Never see them? That was supposed to be a good thing?
“You would become a duchess, like your sister,” he added with a proud nod.
Clara tried to think straight. It was the offer of a lifetime. Hundreds of young women on both sides of the Atlantic would give anything to be in her shoes at this moment. Why then, could she not feel her toes?
Clara tried to smile. “You flatter me, Your Grace. I had not expected such a wonderful speech from you today.”
Just before he’d proposed, he had told her that she was lovely—a rare jewel. Purity and perfection.
But she was not perfect. She was far from it. Would he still want her if he knew the passions that dwelled in her heart? Passions of the mind as well as the flesh? She suspected that any wife of his would have to hide or completely smother that side of herself.
“May I deliver good news to my family this evening?” he asked.
Clara’s skin prickled all over. It was too much too soon. How could she possibly accept? At the same time, she did not want to pass up this opportunity—which was indeed a great boon—and later live to regret it.
“Your Grace, you must give me some time to think about it. I am honored by your proposal, truly I am, but as I’m sure you can understand, I must consult my family on the matter.”
He smiled. “Of course you must. It is an important decision. I’m sure they will guide you in the right direction. Shall I return tomorrow?”
“That would be very good of you.”
He made a bow and took his leave.
Clara sat in her chair, unable to move. The walls seemed to be closing in all around her. The Duke of Guysborough had just proposed marriage, and before twenty-four hours were out, she must make the biggest decision of her life and choose her destiny.
She stood up and went to the window to watch the duke step into his carriage and drive away. He was a handsome, distinguished man, admired by the Queen of England. Mrs. Gunther approved of him. Clara’s parents would undoubtedly also approve. The duke had been married once before and had from all accounts been a good husband.
He was, as some would say, a sure thing. As far as appearances went, he was exactly what she wanted. Or at least what her head told her she wanted. Her heart told her something else, however. There was something about him that didn’t ring true. He was simply too perfect.
The carriage disappeared at the end of the street, and Clara turned away from the window.
Sophia entered. “Did he propose?”
Feeling almost numb inside, Clara nodded.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I would give him an answer tomorrow.”
“I see.” Looking worried, Sophia regarded Clara. “Are you still thinking about the marquess? Because I don’t think he’s the sort of man who would offer a proposal marriage quite so quickly.” She moved fully into the room and stood before Clara, who felt suddenly nauseous.
Sophia continued. “What do you want, Clara?”
“I don’t know. Or rather, I do know, or at least I thought I did. I want to marry a man who will be a good husband. A man I can respect. Everyone is telling me that the duke is that man, yet my heart is not quite so certain. He said something about his children today. He suggested that I would never have to see them—as if that would make me more likely to accept his offer. What does that say about his love for them, and his devotion to his family?”
Sophia nodded with understanding.
“Besides,” Clara added, “I am still attracted to the marquess.”
Sophia led Clara to the sofa and sat down. “I remember what it felt like when I was falling in love with James. If I had been pressured to marry someone else, I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t envy you.”
“If only I could see the marquess again.”
“But would it make a difference?” Sophia asked. “I believe the marquess would require a fair bit of wooing, so to speak, to be enticed into marriage, and unfortunately you don’t have time to do that. It’s a shame the duke had not waited a little longer and given you a chance to get to know him better.”
“You know me too well, Sophia.” Clara gazed down at her hands on her lap. “What am I going to do?”
Sophia shrugged. “Only you know the answer to that question. It’s your future.”
After a long pause, Clara looked into her sister’s eyes. “I must see him again.”
Sophia considered that for a moment. “I suppose you could send him a note and tell him that you’ve received an offer. That might give him a little nudge.”
“But I don’t want to pressure him into proposing to me. I just want to see him and talk to him. Find out for sure if there is any hope.”
“But would you be prepared to refuse a decent man’s offer on the off chance that a notorious rake might reform?”
Clara stared out the window again. “I’m not sure. That’s what I need to find out.”
Clara sat alone in her room that evening and read all the letters again. After some careful deliberation, she knew that the time for playful flirtations must come to an end. She could not simply wait and hope that the marquess would appear at a society ball. She had to take the bull by the horns.
She dipped her pen in the ink and scrolled a quick note.
Dear Lord Rawdon,
I must see you. Can we arrange a time?
C.
Clara sealed the letter and gave it to a footman with instructions to deliver it immediately. He returned an hour later with a reply.
Miss Wilson,
The urgency of your letter intrigues me. My carriage will be outside of Wentworth House this evening at two a.m.
S.
Two a.m.! Clara could barely believe her eyes. Did he think she would be able to convince her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, to escort her out to a gentleman’s carriage at that hour of the night?
Obviously not.
Which was precisely the point. He expected her to sneak out alone.
Clara squeezed her forehead in her hand. Could she do such a thing? Perhaps this was fate attempting to provide the evidence she required to prove that the marquess was not the man for her.
Or perhaps it was the opposite. This was fate delivering the real marquess to her on a silver platter. Alone without pretensions. Without restrictions. There was no time, after all, to get to know the real man through superficial encounters in crowded drawing rooms.
He’d told her she could trust him to do everything in his power to protect her from ruin, and oddly enough, she did trust him in that regard. Every instinct she possessed—and she was operating wholly on instinct where the marquess was concerned—told her that he would not ravish her if he had the chance. He had on two other occasions proven that to be true when he’d instructed her to leave the Cakras Balls and not return.
Her belly swarmed with apprehension. Could she sneak out of the house undetected and not get caught?
By Jove, she was going to try.
Chapter 9
Dear Adele,
Have you met anyone interesting in New York? I hope there are some new faces, because sometimes I fear that I will be a complete failure here and end up back there before I have a chance to blink.
Love,
Clara
Wearing a dark gown, no jewels and sensible shoes, Clara tiptoed down the stairs, then down another flight to exit the quiet house through the servants’ back entrance. She left the door unlocked and moved quickly through the foggy night along the side of the house to the front—where indeed, a carriage was waiting in the shadows across the street, a considerable distance away from the nearest street lamp.
She approached slowly, her heart pounding like a mallet in her chest. This was an adventure, to be sure, but presently the excitement was translating into a dreadful, nauseating knot in her st
omach, for she did not know what to expect. She had never been out alone at night before, nor had she ever agreed to such a scandalous, secret rendezvous with a rake. In his carriage. Just the two of them.
She neared the shiny black vehicle and circled around the back of it. The door opened onto the sidewalk and light from inside the carriage spilled onto the ground. The marquess stepped out into the chilly mist. He wore formal attire—a black jacket, white waistcoat and white necktie. No hat or gloves.
“I knew you would come.” He stepped forward and kissed her gloved hand. “Your carriage awaits.”
Clara glanced over her shoulder. The large coach blocked the view from the house, so Clara could at least relax about being seen.
He assisted her inside, then climbed in and closed the door.
A small lamp gave the lush, leather interior a dim, dreamlike glow while crimson velvet curtains covered the windows. Clara tried to breathe normally as she sat down and arranged her skirts.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Nowhere. We’ll remain here. Unless you want to go somewhere.”
She shook her head. “No, here is fine. Then I can leave when I wish.”
You’re thinking out loud, Clara.
“Precisely my thought as well.” With all his attention focused on her, he rested an arm along the back of the seat behind her.
She stared at his face. He was so handsome in the lamplight, it hurt just to look at him.
“So, tell me,” he said with a friendly, open expression, “what was the emergency?”
Clara tried to think clearly. She did not wish to tell him that she brought him here to inform him that someone had proposed to her. She was certain he would not be attracted to such desperation—a single woman carrying a torch for him, begging to see him immediately and sneaking out in the middle of the night to do so. He’d bolt like a fox. He would think she was entertaining foolish, romantic hopes that he, too, would propose, when in actuality, Clara was doing everything possible to shun those hopes.
“It wasn’t an emergency,” she said, “I just suddenly realized that I did not respond to your last letter, and I haven’t seen you for an entire week.”
The marquess was quiet for a moment, then he began to stroke her arm with the tip of his finger. “You know, I thought I might have shocked you with that last letter. Did I?”
She cleared her throat. “No. Well, perhaps a little.”
He continued to stroke her forearm, causing gooseflesh to erupt in every corner of her body.
“You can take off your glove if you like,” he said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
He merely shrugged.
She gazed at him for a moment that felt electrified, then swallowed hard and took both gloves off. She set them on the seat beside her.
It was strange that on all their previous encounters—except the first perhaps—she had felt confident around him and had become bold and flirtatious. Tonight, she was nothing of the sort. She was nervous and frazzled and shaky. He had all the power.
As if he could read her mind, he said, “You mustn’t worry. There’s no need to be nervous.”
She swallowed uneasily. “I can’t help it. It’s very late and we are very much alone and… I shouldn’t be out here with you. I have no idea what to expect. Will we talk? Or are you going to kiss me?”
Amused by the question, he chuckled. “What would you like to do?”
“Talk,” she instantly replied. “At least, to begin with.”
His expression warmed and he leaned back. “For the record, I prefer to talk first, as well. What would you like to discuss?”
Clara considered it. “Well, here in your carriage at two a.m., I doubt that polite rules apply, so can we get around talking about the weather?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I would like to ask some questions I’ve been told are too forward for polite society. Tell me about your family and your home and your childhood. I would also like to know something about your past romantic affairs.”
His head drew back with surprise, but he still looked amused. “I’ll tell you anything as long as you promise to oblige me the same way.”
“I’d be happy to.”
He casually pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “Where shall I begin?”
“How about with school?”
“All right, then.” He told her about attending Charterhouse and she learned that he’d been an exceptional student, academically.
“Were you well-behaved as well?”
“I was a model student, usually a favorite of my professors and prefects. I was one of the few lucky ones who never once received a caning.”
Clara grinned. “An achievement to be sure, but I doubt it was luck if you were well-behaved. Did you attend university?”
“Yes, I went to Cambridge, then I went abroad for a few years to Paris and India.” He told her about his travels, the things he had seen and done.
Clara listened to everything with keen ears, fascinated by all of it, soon forgetting that she was there on a mission to gather information and decide whether or not he was redeemable.
They chatted about their favorite pastimes, unusual tastes, embarrassing moments. The marquess had a surprising interest in botany. Clara enjoyed sketching people’s faces. The marquess once posed for an inexperienced artist in Paris who was attempting to paint Zeus. It turned out very badly. Clara had once drawn a picture that made the model look like a pomegranate.
He could be very amusing, she discovered as she laughed at his tales. He seemed to greatly enjoy many little things in life, like the sound of a dog snoring, or a warm hat on a cold day.
Before Clara knew it, an hour had passed, and she realized she had not uncovered half of what she’d wanted to learn about this man. There suddenly seemed to be much more to learn than she had initially imagined.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“No. My mother had a difficult time bringing me into the world and the doctor told her not to have any more children. Seven years went by and she made the mistake of forgetting his advice. She and the baby died before she made it to the birthing bed.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you remember much about her?”
His expression softened. “She was a quiet, unassuming woman, and very kind. When my father remarried, he chose a more outspoken woman—my stepmother—but they were unfortunately unable to have children, which I believe partly explains the marchioness’s deep affection for her niece.”
“Miss Flint? The young woman who attended my sister’s assembly?”
“Yes. Her own mother died a few years ago. She was Quintina’s twin.”
“Ah, it’s no wonder she is close to her.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Clara answered the marquess’s questions about her upbringing and education in America. She described her early childhood in Wisconsin, what it was like living in a one-room cabin in the woods before her father moved them to the city and slowly but surely earned his fortune on Wall Street. She told him about learning to speak French in Paris with her sisters, and she described her etiquette training in finishing school.
Then she decided it was time to broach a new subject. “What about your affairs?” she asked directly, knowing she had to become more efficient in this conversational quest before it was time to go back inside. “That woman from the divorce case. Did you love her?”
He sat forward slightly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. No, I did not love her, but neither was the sentiment returned.”
“How long were you involved with her?”
“Only a few months. She was a regular patron of the Cakras Balls. I was not the only man she carried on with but was I the only witness in court that day.” He looked away for a few seconds. “She wa
s a kind-hearted woman. Quite witty on occasions.”
“Where is she now?” Clara asked.
“She went to Ireland. Her husband is still here, though he hides away in the country most of the time.”
Clara settled back onto the deeply buttoned upholstery. “Have you never been serious with anyone?”
“Ah. The questions are becoming more interesting, aren’t they.” He gazed up at the roof of the coach. “Yes, I was serious once.”
Clara sat forward. “How serious?”
“As serious as a young man can get. I was in love and wanted to be married.”
Clara nearly lost her breath.
“You’re surprised,” he said.
“Well, yes.” But it was more than that. A thousand questions were darting around inside her brain. “Why didn’t you marry her?”
“Because I was young and according to my father and stepmother, not aware of the ‘importance’ of my marriage. I was heir to a very old title, and I had the unfortunate luck of falling in love with a merchant’s daughter. Not even a very prosperous merchant, at that.”
Still digesting her shock, Clara probed further. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen. I knew within a week that she was the one for me, and I was hers, secretly, for four years before I proposed. When my father learned of it, he was livid. The marriage was of course forbidden, and she was sent away, rather unexpectedly.”
“By whom?”
“My father.”
Clara was brimming with curiosity. “Where did she go?”
“He sent her to America, but the ship sank, halfway across the Atlantic.”
A lump formed in Clara’s throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He looked the other way toward the small red velvet curtain that covered the window. “It was a long time ago.”
“Have you not cared for anyone since then?”
He turned to look at her again. “I’ve cared for many.”
Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2) Page 10