Her partner righted her and continued on without missing a beat, holding her hand out again, where it should be.
Clara’s mouth felt suddenly dry. In fact, she could hardly breathe. Did this man always have this debilitating effect on women? If so, she was in for an engaging, perhaps difficult, first season here if she ever encountered him again.
They danced a little longer, and she noticed his pace was slowing, growing more leisurely. Clara found herself now avoiding his gaze. He had knocked her off kilter with that last little flirtation.
The waltz ended, and the orchestra paused. The sound of pages turning filled the silence. Clara raised a hand to her cheek and felt a bit faint in the heat of the room. Or perhaps it was this man’s effect on her that was causing her to feel fuzzy-headed.
He sensed her distress with perfectly timed precision. “Would you like a cool drink? There is a punch bowl in the supper room.”
“Please,” she replied.
He offered his arm, and she permitted him to escort her into the next room, where a long buffet table was overflowing with tea cakes and crumpets, large bowls of colorful fruit, clotted cream and towers of frosted peaches. There were shellfish on silver platters, cheeses and meats, and cakes and candies and berries.
The gentleman led her to the punch bowl, filled a glass and handed it to her. She took three large gulps before she realized it was burning her throat. It tasted bitter with some sort of spirit.
She tried to swallow without croaking or making any facial contortions, then smiled politely at him and carefully set the cup on the table. She wasn’t about to have any more of that beverage, whatever it was. She didn’t want to end up smelling like a distillery.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes, better.” Except that my throat is on fire! She tried to clear it. “Thank you.” Her response barely squeaked out of her.
“Would you like to see the Fuseli? It’s in the main hall.”
She swallowed again. “I’m not sure that I should be away from my—”
“You can’t come to Livingston House and not see the Fuseli.”
Clara looked up at his elegant mouth, heard the sound of his seductive voice, and felt a buzzing sensation somewhere deep within herself, along with a desire to follow him wherever he led her.
“I suppose I could go and have a peek.”
“‘Have a peek.’ What a charming American expression.”
He offered his arm to her again, and she went with him to the main hall, determined to take one look at the Fuseli, then politely thank her partner and ask him to escort her back to Mrs. Gunther.
Out in the hall, other couples were whispering quietly in corners, and Clara found the whole atmosphere somewhat dreamlike. The ladies seemed to float around as if bewitched by something, and the gentlemen spoke in hushed tones. The masks gave it all a rather mysterious flavor, as if they were all supposed to keep some great collective secret.
Clara attributed her odd perceptions to the few sips of champagne she’d had, and that scalding beverage in the punch bowl.
Her handsome escort stopped before a painting that hung at the bottom of a wide, circular staircase. “Here it is.”
Clara looked up. “It’s The Nightmare.”
She sensed the man quietly studying her face. “You know your art.”
“Yes, though I’ve only read about this one. I had no idea it would be so...”
“So what?”
“So...” Dare she say it? She looked up at the curvaceous contours of the sleeping woman’s breasts beneath her gown, her arm limp and flung down to the floor. “So erotic.” She continued to stare in silence at the details: the grinning devil, the luminescent horse entering the bedchamber from some other, unnatural world.
She could feel those gleaming green eyes beside her, watching her, taking in her response to the painting.
The man leaned closer. “Some say it leads to the dark recesses of the mind.”
The heat of his breath in her ear caused a wave of gooseflesh to surge across her skin.
He moved silently behind her as she studied the painting, and his presence at her back was more unsettling than anything she saw in The Nightmare, for the man standing at his ease behind her was true flesh and blood, sumptuous and beautiful, and he was breathing hotly against the damp back of her neck.
“My word, but you are lovely,” he whispered.
Unaccustomed to such open flattery, Clara grew breathless. “Thank you.”
“Your perfume…strawberries.”
She turned to meet his gaze and tried to imagine what he would look like without his mask. He must surely be the most handsome man in all of London. He certainly had more charm and appeal than anyone she had ever met in New York or Paris.
“Come with me, darling,” he said softly.
He was smiling now, like that grinning devil in the painting. He took her hand and slowly backed up. Captivated by the playful glint in his eyes and the engaging way he looked at her, Clara followed him around the bottom of the staircase until she realized, with hazy, besotted awareness, that he was leading her away, into the dim, private shadows beneath the stairs.
Chapter 2
Warning bells rang inside Clara’s head, but a more willful part of her nature—the part that wanted to experience what this man offered—somehow managed to silence them.
He backed up against the wall, pulled her toward him until her breasts were pressed firmly, thrillingly against his chest, and with a smile, he leaned close for a kiss.
It was one of those life-altering moments, when all that she believed about herself would be tested. Clara should have stopped him. She should have placed her hand on his chest and pushed him back, but alas, she did not. She did nothing to stop the snowball from rolling, nor did she try to control her desires, for there in the dark, she and this gentleman were hidden from view.
He was the most exciting man she’d ever encountered. After two long years of self-inflicted emotional repression to try and fit into a strict, upper-class society, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to taste freedom. She wanted to burst forth like a flash flood, breaking through a dam.
She gazed into the man’s eyes and felt her proper convictions break.
His eyes were smiling when he kissed her. His tongue swept in and touched hers with the confident skill of an experienced lover, heating her blood and igniting a fire that roared like a monster in her ears. She swayed into the kiss and into his body, relying on his strong hands around her waist to keep her steady through her knees, which incidentally, in the last few seconds, had turned to warm pudding.
If she had any sense at all, she would put a stop to this immediately, but her lusty curiosity wouldn’t allow her proper scruples to gain a foothold. She’d never imagined a London ball would be as exciting as this. It felt like she was dreaming. Or drowning.
“Ah.” He sighed against her cheek. “That was the most enchanting kiss I’ve had in...I don’t know how long.”
He pressed his lips to hers again, closing in on her with his whole body, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Come with me upstairs,” he whispered in her ear.
“Upstairs?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s still early, love. I doubt all the rooms would be taken yet.”
“All the rooms?” What in the world did he mean?
Then all at once, panic pooled in her belly and she woke from the dream.
“If we’re going to go,” he added, “we should go now. The hall is getting crowded. All the corners have been taken up.”
He stepped away from the wall to collect Clara, as if he fully expected her to follow, as if this little tryst were perfectly normal and acceptable.
Earlier, Clara had sensed that something wasn’t quite right about this ball, but she hadn’t been sure what to do about it. She’d h
oped Sophia and James would arrive and make sense of it for her. Now, the need for action was imminent.
“Sir, I believe you must have me confused with someone else. I can’t possibly—”
“Why ever not, love? You’re here, aren’t you? And we seem to have developed a rather intoxicating rapport.”
She realized that she should have heeded her instincts sooner, for clearly, something was very wrong. “Where is here, exactly?”
He gazed at her for a moment, then the set of his jaw changed. His expression darkened.
“You don’t know where you are?”
“I’m afraid I do not, and I would be grateful if you would enlighten me.”
All the warmth and seduction from seconds ago vanished like a drop of water on a hot stove. Clara’s stomach lurched.
“This is a private ball, madam. Only those with an invitation are permitted to enter.”
Clara backed away from him and moved out of the shadows and into the open hall. A sick feeling crept into her belly as she watched him follow her.
“I did have an invitation,” she told him.
“Was it yours? How did you get it?”
“It was my sister’s.”
He stopped following and closed his eyes. “Please, tell me that you’re married.”
Clara’s brows flew up under the half-mask, which suddenly felt very tight on her face. “Married!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “No! And if I were, I would certainly not be here having this indecent conversation with you!”
He glanced this way and that, as if he weren’t sure what to do with her. After some brief deliberation, he took her by the elbow and began to escort her back to the ballroom. “You need to leave.”
“But what is this place?”
“Not the sort of place you should know anything about.” He quickened his pace, and Clara had to scramble to keep up with him.
“Don’t run,” he said. “You’ll attract attention.”
“How can I help it? You’re practically dragging me on my knees!”
“Don’t speak to anyone else. Get out of here now, and for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone where you were. Do you understand?”
“What I understand is that I should never have danced with you.”
He stopped and looked down at her, his eyes fierce and dark. “I must correct you on that point. You were, in fact, very fortunate to have danced with me. You are a tempting little flower, and another man might not have been so understanding, or so apt to let you go.”
He marched her back to Mrs. Gunther, gave a polite bow, and lingered a moment, staring at Clara as if he weren’t quite ready to leave. Then he directed his gaze toward Mrs. Gunther. “Good evening, madam. It is my understanding that you are in the wrong house this evening. I implore you to take your charge and leave here, immediately. Good night to you.”
With that, he turned and walked off.
Falling for the Marquess – Available Now
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Books by Julianne MacLean
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
The American Heiress Trilogy
To Marry the Duke
Falling for the Marquess
In Love with the Viscount
Can This Be Love Trilogy
(American Heiress Spinoff)
Love According to Lily
To Annabelle, With Love
Where Love Begins
Love at Pembroke Palace Series
In My Wildest Fantasies
The Mistress Diaries
When a Stranger Loves Me
Married by Midnight
A Kiss Before the Wedding -
A Pembroke Palace Short Story
Seduced at Sunset
The Highlander Series
Captured by the Highlander
Claimed by the Highlander
Seduced by the Highlander
The Rebel – A Highland Short Story
Return of the Highlander
Taken by the Highlander
The Royal Trilogy
Be My Prince
Princess in Love
The Prince’s Bride
Dodge City Brides Trilogy
Prairie Bride
Tempting the Marshal
A Time for Love
Colonial Romance
Adam’s Promise
CONTEMPORARY FICTION
A Curve in the Road
A Fire Sparkling
The Color of Heaven Series
The Color of Heaven
The Color of Destiny
The Color of Hope
The Color of a Dream
The Color of a Memory
The Color of Love
The Color of the Season
The Color of Time
The Color of Forever
The Color of a Promise
The Color of a Christmas Miracle
The Color of a Silver Lining
About the Author
JULIANNE MACLEAN is a USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including the contemporary women’s fiction Color of Heaven Series. Readers have described her books as “breathtaking,” “soulful” and “uplifting.” MacLean is a four-time Romance Writers of America RITA® finalist and has won numerous awards, including the Booksellers’ Best Award and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from Romantic Times. Her novels have sold millions of copies worldwide and have been published in over a dozen languages.
MacLean has a degree in English literature from the University of King’s College in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and a degree in business administration from Acadia University in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. She loves to travel and has lived in New Zealand, Canada, and England. MacLean currently resides on the east coast of Canada in a lakeside home with her husband, daughter, and mother. She invites readers to visit her website for more information about her books and writing life, and to subscribe to her mailing list for all the latest news: www.juliannemaclean.com
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 29
