Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  Adele removed the combs from her honey-colored hair and shook out her long, curly locks until they fell loose upon her shoulders. That was better.

  The door to the adjoining stateroom opened, and Adele’s sister Clara peered inside. Clara had married the handsome Marquess of Rawdon the year before and had left her London home a month ago with her new baby daughter, Anne, to visit her family in New York. “You’re still awake?”

  Adele faced her sister. “Yes, come in.”

  Clara, still in her glittering evening gown, her mahogany hair swept into a flattering knot, entered the room and sat down on the chintz sofa. “You barely touched your supper. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” But Adele knew she couldn’t fool Clara who always strove to see beneath the surface of things.

  “Are you certain, Adele? You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Because it’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “I’m not having second thoughts.”

  “It would be perfectly normal if you were. You barely know the man. You’ve met him so few times, usually at dull assemblies with Mother breathing down your neck. You’ve danced with him only once, which is essentially the only time you’ve been alone with him. And what was that, three or four minutes?”

  Adele sat down next to Clara. “I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. But I know in my heart that this is right. I’m sure of it. He’s a good man.”

  “But you haven’t had a chance to know for sure if there is any true intimacy between you. Some form of attraction. A spark that leads to a flame. Maybe you should think about enjoying the London Season just once before you marry. Imagine who you might meet. A dashing white knight, perhaps.”

  Adele shook her head. “I’m not like you, Clara. You and Sophia were the adventurous ones, while I’ve always been prudent and practical. Isn’t that what Mother and Father said every time you and Sophia got into trouble?”

  Clara smirked. “I can hear Father now.” She put a finger under her nose like a mustache. “Why can’t you two girls be more like your younger sister? We can always depend on Adele to behave herself.”

  Adele smiled and rolled her eyes. “The fact remains, I don’t wish to suffer through an entire London Season, being speculated about, forced to wear diamonds every night and flirt in crowded drawing rooms. The thought of it, quite frankly, makes me ill. I’d much rather be in the country—outdoors with the fresh air, which is exactly where my future husband is at this moment.”

  “You might enjoy the excitement of a Season,” Clara said, sounding a little frustrated.

  Adele shook her head again. “No, I would not. I am content with my decision to marry Lord Osulton. He is an agreeable gentleman and a very good match for me. From what I understand, he doesn’t enjoy the city, either. He prefers his country house.”

  “But aren’t you afraid you might someday wonder what extraordinary adventures you might have missed?”

  Adele squeezed her sister’s hand. “I don’t seek adventure, Clara. In fact, I loathe the idea of it. I prefer a carefully laid out plan, free of the unexpected. Besides that, I believe that sometimes, the best marriages are sensibly arranged. Love comes later, when it has time to grow and become something more substantial, based on admiration and respect rather than a spark and flame. Fire can be unpredictable, and it often burns.”

  “It can also be wonderful, Adele.”

  “Can it? Funny, I do recall when it was not so wonderful last year, when you thought your husband was going to leave you. You were miserable. I don’t want to be miserable like that. I prefer a sense of calm without any of those difficult emotional ups and downs.”

  “But Seger did devote himself to me,” Clara said, “and we are very happy now. What we have today was worth every minute of misery, no matter how excruciating it was at the time. Some things are worth fighting for, no matter how unpleasant the task. Are you sure you don’t wish to postpone the wedding, and suffer through just one Season? You might discover the greatest romance of your life.”

  Adele sighed and stood up. She crossed to the wardrobe and began to unbutton her bodice.

  “You would think,” Clara continued, “being bookish, you might have read something about love.”

  “I’ve read plenty about love,” Adele said with her back to her sister, “and I could never relate to those simpering, lovesick heroines stuck in towers, who stake their happiness on white knights. There are no towers or white knights in real life, Clara. There are only realistic men, and I am quite content to have found a most agreeable one for myself. Besides, it makes me happy to please Mother and Father. You should have seen Mother’s face when I told her I had accepted Lord Osulton’s proposal. I’d never seen her so proud.”

  “You cannot live your life to please others, Adele. You must think of yourself and your future. After the wedding, Mother and Father will return to New York, and you will be left in England on your own—no longer a dutiful daughter, but a married woman. You will be responsible for your own happiness and be free to choose what you want to do with your life. You should marry whomever you wish to marry.”

  “I wish to marry Lord Osulton. Harold,” she added, deciding she should probably start referring to him by his given name now that they were betrothed.

  Clara smiled lovingly at Adele. “I daresay, you will do as you wish, won’t you?”

  “As long as it is the right thing to do. I have chosen my path, and I have made a commitment. I will not veer from it.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow, stood up, and walked to the connecting door to her own stateroom. “I suppose there is no arguing with you. You always were determined to do the right thing, even when Sophia and I tried to convince you to do otherwise. You missed some fun, you know.”

  Adele tipped her head at her sister. “I also missed many hours standing in the corner.”

  Clara shrugged. “Adventure has a price.”

  “And you and Sophia were always willing to pay it.”

  Adele’s maid entered and began preparing the bed.

  Clara opened the door. “We’ll be docking overnight to pick up some extra passengers, then it won’t be long before we reach Liverpool. The captain says we should be disembarking by mid-morning. It sounds to me like you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I am satisfied. I must go and check on little Anne. I’ll see you in the morning.” She walked out and closed the door behind her.

  Adele smiled at her maid and reached for her nightgown.

  London’s Savoy Theatre

  Shortly after four a.m. the same night

  It was a well-known fact among certain circles in London that Frances Fairbanks—celebrated actress and hailed by some as one of the most beautiful women alive—enjoyed lying about naked. Especially on the soft, bearskin rug on the floor of her dressing room, when the room smelled of wine and French perfume, and she was gazing at a lover.

  Or rather, one lover in particular. Damien Renshaw, Viscount Alcester.

  He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met—tall and darkly handsome with broad, muscled shoulders and facial features that could have been sculpted by an artist. He was rugged and wild and unpredictable, and what’s more, he was the most ingenious, instinctive of lovers. He knew just how to move to give her the most intense intimate experiences she’d ever known.

  Yet there was tenderness in his lovemaking.

  Frances stretched out like a cat and rolled over onto her stomach, resting her elbows on the fur. Swinging her bare feet back and forth behind her, she watched Damien sit down on the deeply buttoned settee by the door and pull on a boot.

  He glanced up at her briefly with dark eyes that usually promised pleasure and seduction, but at the moment revealed only impatience.

  He was in a hurry to leave, Frances realized suddenly with a frown, which was extre
mely out of character for him. Because Damien Renshaw—the irresistible black lion—never hurried anything in the bedroom.

  Frances stopped swinging her feet. “You left your shirt on when you made love to me tonight.”

  She had to work hard to sound confident. It was not something she was accustomed to—working hard at it, that is. She was always absolutely sure of herself where her lovers were concerned. They were the ones who did the scrambling.

  She swallowed uncomfortably and made a conscious effort to swing her legs again. “You’re not angry about the bracelet, are you?”

  Pulling on his other boot, Damien didn’t look up. “Of course not. As you said, you fell in love with it.”

  Indeed, she had. So much so, she’d purchased it herself and had the bill sent to Damien.

  She sat up on her heels and spoke with pouty lips, hoping to kindle his flirtatious nature. “It was only a small bracelet. I didn’t think it would matter in the larger scheme of things.”

  He rose to his feet, tall and beautiful as a Greek god in the flickering shadows of the candlelight. He searched the shambles of the room for his waistcoat. He spotted it in a heap on the floor—on top of some purple feathers and Frances’s colorful costume from her performance that evening.

  He picked up the waistcoat, slipped it on, then reached down to cradle Frances’s chin in his hand. He grinned, his eyes sparkling instantly with the allure that reassured Frances that she was still the envy of every hot-blooded woman in London. His voice was husky and sensual when he spoke, but at the same time commanding.

  “Next time try to resist the urge. You know my situation.”

  She did, of course, know. Everyone knew. Lord Alcester was in debt up to his ears and had been forced to lease out his London house to a German family and take up residence with his eccentric cousin.

  It didn’t bother Frances, however. She didn’t want Damien for his money. There were others who served that purpose. Damien’s talents lay elsewhere.

  He dropped his hand to his side and pulled on his overcoat. “My apologies for leaving my shirt on.”

  “You’re not yourself these days, Damien,” she said. “I hope it’s not me.”

  “It’s not you.” He kissed Frances good-bye, leaving her ever so slightly distressed by this unexplained change in him.

  It was still dark when Adele woke to the sound of a thump in her cabin. She remembered they were stopping briefly on the coast of England to pick up a few new passengers. She rolled onto her back, wondering how long they would be docked.

  She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness and thought about the conversation she’d had earlier with her sister. Clara had suggested that Adele should be reckless for once in her life. This was not a new conversation. They’d had it countless times before as children and young women. Clara and Adele’s oldest sister, Sophia, often tried to lure Adele into their mischief.

  Adele rested the back of her hand on her forehead and recalled a summer afternoon when they were girls, not long after they’d moved to New York. Clara had gathered them together in the attic of their new house and said, “If we want to grow up, we must have an adventure. And everyone knows that an adventure must always start with running away from home.”

  Sophia’s eyes sparkled, while Adele had been horrified. She had refused, of course, and argued the point of such foolish horseplay, and threatened to tell their parents.

  Clara told Adele that if she breathed a word of their plan, they’d string her up by her heels, so Adele promised to keep it secret. Which she did. For about an hour. Then she told her father, who promptly marched out onto Fifth Avenue and brought the girls home and put them to bed with no supper. Adele, conversely, had been given an extra slice of blackberry pie.

  Clara and Sophia didn’t speak to her for a week after that, but then they forgave her—as they always did—and told her they supposed it was her job to keep them out of trouble because she was the sensible one.

  But even now, as women, Clara was still trying to talk Adele into misbehaving. Adele smiled and supposed it would never change. She’d be an old lady with a cane and spectacles, and Clara would try to convince her to dance in the rain. Adele smiled again and shook her head.

  Just then, she heard another thump, almost as if there were a monster under her bed. Her heart leaped with panic, but she quenched the sensation because she’d stopped believing in monsters under beds many years ago.

  Nevertheless, she tossed the covers aside to check. Her toes had just touched the floor when a man rose up in front of her. Adele gazed at the dark figure in terror and tried to cry out, but before she had a chance, a cloth soaked in a strong-smelling chemical covered her mouth.

  Heart now blazing with terror, she struggled and tried to scream, but couldn’t make her voice work. Then she felt weak and dizzy, and lost all sensation in her body before she gave up the fight and remembered nothing more.

  Book One

  The Adventure

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere in Northern England

  Three days. It had been three long days, and now it was beginning to rain. A storm was brewing.

  Adele rose from the hay-filled tick that served as her bed and walked across the creaky plank floor to the window. All she could see in every direction were endless, rolling hills of grass and rock beneath an angry gray sky, swirling with the oncoming threat of bad weather. Hard raindrops pelted against the glass.

  It was barren and lonely, this part of the world, wherever it was. She hadn’t seen one person. Not even a lone goat or sheep. There were no trees, and the wind never stopped blowing. It pummeled the stone cottage on top of this sadly forsaken hill, rattled the windowpanes, and whistled eerily down the chimney. The door to the stable knocked and banged constantly. All day long. That—combined with the musty, damp smell of this room—was enough to drive a person to the brink of madness.

  Adele made a fist and squeezed it. She had been steered off course into fierce, treacherous waters, and she wanted her calm life back.

  If she still had a life to go to…. She wasn’t even sure Harold—or any man, for that matter—would want her after this, because she had no idea what her kidnapper had done to her. All she knew was that he had undressed her at some point, because when she woke up, she was wearing someone else’s shabby, homespun dress. Beneath it, she wore petticoats and a shift with ivory stockings, but no corset and no shoes. She had no idea what happened to her nightgown, nor did she know why her abductor had undressed her. To be less conspicuous, perhaps, in delivering her to this place of custody? She hoped that was the reason.

  Adele breathed deeply in an effort to keep a cool head. She must not panic or lose control. That would do her no good. She had tried everything to escape this room in the past few days. She had pounded on and shaken the door, shouted for help, used all her strength at the window, but her efforts had been futile. All she could do now was wait for something to happen—something she could act upon. Or for someone to find her. Surely her mother was searching, and the police were investigating.

  Just then, the front door of the cottage opened downstairs. Heavy footsteps entered the house and pounded across the hard floor. The door slammed shut and Adele’s heart quickened with fear. She stood quiet and still, listening.

  Voices. It was more than one person, which wasn’t the usual routine. There had only ever been one captor here to bring her food and water. What was happening?

  Suddenly, a commotion erupted. There was a frenzy of footsteps. A piece of furniture fell over. Or it was kicked over. Was someone here to rescue her? Harold? But Harold would never face a kidnapper on his own. Or would he?

  Her father? If only it could be him! But no, he was at home in America. He wasn’t due to arrive in England until the wedding. Perhaps it was a constable. Or a neighbor who had discovered what was happening and had come to her rescue!

&n
bsp; Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Adele’s breath caught in her throat. Every particle of her being froze with fear and dread. Was someone here to ravish her? Murder her? Her eyes searched for a weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing but a chair. She picked it up. It was heavy, but she would swing it if she had to.

  The lock clicked and the door swung open. Two men walked in. One held a pistol to the other’s head. The one holding the gun was tall and dark and his eyes smoldered with fury. He wore a heavy, black greatcoat that matched his black hair. Adele feared him instantly.

  Was he her captor? She had never seen the man in daylight.

  “Your name!” he barked.

  “Adele Wilson.” It didn’t occur to her to ask why he wanted to know. Or to ask anything at all. All she could do was answer the question because he expected an answer.

  In that instant, the other criminal—a short, stocky fellow with rotting teeth and thinning hair—whirled around and grabbed the pistol, lunged forward, and took hold of Adele around the waist. He pressed the cold, steel barrel to her temple. She dropped the chair as fear shot through her. She’d never faced a gun before.

  “Now the ransom!” The man’s high-pitched voice revealed his desperation.

  For the first time, Adele looked fixedly at the other man—the dark, wild one—and understood that he was her rescuer.

  He held up his hands in a gesture that invited calm, but it wasn’t easy for Adele to relax because his dark eyes and windblown black hair gave him the look of the devil, or something worse. Masculine to the core, rough around the edges, he looked as if he’d been traveling for three days straight and hadn’t taken the time to shave or bathe or even sleep, because he’d been hell-bent on reaching this house.

  Who was he? Where had he come from?

  “Harm her and you will die,” he said.

  His English accent caught her off guard, for he didn’t have the look of a polite English gentleman—at least not the type she’d ever met in New York. This man was pure, unleashed aggression.