An Affair Most Wicked (12 page)

Clara hurried to her cheval 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 gaze toward the other occupant in the room.

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

She managed somehow to smile in return, then entered the room.

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 want to be told that she should not respond. She wanted to make up her own mind about that.

Sophia stood up. “Clara! How lovely that you passed by. 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. It was kind of you to call.”

“It was entirely my pleasure, Miss Wilson.”

Not knowing what to expect, Clara took a seat next to Sophia, who poured her a cup of tea. The conversation then turned toward the usual things—the current events in
The Times
, the most recent debates in the House of Commons, and of course, the most agreeable topic that could always be depended upon for propriety—the weather.

At the end of the obligatory fifteen minutes, the marquess reached for his hat and walking stick. “I must thank you, duchess, for a delicious cup of tea. It was second to none.”

His behavior was impeccable. He moved toward the door. One would think he’d been a formal member of society forever.

He made a bow to Clara. “Miss Wilson.” He turned and left the drawing room.

As soon as the front doors opened and closed downstairs, Sophia rushed to Clara and took both her hands. “He came to call!”

Clara didn’t know what she felt. She was in shock. She was confused. What exactly did he want—a torrid affair or a proper courtship? Perhaps he had changed his mind after he’d sent the last letter. Perhaps he was giving in to the idea of reforming himself.

“I wonder if we should call on his stepmother,” Sophia said. “Lady Rawdon seemed to enjoy herself here the other night. I believe she was pleased to receive the invitation. From what I’ve heard, she has not been received in most places, not since the marquess was involved in that beastly court case.”

Clara sat down again. She picked up her teacup and took a sip, but set it down when she realized it was cold.

Sophia sat down beside her. “He likes you, Clara.”

“But he has a reputation, and I am quite certain that Mrs. Gunther disapproves of him.”

“It’s your future. You are the one who must choose, and it’s obvious that you fancy him.”

“But how do I choose when I still know so little about the marquess, except that he is not respectable? The Duke of Guysborough on the other hand is completely respectable, but he does not interest me, not the way the marquess does. Perhaps it’s just a foolish desire to possess something that cannot be possessed—like the wind or the sun.” She gazed imploringly into her sister’s eyes. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Sophia. My head is telling me he is all wrong, but I can’t I stop thinking about him.”

Sophia rested her hand upon Clara’s. “Sometimes the heart does not make sense. It only knows what it feels. I still believe that the marquess should not be ruled out as a possible match for you. He came here today, which suggests to me that he is at least willing to make an effort to act respectably. Maybe he does want to change. Maybe he was only waiting to be invited back into good society, and now that he has been, he will be able to court proper, unmarried young ladies like yourself and look to a brighter future. Perhaps it just wasn’t an option for him before.”

Clara narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You think there’s hope for him? That I should give him a chance?”

“He came here today, Clara. He made a promising effort. Yes, I do think you should give him a chance.”

But you haven’t read his letters.

Oh, who was she trying to fool? Clara knew she could no more forget him than she could forget to breathe.

Perhaps she simply had to leap in head first and take a risk. If it all blew up in her face and he broke her heart, well, she would just have to deal with that. At least that way, she would never have to ask herself,
what if
?

She only hoped he was as discreet as he claimed to be in his last letter, and that he would not allow her to be ruined.

Chapter 8

Seger had dreamed about her last night.

The memory of the dream hit him just as he was walking out of Wentworth House, away from Clara when every instinct within was urging him to go back inside and fetch her—to take her by the hand and lead her out. To bring her home with him.

That’s what he’d done in the dream. He had taken both her hands in his and led her to his bed. She had come willingly, smiling at him with such warmth, it had made him feel dizzy.

He quaked with an intense craving to touch her right now, to feel that joy again. To explore a world of sensuality and delight with this woman who would not leave his mind, even in slumber.

Seger had to shake himself. Had he taken leave of his senses? What was it about Clara that made him dream about her and feel so much? How did this innocent, untouched maiden bring him to such heights of longing? It was entirely out of his realm of experience.

He climbed into his crested coach and tapped his walking stick against the roof to signal the driver, then he tried to ground himself. He labored to remember the kinds of relationships he was used to. The kinds he wanted. He was not like other men. He was not looking for a socially acceptable wife. He liked his life just the way it was.

But good God, he had just taken the first step toward a proper courtship with a respectable young lady, after swearing to both himself and the lady in question, through a number of daring letters, that he was only interested in a brief, sordid affair. The usual stuff where he was concerned. He had made it clear in no uncertain terms that that was what he’d wanted, then at the last minute after he had sent the letter, he had panicked—yes, panicked—and feared he had gone too far, come on too strong. Consequently, he had made a complete about-face and bloody well contradicted himself. He’d called upon her.

He remembered the dream again, and felt a disturbing jolt of confusion. It felt like two musical notes were chiming in his head at the same time. He winced at the discord.

He wasn’t even sure what he wanted at this point. It had been a number of years since he’d desired a woman who was innocent—presuming the heiress was in fact untouched, which he did presume, rightly or wrongly.

Daphne had been innocent. He had loved her unreservedly without any thought to whether or not it was wise. It had led to disaster.

He was, however, no longer a boy. He was a man and he was the Marquess of Rawdon. His father was no longer alive to dictate Seger’s future. If Seger wished to marry someone completely unsuitable—an American heiress for instance— he could do so. No one would dare stand in his way.

Seger chided himself. He did not wish to
marry
Miss Wilson. At least not at the moment. He certainly didn’t need her money. He only wanted her in the physical sense.

He wanted to feel her hands running through his hair. He wanted to kiss the soft, creamy skin between her breasts and taste her moist, honey-sweet lips. He wanted to hear her sigh with contentment after he’d brought her to the most ferocious orgasm she’d ever experienced in her life—all the better if it was her first. What he wouldn’t give to show her that kind of pleasure for the first time.

Which was, he supposed, the primary problem. One couldn’t enjoy an innocent without repercussions. Without responsibility and commitment and permanence. Without the young woman’s expectation of sentiment.

He had been too long living outside the lines. He’d forgotten how to play by the rules. After Daphne died, he’d lived the life he’d wanted to live, without caring what other people thought. Without letting himself empathize or think about how they felt. Women especially. He had forced that particular instinct out of himself and had chosen to give a very specific kind of pleasure instead. He was renowned for it, and the women he associated with rarely expected anything outside of that. They knew the rules, knew what he could give them, and most of them accepted it quite happily without making the mistake of asking for more.

Because he always made it clear he wouldn’t give them more.

Wouldn’t or couldn’t?

He took a small breath. He wasn’t sure. It seemed like he had always been isolated. Emotionally removed from everyone—from society, from his family, his acquaintances. He’d never had any brothers or sisters.

Was his lifestyle really by choice, or was he incapable of intimacy?

No, he could not be incapable of it. He had once loved very deeply.

But only once. Eight years ago when he had been devoted to Daphne.

Was it possible for a man to permanently banish from his heart the capacity for true emotional connections with other people?

Seger exhaled and shook his head. Lord, how many times over the past few weeks had he questioned his lifestyle and remembered Daphne? He hadn’t thought of her in years, but lately, their relationship had been coming back to him in little flashes of memory.

Perhaps it was the way Miss Wilson made him feel. She, like Daphne, possessed innocence, and consequently whatever existed between them was fresh, not sordid, as most of his relationships had been since Daphne left this world.

Suddenly, he felt dissatisfied with everything about his life. He remembered the things he had wanted when he was twenty, and how eager he had been to become someone’s husband. He had wanted Daphne to be
his partner for life, to share his joys and pains. He’d wanted a home filled with children.

He sat in silence, staring unseeing out the window at the passing traffic, barely hearing the clatter of the coach or the noise from the street. He had not wanted anything like that since then. He had given the idea of marriage a very wide berth.

Seger tipped his head back against the seat. Daphne disappeared from his mind.

Instead he thought of Miss Wilson sitting in the duchess’s drawing room across from him only moments ago, sipping her tea. What a vision she had been, beautiful and charming and glowing with smiles. Intelligent as well, discussing light politics and other things. She was a remarkable woman, and she inflamed his senses like no other. She possessed some kind of magic. A power that he feared could bring him to his knees.

Strange, how he feared it and wanted it at the same time.

Then he thought of Clara reading the last letter he had sent, contemplating his promise not to ruin her, and a shadow moved through him.
I know how to give pleasure without destruction
, he had written. What had her face looked like when she’d read such licentious words? Surely no gentleman had ever written anything like that to her before.

God. He felt a sudden urge to apologize to her—a strange and extraordinary impulse for Seger, who had written similar things to other women in the past and had never thought twice about it. It was a jarring reaction now. He wished he could take the letter back. He wished he could start over where she was concerned and handle everything differently. More politely.

It brought a frown to his face.

Wearing a low cut, royal blue velvet gown and feathers in her hair, Clara walked into the large opera box with James, Sophia and Mrs. Gunther. Before she sat down, she glanced at the brightly lit theater below, at the blinding glitter of gowns and jewels. People were filing in to their seats. A hum of conversation filled the auditorium while the orchestra warmed up with a dissonant mixture of violins, flutes and trumpets practicing scales.

Many seats below were still empty. Clara gazed across to the other side where the more luxurious boxes were filling up. She found herself staring at every fair-haired gentleman who caught her eye, searching for one in particular.

“It’s a lovely theater,” Mrs. Gunther said as she sat down and withdrew her mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her beaded reticule. She held them up to her eyes to look at the elaborate set on the stage.

Clara sat down as well, while Sophia and James remained standing at the back near the open red curtain, talking to someone they knew.

It had been a full week since Clara had seen or heard from Lord Rawdon, and she was desperate to know why. She had not replied to his last letter, taking a chance that his unexpected afternoon call had been his way of retreating from the scandalous nature of their acquaintance and perhaps to begin a proper courtship. She had subsequently watched for him at every social event since, hoping he would continue his re-emergence into society, but she had been disappointed.

She began to wonder if she had made a mistake in not replying to his letter. Perhaps he had taken her silence as a rebuff.

It seemed all she ever did where he was concerned was analyze the situation and wonder endlessly what he was thinking or how her actions had been received. If only they could be honest with each other and communicate frankly.

She supposed that was what he had been trying to do when he had written those letters. He’d wanted to escape the pretensions of the Marriage Mart, which he openly admitted to despising.

Just then, someone touched Clara’s shoulder. “Your Grace,” she said, turning in her chair and looking up at the tall Duke of Guysborough behind her.

“Good evening, Miss Wilson.” He moved to the empty chair beside her and sat down. “It’s been an exceptional week for entertainment, has it not?”

She had seen the duke at most of the assemblies and balls she’d attended the past few days, and had danced with him a number of times. “Indeed it has been. How is your mother?”

They talked about the dowager’s health, then discussed the opera they were about to see. Mrs. Gunther listened politely to all that was said and smiled and nodded with approval. Then the duke gave his farewell and stood up to talk to James for a few more minutes before leaving the box.

“He is a charming gentleman, don’t you think?” Mrs. Gunther said, leaning in close.

Almost too charming, Clara thought. Too perfect. Could she live up to that kind of ideal on a daily basis?

“I believe he fancies you.”

Sensing that the performance was about to begin, Clara reached into her purse for her opera glasses. “It’s difficult to say. He’s always very friendly to everyone.”