hope for him? That I should give him a chance?”

  “He came here today. He made a promising effort. Yes, I do think you should give him a chance.”

  But you haven’t read his letters.

  Oh, who was Clara trying to fool? She knew very well that she could no more forget him than she could forget to breathe. Perhaps she simply had to leap in headfirst and take a risk. If it all blew up in her face and he broke her heart, well, she would simply have to live with that. At least that way, she would never have to ask herself, what if?

  She only hoped he was as discreet as he claimed to be in his last letter, and that he would not lead her down a winding path to ruin.

  Chapter 8

  Dear Clara,

  The marquess sounds like a very dangerous man....

  Adele

  Seger walked out of Wentworth House and wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. What was it about Clara Wilson that brought him to such heights of desire? It was entirely out of his realm of experience. It bordered on obsession.

  He climbed into his coach and tapped his walking stick against the roof to signal the driver, then he tried to ground himself. He labored to remember the sorts of relationships he was accustomed to. He was not like other men. He was not seeking a socially acceptable wife. He enjoyed his life exactly the way it was.

  Why then, had he just taken the first step toward a proper courtship with a respectable young lady, after swearing to both himself and the lady in question, through a number of audacious letters, that he was only interested in a brief, secret affair? The usual stuff where he was concerned. He had made it clear in no uncertain terms that that was what he wanted, but at the last second, after he sent the letter, he panicked—yes, panicked—and feared he had gone too far, come on too strong. Consequently, he made a complete about-face and bloody well contradicted himself. He had called upon her. Properly.

  He remembered suddenly that he had dreamed about her the night before. Seger felt a disturbing jolt of confusion, as if two conflicting musical notes were chiming in his head at the same time. He winced at the discord.

  He wasn’t even sure what he wanted at this point. It had been a number of years since he’d desired a woman who was innocent. (Presuming the heiress was in fact untouched, which he did presume, rightly or wrongly).

  Daphne had been innocent. He had loved her unreservedly without any thought to whether or not it was wise. That led to disaster.

  He was, however, no longer a boy. He was a man, and he was the Marquess of Rawdon. His father was no longer alive to dictate Seger’s future. If Seger wished to marry someone completely unsuitable—such as a bold American heiress—no one could stand in his way.

  Seger chided himself. He did not wish to marry Miss Wilson. He certainly didn’t need her money. He only wanted her in the physical sense. He wanted to hear her sigh with contentment after he’d brought her to the most ferocious climax she’d ever experienced in her life—all the better if it was her first. What he wouldn’t give to show her that kind of pleasure for the first time.

  Which was, he supposed, the primary problem. One couldn’t enjoy an innocent without repercussions. Without responsibility and commitment and permanence. Without the young woman’s expectations of love and devotion.

  He had been living too long outside the lines. He’d forgotten how to play by the rules. After Daphne died, he’d lived the life he’d wanted to live, without caring what other people thought about him or wanted from him. Women especially. He had removed that particular instinct from his repertoire and chose to offer a different sort of pleasure altogether. He was renowned for it, and the women with whom he associated rarely expected anything outside of that infamous reputation. They knew the rules, knew what he could give them, and most of them accepted it quite happily without making the mistake of asking for more.

  Because he always made it very clear he would not give them more.

  Wouldn’t or couldn’t?

  He took a small breath. He wasn’t sure. It seemed like he had always been isolated. Emotionally removed from everyone—from society, his family, his acquaintances. He’d never had any brothers or sisters.

  Was his lifestyle really by choice, or was he incapable of intimacy?

  No, he could not be incapable of it. He had loved once, very deeply.

  But only once. Eight years ago, when he had been devoted to Daphne.

  Was it possible for a man to permanently banish from his heart the capacity for true emotional connections with other people?

  Seger exhaled and shook his head. How many times over the past few weeks had he questioned his lifestyle and remembered Daphne? He hadn’t thought of her in years, but lately, their relationship had been coming back to him in little flashes of memory.

  Perhaps it was the way Miss Wilson made him feel. She, like Daphne, possessed innocence, and consequently
whatever existed between them was fresh, not sordid as most of his relationships had been since Daphne left this world.

  Suddenly, he felt dissatisfied with everything about his life. He remembered the things he had wanted when he was twenty, and how eager he had been to become someone’s husband. He had wanted Daphne to be his partner for life, to share his joys and pains. He’d wanted a home filled with children.

  He sat in silence, staring unseeing out the window at the passing traffic, barely hearing the clatter of the coach or the noise from the street. He had not wanted anything like that since then. He had given the idea of marriage a very wide berth.

  Seger tipped his head back against the seat. Daphne disappeared from his mind.

  Instead he thought of Miss Wilson sitting in the duchess’s drawing room across from him only moments ago, sipping her tea. What a vision she had been, beautiful and charming and glowing with smiles. Intelligent as well, discussing light politics and other things. She was a remarkable woman, and she inflamed his senses like no other. She possessed some kind of magic. A power that he feared could bring him to his knees.

  Strange, how he feared it and wanted it at the same time.

  Then he thought of Clara reading the last letter he had sent. He imagined how she had comprehended his promise not to ruin her. I know how to give pleasure without destruction. What was her expression when she’d read such licentious words? Surely no gentleman had ever written anything like that to her before.

  He felt a sudden urge to apologize—a strange and extraordinary impulse for Seger, who had written similar things to other women in the past and never thought twice about it. It was a jarring reaction now. He wished he could take the letter back. He wished he could start over where she was concerned and handle everything differently. More politely.

  Those thoughts brought a frown to his face.

  Wearing a low cut, royal blue velvet gown and feathers in her hair, Clara walked into the large opera box with James, Sophia, and Mrs. Gunther. Before she sat down, she glanced at the brightly lit theater below. People were filing into rows, taking their seats. A hum of conversation filled the auditorium while the orchestra warmed up with a dissonant array of violins, flutes and trumpets, all practicing scales.

  Many seats below were still empty. Clara gazed across to the other side where the more luxurious boxes were filling up. She found herself staring at every fair-haired man who caught her eye, searching for one in particular.

  “It’s quite a magnificent theater,” Mrs. Gunther said as she sat down and withdrew her mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her beaded reticule. She held them up to her eyes to examine the elaborate set on the stage.

  Clara sat down as well, while Sophia and James remained standing at the back near the open curtain, conversing with someone.

  It had been a full week since Clara had seen or heard from Lord Rawdon, and she was desperate to know why. She had not responded to his last letter, taking a chance that his unexpected afternoon call had been his way of retreating from the scandalous nature of their acquaintance and beginning a proper courtship. She had watched for him at every social event since, hoping he would continue his re-emergence into society, but she was disappointed at every turn.

  She began to wonder if she had made a mistake in not replying to his letter. Perhaps he had taken her silence as a rebuff.

  It seemed all she ever did where he was concerned was analyze the situation and wonder endlessly what he was thinking or how her actions had been received. If only they could be honest with each other and communicate freely and candidly.

  She supposed that was what he’d been trying to do when he wrote those scandalous letters. He’d wanted to escape the pretensions of the Marriage Mart, which he openly admitted to despising.

  Just then, someone touched Clara’s shoulder. She turned to discover that the tall Duke of Guysborough had entered the box.

  “Good evening, Miss Wilson.” He moved to the empty chair beside her and sat down. “It’s been an exceptional week for entertainment, has it not?”

  She had encountered the duke at most of the assemblies and balls she’d attended the past few days and had danced with him more than once. “It certainly has been,” she replied. “How is your mother?”

  They talked about the dowager’s health, then discussed the opera they were about to see. Mrs. Gunther listened politely to all that was said and smiled and nodded with approval. Then the duke gave his farewell and stood up to converse with James for a few more minutes before leaving the box.

  “What a charming gentleman,” Mrs. Gunther said, leaning in close.

  Almost too charming, Clara thought. Too perfect. Could she live up to that sort of ideal on a daily basis?

  “I believe he fancies you,” Mrs. Gunther added.

  Sensing that the performance was about to begin, Clara reached into her purse for her opera glasses. “It’s difficult to say. He’s very friendly to everyone.”

  “Yes, but especially to you. I’ve been keeping count of his dancing partners and you hold the highest honor for most waltzes each night.”

  Clara raised her opera glasses and looked more closely at the stage decorations. “I didn’t realize you were keeping count of anything.”

  “Only because he’s such an excellent prospect. Has he spoken to you about his children?”

  “A few times, yes.”

  “He has only one son, you know. The boy is eight I believe.”

  Clara continued to use the opera glasses to discreetly search the boxes on the other side of the theater.

  “I would suspect,” Mrs. Gunther continued, “that he would like to have more sons to secure his line. One can’t take chances with a dukedom.”

  Clara perused each box and peered at the audience below.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Mrs. Gunther said, sitting forward and looking over the rail. “I ask you, what down there could possibly be more interesting than the Duke of Guysborough?”

  “I’m just looking at the fashions, Mrs. Gunther. There are some lovely gowns this evening.”

  Mrs. Gunther continued to peruse the audience below. “Poppycock. You’re looking for that disreputable marquess. Is he here?”

  Clara sat back and stared at Mrs. Gunther. “No, I do not believe he is.”

  “Good.” She sat back, too, and lowered her voice. “He is not the sort you should mix with, Clara. I realize he is a peer, but his reputation overshadows that fact. There is your own reputation to think of. I must insist that in the future, you give him the cut direct.”

  “Cut him? I couldn’t do anything like that.”

  “You must, in order to deliver a clear message. You cannot afford to sully yourself. You mustn’t do anything to discourage more respectable men—like the duke—from considering you as a bride. You must convey perfection.”

  “I’m hardly perfect, Mrs. Gunther. No one is.”

  “But some people are more perfect than others, and despite his elevated rank, the marquess is very low down on that scale. The gossip about him, may I say, is detestable.”

  Clara was beginning to feel ill. “Gossip can sometimes be exaggerated.”

  “Do not defend him, dear girl. Even if it is exaggerated, appearances are as important, if not more important, than the truth.”

  Clara knew she shouldn’t argue with Eva Gunther, a grand New York matriarch, but she couldn’t help herself. Her hands had closed into tight fists. “How can you say that? What if he is, in actuality, a good man, merely misunderstood?”

  Not that she believed that herself. She had no idea. Well, she had some idea. Judging by the letters he had sent, he was every bit as notorious as the gossips claimed.

  “It wouldn’t matter.”

  The lights dimmed and James and Sophia took their seats. The curtain at the back of the box lowered as if by magic.


  Clara sat stiffly in her seat, contemplating everything Mrs. Gunther had said. She felt a great pressure squeezing around her heart at that moment—an obligation to ignore what she wanted and do what was expected of her.

  Another part of her, in angry response, wanted to see the marquess again for the single purpose of rebellion. Of proving that he was not all bad, and also to prove that she had a mind and will of her own and she would not relinquish her personal happiness for the mere sake of appearances.

  Clara chided herself. She had felt this way once before, and there had been terrible consequences.

  The opera began. Clara sat agitated for a while, then she tried to calm down and use the time to come to terms with what Mrs. Gunther had said. The woman could not be faulted for acting in a way that she believed was in Clara’s best interest. The woman came from a very old family, after all. She had traditional values that were not easy to renounce.

  Clara sighed.

  Who was she fooling? She knew she could never act rebelliously for the mere sake of rebelling. She had learned to be smarter than that. Well, most of the time.

  She raised her glasses and glanced at the box across the way and saw the Duke of Guysborough sitting alone, watching the opera. His wife had probably occupied the seat beside him when she was alive. How sad that she had died so young and left her husband and children behind. Clara felt a strong wave of sympathy for the man.

  Perhaps she was being foolhardy, dreaming about a wild, dishonorable marquess when a decent, genteel man with proven high moral and family values was within her reach, expressing his interest in her. Treating her with the utmost gentlemanly respect.

  Clara lowered her opera glasses and sighed heavily, then promised herself she would keep an open mind.

  Three days later, the Duke of Guysborough called upon Clara. He walked into the drawing room, sat down on a sofa, and proposed.

  Sitting opposite him, in a chintz upholstered chair, Clara stared at him blankly.

  “I would be a good husband to you, Miss Wilson,” he said. “I am highly regarded by the queen herself. My estate is comprised of some of the most prestigious lands in England, and my children are obedient. You would almost never see them.”