Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  Thank God for her father.

  “The story has a happy ending, then,” Lord Rawdon said. “And you had an adventure. Well done.”

  The marquess was certainly relaxed about scandals and social blunders, which was probably a good thing. She doubted she would ever tell any of the other London gentlemen what she had just shared with the marquess. She couldn’t imagine how the Duke of Guysborough would respond.

  “So, if your younger sister doesn’t succeed in America this Season,” he asked, “will she come to London next year as well?”

  “Probably.”

  He glanced in the other direction. “The newspapers were right. It is becoming a stampede.”

  Clara threw him a cantankerous look.

  He chuckled. “What? That’s not why you’re here? To bounce back from your close brush with social pauperism and, as you said, marry well?”

  She shook her head at his insolent manner. “I am here to find a decent and respectable man to share my life with. It doesn’t matter to me if he has a title or not.” She shifted on the chair, raised her chin high, then turned to look at him when she sensed his amusement. “You don’t believe me!”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “To be honest, no. You seem ambitious. Like the sort of woman who wants the very best after narrowly avoiding disaster once before.”

  “What I consider to be the ‘best’ might surprise you. Perhaps it has nothing to do with a mere accident of birth.”

  She heard the sarcasm in her tone and knew she was the one being insolent now, but she couldn’t help it. He was always teasing her and trying to provoke her. She suspected he enjoyed watching her fight back. It amused him. Perhaps it amused her, too.

  “I don’t think anything about you could possibly surprise me,” he said.

  Clara lowered her voice and regarded him intimately. “It often feels like you are trying to steer me toward trouble. You say the most improper things. Or maybe it’s the way you say them.”

  Other guests, two by two, began to trickle into the room. Clara sat up straighter in her chair, resolving not to get pulled into the tempting heat of this man’s flame just yet. She had to be more careful. She was still not entirely sure she could trust the marquess to be “decent,” therefore she could not allow her passions to take her to what might be a dangerous, ruinous destination.

  “I would prefer if we changed the subject now,” she said.

  Lord Rawdon stretched his legs out in front of him and began to look bored. “A decent and respectable man, you say. I guess that counts me out.”

  He was unbelievable. “And you are no doubt relieved.”

  “Intensely.”

  The room filled up and they had to refrain from speaking so candidly with each other. It was time to stop, anyway. Clara recognized the marquess’s body language and the tone in his voice and knew that he was both pulling back and pushing her away. Their conversation had become too serious, and he wanted only to flirt.

  She felt a stab of disappointment.

  From everything he’d said tonight, it was obvious that he sought only brief, frivolous affairs, not deep soulful ones. He was not the sort of man who was suited to a marriage based on fidelity—like that of Clara’s sister, Sophia, and her husband James. They were devoted to each other in every way. They knew each other’s hearts as well as they knew their own, and they had no desire to stray.

  Feeling discouraged, Clara watched the pianist take a seat on the bench. He placed his fingers on the ivory keys.

  Clara realized miserably that her desires created a paradox. She craved excitement. In her heart she wanted to burst out of the box of polite behavior, yet she wanted to be respectable. She wanted a man who believed in piety and the institution of marriage. She wanted a morally upright man, but not a dull one, which was likely a difficult combination.

  Gordon had been wild, but he had not possessed any honor. She had learned a sturdy lesson with him. Because of that, she was determined now. Just as the marquess had said, she was ambitious toward that end and would not settle for less than what she wanted.

  She felt another wave of disappointment course through her. She did not believe the Marquess of Rawdon could be what she wanted. Like Gordon, he was far too wild. He did not seem interested in what was socially proper. He did not seem inclined toward true intimacies of the heart, only pleasures of the flesh. He continually pulled back when she tried to move away from flirting. He had said he was relieved he was not the kind of man she would want for a husband.

  But oh, he was so beautiful, and so far, he was the only man in London who made her heart go pitter-pat.

  Well, at least now she knew. The fantasy of him was indeed just that—a fantasy. He could only be a lover in the physical sense. She had to keep her head on straight about that.

  What a shame, she thought. What a sad, frustrating shame.

  The very next day, a letter arrived for Clara. Not recognizing the penmanship, she took it upstairs to her room, flopped down on her belly and broke the seal.

  My Dear Miss Wilson, it began...

  Her heart began to pound.

  You must forgive me this indulgence, but I could not resist the inclination to write to you and tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed our discourse last evening at your sister’s assembly. I had considered calling on the duchess today, but decided against it, as I felt it was too much progress for a man like me, in too short a time. I cannot, I’m afraid, delve into a complete recovery from my wicked ways and evolve overnight into a proper gentleman who pays calls to respectable young ladies, sipping tea in brightly lit drawing rooms.

  Instead, I choose to write you a letter, where I would be free to say the things I would have wanted to say, had I been in your delightful, delectable company this afternoon.

  Why am I writing this? you must be wondering. I am wondering that myself. I have no idea. As I mentioned last night, I am not presently seeking a wife and I usually confine myself to less perilous associations. Perhaps it is the French wine I am sipping. No, it is not. It is you. You enchant me.

  Clara’s heart flipped over inside her chest. She rolled over and sat up, then walked to the window to continue reading.

  I have no wish to spoil your chances of meeting the decent and respectable man you desire, yet I find I cannot sit idly back and accept that I will never see you again, or—forgive me for my plain manner of speaking—kiss you again. I could not stop looking at your lips last night. I wanted to find another dark staircase.

  But I digress. As you see, I am too frank for the society you accept as your own. If I were like other gentlemen, I would say goodbye to you now and wish you the best. But I have not behaved as a gentleman for many years, and I find myself plotting other ways to kiss you again and satisfy my passions without causing too much damage in the process. Do you understand my meaning? Do you have any ideas?

  Sincerely,

  S.

  Clara could hardly breathe. Was he serious? Surely not! He must be teasing her again. This was scandalous! She could not reply to something like this. What if someone found out?

  She read the letter again. Heaven help her, her blood was rushing so fast, she felt faint.

  This was madness. She could not take part in a wild and wicked affair. She’d brushed up against scandal once before and did not wish to do so again. She had come to England to meet respectable gentlemen and avoid that sort of thing. How had she managed to stumble across the worst, wildest rogue in London? And she’d allowed him to kiss her!

  She paced back and forth across the room, telling herself that she would not, under any circumstances, reply to this letter. That would be social suicide. She must break all contact with him, for it was clear he was exactly the kind of man she should avoid. The kind of man she had initially feared he was—a rake and a libertine. The kind of man who was very dangerous to her, for over
the past week, she had discovered that she was not as strong as she thought she was. Where the gorgeous, tempting marquess was concerned, she was actually quite weak.

  Clara squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deeply. She must concentrate on meeting the right sort. The kind of man she had hoped to meet when she’d steamed across the Atlantic dreaming of a proper future. She wanted a man who would be faithful to her. A man who would have the integrity not to stray outside of his marriage, because that’s what it took to be faithful. Honor and integrity. Everyone felt passion and temptation. Those with honor did not act upon it. The marquess seemed to act on every base impulse he felt.

  Clara read the letter again. It was shocking. She lifted her chin and folded the paper and stuffed it deep into the back of one of her drawers.

  No, that wasn’t a good place. Her maid might find it. She pulled it out and stuffed it under her mattress, then made a firm decision to thrust the Marquess of Rawdon out of her mind once and for all. For good. For eternity. She would not think of him again. No. She would forget him. He was not the man for her.

  There. She went to her door and ventured out into the corridor to join Sophia for tea.

  He was forgotten.

  The next day she read the letter again. It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed not to pull it out in the middle of the night and read it. Somehow, she had resisted that urge and congratulated herself in the morning.

  It was almost noon now, however. She had not been able to get through even half the day.

  I could not stop looking at your lips last night. I wanted to find another dark staircase.

  Her toes curled inside her shoes. Something tingled in her nether regions. She should not have read it. It had been a foolish thing to do. She was weak, to have been seduced from clear across the city by ink and pen. Weak, weak, weak. He was an expert at lovemaking to be sure.

  She should have known better. She should have burned his wicked words right after she’d read them. She should not be infecting her brain with them now.

  She read the letter again.

  What a scoundrel he was. Any ideas? he had asked. As if she would entertain such thoughts.

  Heaven help her, she had quite a few.

  But she would certainly not tell him what they were.

  That night, by candlelight, Clara dipped her pen in the ink jar and paused above her stationery. How to begin, how to begin... It was necessary to inform the marquess that she was not interested in anything untoward, and that she would prefer it if he refrained from any insinuations in the future.

  She looked at his handwriting again and felt a warm fluttering in her belly. This was his personal penmanship. The ink on this paper had come from his very own desk. His big, masculine hands had touched this paper not long ago. Perhaps he had blown gently on the ink to dry it.

  Her belly quivered as she imagined all of that.

  Clara shut her eyes and shook her head, forcing herself not to think about him sitting at his desk writing to her, or doing anything else for that matter. She had to focus on the task at hand.

  If only she knew what to say. There was a part of her that did not want to end this. It was exciting and invigorating and flattering. He was a grand and beautiful man and he found her attractive. All her sexual instincts were telling her to encourage him and see where this might lead, but her head was telling her to be careful and prudent and not be foolish. She wanted so very badly to be virtuous.

  Oh, dear. She was having a barrel of a time listening to the right voice.

  Sighing deeply, hoping she was not doing anything too terribly risky, she lowered her pen to the page. Then it came to her. She smiled and began to write.

  My lord. You are very naughty.

  Sincerely,

  C.

  The next morning, another letter bearing the marquess’s seal was brought by a footman to Clara’s boudoir, who picked it up off the silver salver and calmly thanked the young man. She set the letter on the corner of her desk and feigned disinterest until the footman left the room and closed the door behind him, upon which time she could not help herself. She snatched up the letter, rose to her feet and tore at the seal.

  Miss Wilson,

  I laughed out loud when I read your note. You are enchanting. Again, I implore you. Any ideas?

  S.

  Clara covered her mouth with her hand. She’d never felt like this before. What was it about this particular gentleman that brought out such overpowering impulses in her? She had not felt this way with Gordon. It had been naïveté and pressure from her parents that drove her to make mistakes with him, not this kind of blatant, hungry desire. She should not be communicating with this man in such a wicked fashion.

  Clara stuffed the letter under her mattress with the last one and returned to her more respectable correspondence. That was impossible, however, with her mind where it was—frolicking in the house of sin, entertaining all sorts of lewd, indecent thoughts about a gorgeous, golden-haired marquess.

  Ten minutes later, she realized she was still resting her chin on her hand, staring blankly at the wall. She felt inebriated.

  Shaking her head at herself, Clara realized she could not possibly resist replying to his letter, depraved as it was. She pulled a blank sheet of stationery out of her desk drawer.

  For a moment she sat there, tapping the clean end of her pen against her lips, wondering if it was possible for the marquess to ever be faithful to one woman. Perhaps he had simply not met the right lady yet. All boys grew up to become men eventually, didn’t they? Wasn’t it possible he could have arrived at that crossroads? She was his first debutante, after all, or so he claimed. Perhaps he was ready to change. Perhaps she could teach him about real love. Was she foolish to hold on to that hope? Probably.

  Nevertheless, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write, while forcing herself to be serious and scrupulous.

  Lord Rawdon,

  You must realize that this manner of correspondence is utterly inappropriate. I do not wish to continue this, as I have explained that I am not interested in any kind of immoral affair. If you wish to see me, please do so in a proper, respectable place, at which time I would be happy to converse with you.

  C.

  She congratulated herself on her most inspiring self-restraint.

  Another reply arrived that very afternoon.

  But I don’t wish to see you in a proper, respectable place. I wish to be quite alone with you, Miss Wilson, so that no one will witness my hand sliding up your dress.

  S.

  Clara gasped in shock. Of all the cheeky nerve! The audacity! What kind of wanton woman did he think she was? She would not be lured into sin simply because he suggested it in a note, no matter how clammy her palms were at the moment, or how loopy she felt at the thought.

  Congratulating herself again for her impressive iron will in the face of such astounding provocation, she picked up her pen to reply:

  My lord, your suggestions are appalling. Is it your intention to ruin me?

  C.

  Clara received the marquess’s reply the next morning. She had to admit, she was exceedingly curious about how he would respond to her blunt accusation. She tore open the letter and began to read:

  My Dear Miss Wilson,

  I apologize if I gave the impression that I wanted to ruin you. I have no desire for such an outcome. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to prevent it. I am discreet and I know how to give pleasure without destruction. You may trust me completely in that regard.

  S.

  Clara could not believe the marquess’s reply. He was still trying to seduce her after she had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that she wished to remain respectable. Had he no shame?

  The time had come to put an end to this. For real this time. She could not see him again.


  She was about to write another reply and communicate her decision when a knock sounded at her door. A maid said, “Miss Wilson, the duchess requests your presence in the drawing room.”

  Clara called out, “Is it important?”

  “There is a gentleman caller, miss.”

  A swarm of butterflies exploded in Clara’s belly. She rose and went to the door. “Do you know who it is?” Clara pulled the door open, but the maid was gone. Standing motionless, holding the doorknob, Clara wondered if the marquess had come to call upon her properly. Was he willing to make this concession, or was it another man wishing to pay his respects?

  Clara hurried to the mirror to look over her appearance. She pinched her cheeks and smoothed her hands over her upswept hair. Perhaps it was the marquess. Perhaps it wasn’t. She would know soon enough.

  With a hand on her belly to quell her nervous stomach, Clara made her way into the corridor and walked slowly toward the drawing room. She entered and saw her sister sitting near the fireplace pouring tea, laughing at something, then she turned her eyes toward the other occupant in the room.

  Her entire being swirled with a dizzying current of desire. It was indeed the marquess. And he was smiling wickedly at her.

  Somehow, she managed to enter the room on steady feet.

  She had not told Sophia about the letters. She wasn’t sure why. She usually told Sophia everything—she’d told her every word the marquess had said to her at the assembly—but this was different. Perhaps she was afraid Sophia would begin to disapprove of him, and whether it was wise or unwise, Clara did not wish to be told that she should not respond. She wanted to make up her own mind about that.

  Sophia stood. “Clara. How lovely that you are here. See who has come to pay us a call today. You remember the Marquess of Rawdon? He attended our assembly the other night.”

  It was all so proper. Sophia was a brilliant hostess. “Of course I remember you,” Clara replied. “Good day, my lord. How good of you to call.”