Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  Falling for the Marquess

  Copyright © 2020 Julianne MacLean Publishing Inc.

  Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-61-8

  Print edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-62-5

  First edition published under the title An Affair Most Wicked

  Copyright © 2004 Julianne MacLean

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover and Interior Design: The Killion Group, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from In Love with the Viscount

  Books by Julianne MacLean

  About the Author

  Prologue

  London, 1883

  Lady Berkshire sighed contentedly as she handed her lover’s greatcoat to him. “Come back on Thursday?”

  Standing tall and sumptuous in the corridor, his golden hair spilling onto his shoulders in unfashionable disarray, the Marquess of Rawdon smiled. His devilish charm filled the corridor like a beam of sunlight, radiant and warm.

  Lady Berkshire, who was still flushed from their afternoon tryst, melted like hot butter before him, for she had just experienced, firsthand, the validity behind the rumors. Yes, it was all true. The beautiful marquess had a flare for the erotic. An intensity in the bedroom. A talent for lavish, liberal lovemaking.

  He was Seger Wolfe, the Marquess of Rawdon, and among the ladies who liked to whisper in the dark corners of London’s late-night drawing rooms, he was England’s most coveted lover.

  When he did not immediately accept her invitation, she tried again. “I’ll have strawberries and chocolate.” Beneath the melodic intent to entice, her voice was laced with pleading.

  Seger considered her invitation with great care. It was not his habit to see the same woman more than twice in a single week, and never—under any circumstances—exclusively. Most women understood the boundaries merely by instinct. They knew not to ask, and not to become possessive if they wanted him to return another day, which almost invariably, they did.

  He inhaled deeply and sighed, surprised by a sudden twinge of discontent that was unusual at a time like this.

  “Perhaps on Friday,” he said.

  Lady Berkshire’s big blue eyes lit up with anticipation. “Friday, it is.”

  She stepped back into her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a gentle click.

  Seger stood for a moment, staring down the long length of the empty corridor, questioning his response just now. Something had been missing lately from his usual enthusiasm for encounters like this, which made no sense. Lady Berkshire was a beautiful woman and an entertaining bed partner.

  He continued to stand outside her door, staring at it. Then he realized something. He barely remembered what it felt like to make love to a woman because he loved her.

  Her.

  Seger exhaled heavily. How long had it been, and why was he even thinking about it now?

  Bloody hell, he knew how long. Right down to the day. It was just under eight years.

  Thankfully, eight years of superficial encounters and casual intimacies for the sole purpose of pleasure had emptied him of almost all memories of her, and he was glad. There was no point pondering them now. She wasn’t coming back. Death was rather firm in that regard.

  He buttoned his coat and turned to leave, telling himself that this feeling of dissatisfaction would pass, probably as quickly as it had set in. Everything was fine, as it had been for the past eight years. Seger was content. He knew how to enjoy himself—and enjoy himself he did. He found great pleasure with women he didn’t know very well, and he enjoyed the superficiality of those relationships. The women were always cheerful and smiling. Nothing was ever complicated or distressing.

  To be frank, he wasn’t certain he would know how to understand a woman’s deeper emotions even if he wanted to.

  Not that he wanted to. He did not.

  Seger descended the stairs and, with firm resolve, expelled those thoughts from his mind. They did him no good.

  He let himself out the front door of Lady Berkshire’s London house, glanced up and down the street, then crossed to where his coach was waiting a few doors down.

  He reminded himself that there was much to look forward to that evening. He had a ball to attend—a Cakras Ball. As always, it promised to be a tantalizing feast for the senses. Exactly what he needed for a distraction. He would no doubt meet a number of interesting women there. Beautiful women. Adventurous women.

  He climbed inside his coach and signaled to the driver to move on. His blood quickened as he anticipated the evening ahead.

  Chapter 1

  The London Season

  May 1883

  Dear Adele,

  It is finally upon me—my first London ball. You cannot imagine how nervous I am, for I fear I will not fit in, that everyone will see through me and know I am not one of them.

  I hope that will not be the case, for I do long to be a part of society here—the daily rides along Rotten Row, the receptions, luncheons, and evenings at the theater. It has been an exhausting but glorious experience so far, though I admit most of my acquaintances have been frustratingly superficial.

  I realize, of course, that that is to be expected. I am in England after all, and people are reserved. I suppose my frustration comes from what occurred with Gordon two years ago. I must be an oddity. I crave adventure and my heart wants it, yet I know how dangerous it can be. I know I must strive to move beyond that mistake if I wish to live a proper and virtuous life. I only hope that my heart has not become too complicated. Sometimes I find it difficult to simply smile and be pretty, which is what is expected of me. I want something deeper than that. Something more honest. Indeed, what a challenge this is going to be....

  Your loving sister,

  Clara

  Already late for her first ball in London—quite notably the most important ball of her life—Clara Wilson stood in the doorway of her sister’s boudoir, watching her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, flip through a large stack of invitations.

  “I’m sure it’s one of these,” Mrs. Gunther said, spilling a few of them over the edge of the silver salver onto the mahogany desk. “It has to be.”

  Mrs. Gunther
was a staunch woman—the only person her mother trusted to act as Clara’s chaperone in London. She was a great social matriarch in America and came from a very prestigious family, but unfortunately for Clara, Mrs. Gunther’s memory was not as sharp as it once was.

  “It was at—or somewhere near—Belgrave Square. I at least know that. I remember Sophia describing it.”

  Clara’s tiny heels clicked over the marble floor as she crossed the room to peer over her chaperone’s shoulder. There were certain to be a number of balls “at or somewhere near” Belgrave Square that evening.

  “Is there any way I can help you remember?” Clara asked. They had to find it soon, for they were already late.

  Mrs. Gunther flipped through invitation after invitation. They all looked the same—square, ivory cards with fancy titles in lavish print—and they all belonged to Clara’s older sister, Sophia.

  Three years prior, Sophia had become the first American heiress to marry a duke. She and her husband, James, were immensely popular among the Marlborough House set, and there was never a shortage of social engagements to attend at any given moment—which made the task of finding the correct invitation all the more difficult now.

  “The Wilkshire Ball, the Devonshire, the Berkley....” Mrs. Gunther said. “No, no, no. The Allison Ball. Could that be...? Wait, Lord and Lady Griffith.... Was that it?”

  Mrs. Gunther continued to guess haphazardly at the names, and Clara’s hopes for the evening took a dive. Everything depended on this one night, and if Clara did not make an appearance at the ball, there might not be a second chance. For Clara—the latest American heiress to invade aristocratic London—had to pass the test. In order to be accepted and welcomed into British society as her sister had been, Clara had to glide into a London ballroom and win the approval of the Prince of Wales. Otherwise, she would end up returning to New York where her position in society was fragile, to say the least.

  “Ah.” Mrs. Gunther turned to face Clara and handed her the invitation. “Here it is. The Livingstons on Upper Belgrave Street. I’m certain this is it. We can go now, my dear.”

  Letting out a breath of relief, Clara smoothed a gloved hand over the antique lace on her French silk gown and touched the glittering diamond-and-pearl choker at her neck. She led the way out of her sister’s boudoir, the precious ivory invitation safe in her hand.

  A moment later, they stepped out of the brilliantly lit manor and into the dark, still night. Mantles buttoned at their bare necks, ivory fans dangling from their wrists, they walked down the stone steps to the coach.

  As soon as Clara reached the curb, however, her heel imposed upon a crack and she stumbled. The invitation went sailing out of her gloved hand, and she toppled sideways into a tall, extravagantly liveried footman who caught her and righted her before she even had a chance to notice him standing there.

  Clara collected herself. “My word. Thank you!”

  Without a hint of a smile, the man stood like a palace guard, his face made of stone.

  Clara sighed hopelessly. The English. Pray, the people she would meet tonight would have a little more personality. A sense of humor at least.

  Clara picked up the invitation and looked at it more closely. “What’s that symbol in the corner?”

  Mrs. Gunther squinted at the small triangular medallion printed on the card, with the letters MWO above it. “I’ve no idea. I’ll ask Sophia when we see her.”

  The footman handed them into the crested black coach with shiny silver fittings, then hopped onto the page board as the vehicle lurched forward and turned toward Belgravia.

  A short while later, they pulled up in front of a grand manor house, lit up like a sparkling jewel in the night. Clara heard music from the orchestra inside while couples moved past the large windows, twirling on the dance floor to a Strauss waltz. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sizzled through her veins, and she gathered up her silk skirt to follow Mrs. Gunther out of the coach.

  They made their way up the stone path to the front door beneath a massive portico. A broad-shouldered, bald man stood at the entrance, and when Clara and Mrs. Gunther approached, he stepped in front of the door, which was closed tightly behind him.

  Mrs. Gunther rolled her shoulders in that haughty way of hers, a skill she had perfected. “We are here for the ball,” she said in her best matriarchal voice, with one intimidating eyebrow raised.

  “Do you have an invitation?” His deep, booming voice didn’t intimidate Mrs. Gunther. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she reached into her purse.

  “Here.” She handed it to him.

  He glanced over it, then lifted his narrow gaze to assess each of them individually. Clara felt a prickling of dread, as if they were about to be turned away. Was this how her Season in London was to begin? A failure, before she even set foot in the door?

  There was suspicion in his voice. “You’re American?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Gunther replied.

  “You’ll be a novelty, then.” He stepped out of the way of the door and opened it. “You’ll find the masks on the oak table just inside the entrance.”

  Mrs. Gunther eyed him incredulously. “Masks?”

  Clara nudged her through the door before she could question him further about the mask theme, for Clara did not wish to appear as if they did not belong. She wanted to fit in.

  Once they were inside, Mrs. Gunther said, “I did not like that man.”

  “Neither did I. I’ll feel better when we see Sophia and James.”

  They found a large crystal bowl full of feathered masks just inside the door, and Clara chose a cream-colored one to bring out the auburn highlights in her dark brown hair.

  A woman walked by while they were donning their masks, and Clara could have sworn she wasn’t wearing a corset. Clara’s lips fell open. She was about to say something to Mrs. Gunther but caught herself. Surely, she had been mistaken.

  They withdrew to the cloak room to freshen up, then made their way across the crowded grand hall toward the ballroom.

  As soon as Clara stepped inside, her mood lifted. She relaxed and cleared her mind of all the mistakes she feared she would make, for what a dazzling room it was. Couples swirled around the floor in bright splashes of color and glitter. The music from the orchestra seemed to come from the blue beyond, so skilled were the musicians, and all the ladies and gentlemen looked elegant and happy.

  A footman approached with a tray of champagne and offered glasses to Clara and Mrs. Gunther.

  Mrs. Gunther shook her head and waved a hand to decline. The man’s brow furrowed, and he looked at them strangely. “Really, you must,” he said in a pleasant tone, raising the tray toward them again. “Lord Livingston would be disappointed if you didn’t try it.”

  Clara, still wanting to fit in, took a glass of the bubbly and carefully sipped, savoring its delicious taste and delighting in the way it poured heat through every limb. The footman winked at her as he left.

  “Did you see that?” she said to her chaperone.

  Mrs. Gunther touched her arm. “Pardon me? Oh, my dear, you don’t have a dance card.” She stopped a lady passing by and asked her.

  Clara left the issue of the winking footman alone.

  The woman, wearing a black and white feathered mask and a garnet gown trimmed in velvet, laughed. “We don’t bother with names here,” she said, then continued on her way.

  Clara suddenly felt as if she’d followed Alice down the rabbit hole.

  “Perhaps it’s because the Prince is coming,” Mrs. Gunther surmised. “They say he is not at all as prim as his mother, and he prefers to move with the fast set.”

  “What if someone asks me to dance?” Clara whispered. “What about introductions?”

  “No one else seems to be bothering with them.” Mrs. Gunther’s concerned gaze swept the room, and her voice took on that haughty tone ag
ain. “This is highly improper. Where is Sophia? I would like her to explain what we are expected to—”

  At that moment, a young gentleman with gold spectacles and fair hair approached and bowed. “May I have the honor of a dance?”

  Clara glanced at Mrs. Gunther who hesitated at the man’s informality, then nodded, albeit reluctantly. Clara was surprised her chaperone allowed it without a proper introduction, but she supposed the woman felt as anxious and out of place as she did and didn’t want these eminent lords and ladies to know it.

  So, not wishing to defy her chaperone, Clara allowed the gentleman to take her champagne glass and set it on a table. She then accepted his gloved hand and walked onto the floor with him. They danced a waltz—she had yet to see any other dance performed—and when it ended, he escorted her back to Mrs. Gunther, thanked her, and went on his way.

  “That was lovely,” Clara said, “but this is not at all how Sophia described it. She said the necessity for social graces was as bad, if not worse than New York, and she’d had a very difficult time. That man did not even know who I was, nor I he.” She leaned closer to Mrs. Gunther, and whispered, “A few of the gentlemen aren’t wearing gloves. Look at that man there.”

  Another couple twirled by.

  Mrs. Gunther raised her chin in the air. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. We may be approaching the end of a century, but I hardly think society should act in such an uncivilized manner—noble or otherwise. Why, at one of my balls....”

  Just then, a tall, imposing gentleman entered the ballroom. Clara’s attention flitted away from her chaperone’s social commentary and landed lightly upon the man now standing just inside the doors. He wore a black suit with tails and a white necktie and waistcoat, and his hair—golden and wavy like ripe wheat in the wind—was an unfashionable length, reaching his shoulders. He stepped into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and tossed his head in a most arrogant manner, throwing an errant lock of that golden hair away from his face.