He wore a black mask that matched his attire, and consequently Clara could only see his chin and mouth. It was a beautiful mouth, she decided as she watched him move closer and smile and nod at a passing gentleman. A mouth with full lips and perfect white teeth. There was a deep dimple centered on his chin, and his angular jaw was firm. Clara took another slow sip of the champagne.
He must have sensed her staring, for his gaze came to rest intently upon her. Briefly, they watched each other, to the point where it almost seemed improper, yet Clara could not tear her eyes away. Not that she was feeling brave or daring. To the contrary, she was dumbfounded and completely stuck, like a butterfly with its delicate feet caught in honey.
Gracious, but he is handsome. She knew it in the unexplored depths of her being, even though he wore a mask.
He wasted not a single second. He set out on a path toward Clara, his eyes never veering from hers. She sucked in a short, shaky breath, oblivious to whatever Mrs. Gunther was going on about. All Clara could do was watch that beautiful man saunter like a lion across the floor, his shoulders broad beneath his jacket, his gait slow and sure and languid.
He stopped before her, said nothing, and held out his hand.
Mrs. Gunther stopped talking. She saw the gloved hand beside her and turned to look at the man who belonged to it. He simply nodded at her, then lifted his hand another fraction to pull Clara out of her stupor and boldly indicate that he wanted to dance.
In complete silence, Mrs. Gunther stared at the gentleman. Clara could only presume that her chaperone was caught in the honey, too, for though her lips were parted, no words were coming out of her mouth.
Laying her gloved hand in his, and without an introduction, Clara allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
She picked up her train and looked into his eyes, and they glided harmoniously into the waltz. They went around the room a few times before he spoke.
“You’re a fresh face at one of these things.”
“I’ve only just arrived from America,” Clara replied. She would have liked to add “my lord,” or “sir,” or maybe even “Your Grace,” but without the introduction, she didn’t know what to call him.
His lips twitched with what looked like pleasant surprise. “America, you say. How wonderful. Permit me to welcome you to our shores.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
This was not at all how Clara had imagined this night would begin.
“I’m visiting my sister,” she told him.
He did not ask who her sister was.
They continued the dance, swirling around the room with such fluid grace, that Clara did not feel the least bit dizzy. Her partner was by far the most skilled dancer she had ever encountered. His hand held the small of her back firmly yet lightly, guiding her around the room as if she were as light as fairy dust.
When the waltz ended, they came to a graceful finish near a tall potted fern. Another waltz began—a slower one—and her partner inclined his head at her. “Shall we dance another?”
Again, she was surprised by this blatant disregard for the rules of etiquette. He should be returning her to her chaperone by now. She glanced over at Mrs. Gunther, who was trying most unsuccessfully to look at ease. Clara remembered the old adage, “when in Rome,” and decided she should simply follow this Englishman’s lead.
“I would be honored.”
They moved into position again, and a shiver of excitement moved through Clara as his hand returned to the small of her back. He led her into the center of the ballroom, where they moved about at a more relaxed pace.
“I must say,” he commented, in a deep, sultry voice, “you are an extraordinary dancer. I was fortunate to have found you before some other man. I believe I would like to keep you.”
Clara laughed. “You cannot keep me.”
“Ah, but I wish I could. At least until you tire of me and send me on my way.”
Clara felt a hot thrill at his flattery. “Sir, you are flirting with me, quite shamelessly.”
“Because I am a shameless man—at least in the wake of your exquisite charm. You are undeniably the most intriguing creature I’ve encountered all evening. All year to be precise.”
Clara’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. “I don’t know what to say in response to such overdrawn compliments. You don’t even know me.”
“Overdrawn? You underestimate your allure. You should allow me to prove it to you.”
“Prove what to me?”
“That you are exquisitely charming.”
Their conversation was decidedly out of her realm of experience, and though it was exhilarating in ways she had only dreamed of, it was most definitely improper. She urged herself to remember that. He was a complete stranger. Did he not realize the scandalous nature of his flattery?
And yet, she could not bring herself to change the subject. “How will you prove it?”
“How would you like me to?”
Clara wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she knew how to answer such a slippery question.
“I am completely yours,” he said, his expression friendly and open—a delightful change from what she had become accustomed to since arriving in England. “I am at your disposal. Your humble servant. Here for your pleasure.”
She stared in shock for another few seconds, then couldn’t help herself. She laughed out loud. Maybe it was nerves. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
And who was he, exactly? All she knew was that he was someone very daring and very grand. Everything about him was exciting and magnificent and lordly. He was such a glorious change from the ordinary.
He gazed at her. “Look around you. Every man on the floor is taking notice of you here tonight and wishing he had spotted you first. They are each hoping that I will soon disappear and leave you free once again.”
Clara did look around. The other gentlemen were simply dancing with their partners, not looking at her at all. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.”
“No? How else can I prove it to you, then? I know. Feel my heart. It’s racing.” He pulled her hand to his chest and held it there.
Stunned by this physical intimacy in the middle of a crowded ballroom, and flustered by the feel of the man’s hard chest beneath the flat of her hand, Clara felt his heartbeat. It was not racing. He was as calm as a lake in the deep of night.
Utterly beguiled and falling into a lazy daze, Clara missed a step.
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 there if she ever encountered him again.
They danced a little longer, and she noticed his pace was slowing, growing more leisurely. Clara found herself 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 w
ith 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 masterpiece, 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 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 hoped 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.
With trembling hands and a throbbing pulse, Clara walked into the Witherington Ball only moments after their footman informed them that the Prince of Wales was not at Livingston House. He had arrived not long ago at the house two doors down.
Clara was breathing hard, partly from her hasty escape, but mostly from the memory of following a handsome, seductive stranger into the dark shadows beneath a staircase, and feeling the shocking, sizzling lure of temptation.
She had thought she was stronger than that.
Groping for some semblance of normalcy, she glanced around the room in search of her sister, Sophia, the Duchess of Wentworth, and spotted her near the orchestra, conversing with her husband, James.
Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2) Page 2
