An Affair Most Wicked (13 page)

“Yes, but especially to you. I’ve been keeping track of the ladies he’s been dancing with and you hold the highest honor for most waltzes each night.”

Clara drew her eyebrows together as she stared at her chaperone. “You’ve been keeping track? You surprise me, Mrs. Gunther.”

The older woman smiled. “He’s a very good catch, Clara. I was curious to know the caliber of your feminine competition, if there was in fact any competition at all. There doesn’t seem to be much.”

When Clara made no reply, Mrs. Gunther continued. “Has he spoken of his children to you?”

“A few times, yes.”

“He has only one son, you know. The boy is eight I believe.”

Clara held her glasses up to her eyes and looked at the boxes directly across from where she sat.

“I would expect,” Mrs. Gunther said, “that he would wish to have more children, more sons if possible, to ensure the security of his line. One can’t take chances with a dukedom.”

Clara perused each box and peered down at the audience below.

“You’re not listening to me,” Mrs. Gunther said, unfolding her own glasses and looking down. “I ask you, what down there could possibly be more interesting than the Duke of Guysborough?”

“I’m just looking at the fashions, Mrs. Gunther. There are some beautiful gowns tonight.”

Mrs. Gunther continued to look down at the crowd. “Poppycock. You’re looking for that disreputable marquess. Is he there?”

Clara leaned back and stared at Mrs. Gunther. “No, I don’t believe he is.”

“Good.” She leaned back, too, and lowered her voice. “He is not the sort you should associate yourself with, Clara. I realize he is a peer, but his reputation overshadows that fact. There is your own reputation to think of. I would ask that in the future, you cut him.”

“Cut him? I couldn’t do anything like that.”

“But you must, in order to make the message clear. You do not want to sully yourself. You must not do anything to discourage more respectable men—like the duke, for instance—from considering you as a bride. You must convey perfection.”

“I’m hardly perfect, Mrs. Gunther. No one is.”

“But some people are more perfect than others, and despite his elevated rank, the marquess is very low down on that scale. The gossip about him, may I say, is detestable.”

Clara was beginning to feel ill. “Gossip can sometimes be exaggerated.”

“Don’t defend him, dear girl. Even if it is exaggerated, appearances are as important, if not more important, than the truth.”

Clara knew she shouldn’t argue with Mrs. Eva Gunther, a grand New York matriarch, but she couldn’t help herself. Her hands had closed into tight fists. “How can you say that? What if he is in actuality a good man, merely misunderstood?”

Not that she really believed that herself. She had no idea. Well, she had some idea. Judging by the letters he had sent, he was every bit as notorious as the gossips claimed.

“It wouldn’t matter.”

The lights dimmed and James and Sophia took their seats. The curtain at the back of the box lowered as if by magic.

Clara sat stiff in her seat, contemplating everything Mrs. Gunther had said. She felt a great pressure squeezing around her heart at that moment—an obligation to ignore what she wanted, and do what was expected of her.

Another part of her, in angry response, wanted to see the marquess again for the single purpose of rebellion. Of proving that he was not all bad, and also to prove that she had a mind and will of her own and she would not relinquish her personal happiness for the mere sake of appearances.

Clara chided herself. She had felt this way once before, and there had been harrowing consequences.

The opera began. Clara sat agitated for a while, then she tried to calm down and use the time to come to terms with what Mrs. Gunther had said. She took a few deep breaths. She could not fault the woman for acting in a way that she believed was in Clara’s best interest. The woman came from a very old family, after all. She had certain values that were not easy to renounce.

Clara sighed.

Who was she fooling? She knew she could never act rebelliously for the mere sake of rebelling. She had learned to be smarter than that. Well, most of the time.

She raised her glasses and glanced at the box across the way and saw the Duke of Guysborough sitting alone, watching the opera. His wife had probably occupied the seat beside him when she’d lived. How sad that she had died so young and left her husband and children behind. Clara felt a strong wave of sympathy for the man.

Perhaps she
was
being foolhardy, dreaming about a wild, dishonorable marquess when a decent, genteel man with proven high moral and family values was within her reach, expressing his interest in her. Treating her with the utmost gentlemanly respect.

She lowered her opera glasses and sighed deeply, then promised herself that she would keep an open mind.

* * *

Three days later, the Duke of Guysborough called on Clara. He sat down on a sofa in the drawing room, and proposed.

Sitting in her chintz upholstered chair, Clara stared at him blankly.

“I would be an excellent husband, Miss Wilson. I am highly regarded by the queen herself. My estate is comprised of some of the most prestigious lands in England, and my children are obedient. You would almost never see them.”

Never see them? That was supposed to be a good thing?

“You would become a duchess, like your sister,” he added with a proud nod.

Clara tried to think straight. It was the offer of a lifetime. Hundreds of young women on both sides of the Atlantic would give anything to be in her shoes at this moment.

Why then, could she not feel her toes?

Clara tried to smile. “You flatter me, Your Grace. I had not expected such a wonderful speech from you today.”

Just before he’d proposed, he had told her she was lovely—a rare jewel.

Purity and perfection.

She was not perfect. She was far from it. Would he still want her if he knew the passions that lived in her heart? Passions of the flesh and mind? She suspected that any wife of his would have to hide or smother that part of herself.

“May I deliver good news to my family this evening?” he asked.

Clara’s skin prickled all over. It was too much too soon. How could she possibly accept? At the same time, she did not want to pass up on this opportunity—which was indeed a great boon—and later live to regret it.

“Your Grace, you must give me some time to think about it. I am truly honored by your proposal, but as I’m sure you can understand, I must consult my family on the matter.”

He smiled. “Of course you must. It is a momentous decision. I’m sure they will guide you in the right direction. Shall I return tomorrow?”

“That would be very kind of you.”

He made a bow and took his leave.

Clara sat in her chair, completely unable to move. The walls seemed to be closing in all around her. The Duke of Guysborough had just proposed marriage to her and before twenty-four hours were out, she would have to make the biggest decision of her life and choose her destiny.

She stood up and went to the window to watch him step into his carriage and drive away. He was a handsome, distinguished man, admired by the Queen of England. Mrs. Gunther approved of him. Clara’s parents would undoubtedly also approve. The duke had been married once before and had from all accounts been a good husband.

He was, as some would say, a sure thing. As far as appearances went, he was exactly what she wanted. Or at least what her head told her she wanted. Her instincts told her something else, however. There was something about him that didn’t ring true. He was too perfect.

The carriage disappeared at the end of the street, and Clara turned from the window.

Sophia entered. “Well? Did he propose?”

Feeling almost numb inside, Clara nodded.

“What did you say?”

“I told him I would give him an answer tomorrow.”

“I see.” Looking worried, Sophia regarded Clara. “Are you still thinking about the marquess? Because I don’t think he’s the kind of man who would propose marriage quite so quickly.” She moved fully into the room and stood before Clara, who felt suddenly pale.

Sophia continued. “What do you want, Clara?”

“I don’t know. Or rather, I do know, or at least I thought I did. I want to marry a man who will be a good husband. A man I can respect. Everyone is telling me that the duke is that man—he satisfies all my criteria—yet my heart is not quite so certain. He said something about his children today. He said I would almost never have to see them, as if that would make me more likely to accept his offer. What does that say about his love for them, and his devotion to his family?”

Sophia nodded.

“Besides,” Clara added, “I am still attracted to the marquess.”

Sophia took Clara’s hand and led her to the sofa to sit down. “I remember what it felt like when I was falling in love with James. If I had been pressured to marry someone else, I don’t know what
I would have done. I don’t envy you.”

“If only I could see the marquess again.”

“But would it make a difference? I believe the marquess would require a fair bit of wooing, so to speak, to be enticed into marriage, and unfortunately you don’t have time to do that. It’s a shame the duke had not waited a little while and given you a chance to get to know him better and figure out what you really wanted. This lays a great deal of weight upon your shoulders, doesn’t it?”

“You know me too well, Sophia.” Clara gazed down at her hands on her lap. “What am I going to do?”

Sophia shrugged. “Only you know the answer to that question. It’s your future.”

After a long pause, Clara looked into her sister’s compassionate eyes. “I need to see him.”

Sophia’s breast heaved with a deep intake of air. “I suppose you could send him a note and tell him that you’ve received an offer. That might give him a little push.”

“I don’t want to force him or push him into proposing to me. I just want to see him and talk to him. Find out for sure if there is any hope.”

“But would you be prepared to refuse a decent man’s offer on the off chance that a notorious rake might reform?”

Clara stared out the window again. “I’m not sure. That’s what I need to find out.”

Clara sat alone in her room that evening and read all the letters again. After some careful contemplation, she knew that the time for playful flirtations had ended. She couldn’t go on waiting and hoping the marquess would appear at a society ball. She had to take the bull by the
horns.

She dipped her pen in the ink and scrolled a quick note.

Clara sealed the letter and gave it to a footman with instructions to deliver it immediately. He returned an hour later with a reply.

Two A.M
.! Clara could barely believe her eyes. Did he think she would be able to convince her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, to escort her out to a gentleman’s carriage at that hour of the night?

Obviously not.

Which was precisely the point.

He expected her to sneak out alone.

Good God.

Clara squeezed her forehead in her hand. Could she do such a thing? Perhaps this was fate trying to give her the proof she needed that the marquess was not the man for her.

Or perhaps it was just the opposite. Fate giving her the chance to meet the
real
marquess. Alone without pretensions. Without restrictions. There was no time, after all, to get to know the real man through superficial encounters in drawing rooms.

He’d told her she could trust him to do everything in his power to protect her from ruin, and oddly enough, she did trust him in that regard. Every instinct she possessed— and she was operating wholly on instinct where the marquess was concerned—told her that he would not ravish her if he had the chance. He had on two other occasions proven that fact, when he’d instructed her to leave the Cakras Balls and not return.

Her belly swarmed with apprehension. Could she sneak out of the house undetected and not get caught? By God, she was going to try.

Chapter 9

Wearing a dark gown, no jewels and sensible shoes, Clara tiptoed down the stairs, then down another flight to exit the quiet house through the servants’ back entrance. She left the door unlocked and moved quickly through the foggy night along the side of the house to the front— where indeed, a carriage was waiting in the shadows across the street, a considerable distance away from the nearest street lamp.

She approached slowly, her heart pounding like a mallet in her chest. This was an adventure, yes, but presently the excitement was translating into a dreadful, nauseating knot in her stomach, for she did not know what to expect. She had never been out alone at night before, nor had she ever agreed to such a scandalous, secret rendezvous with a rake. In his carriage. Just the two of them.

She neared the shiny black vehicle and circled around the back of it. The door opened onto the sidewalk, the light from inside the carriage spilling onto the ground. The marquess stepped out into the chilly mist. He wore formal attire—a black jacket, white waistcoat and white necktie. No hat or gloves.

“I knew you would come.” He took a step forward and kissed her gloved hand. “Your carriage awaits.”

Clara glanced over her shoulder. The large coach blocked the view of them from the house, so Clara could at least relax about being seen.

He assisted her inside, then climbed in after her and closed the door.

A small lamp gave the lush, velvet interior a dim, surreal glow. Dark, crimson curtains covered the windows. Clara tried to breathe normally as she sat down and arranged her skirts.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Nowhere. We’ll stay right here. Unless you
want
to go somewhere.”

She shook her head. “No, here is fine. Then I can leave when I wish.”

You‘re thinking out loud, Clara.

“Precisely my thought as well.” With all his attention focused on her, he leaned in, crossed his legs and rested an arm along the back of the seat behind her.

She stared at his face. He was so handsome in the lamplight, it hurt just to look at him.

“So tell me,” he said with a friendly, open expression, “what was the emergency?”

Clara tried to think clearly. She did not want to tell him she brought him here just to inform him that someone had proposed to her. She was certain he would not be attracted to such desperation—a single woman carrying a torch for him, begging to see him immediately and sneaking out in the middle of the night to do so. He’d take off like a fox. He would think she was entertaining foolish, romantic hopes that he, too, would propose, when in actuality, Clara was doing everything possible to shun those hopes.

“It wasn’t an emergency,” she said, “I just suddenly recalled that I did not respond to your last letter, and since I had not seen you for an entire week, I wondered how you were.”

He didn’t reply right away. The momentary silence made Clara squirm uncomfortably. She knew she would have to work hard to keep her composure.

The marquess, on the other hand, did not seem the least bit uncomfortable. He was staring directly into her eyes, smiling, then he began to stroke her arm with a finger. “You know, I thought I might have shocked you with my last letter. Did I?”

She cleared her throat. “No. Well, perhaps a bit.”

He continued to stroke her forearm, causing gooseflesh to erupt in every nook and cranny under her dress.

“You can take off your gloves if you like,” he said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

He shrugged.

She gazed at him for a titillating moment, then swallowed hard and took them off. She set them on the seat beside her.

It was strange that on all their previous encounters—except the first perhaps—she had felt confident around him and had become bold and flirtatious.

Tonight, she was nothing of the sort. She was nervous and frazzled and shaky. He had all the power.

“You’ve never been in a carriage alone with a man before, have you?” he said.

Clara’s eyebrows lifted. “Certainly not.”

“I promise I shall endeavor to make it a pleasant experience. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

She swallowed again and wondered if he’d heard the gulp. “Will we talk? Or are you going to kiss me?”

Amused by the question, he chuckled. “What would
you
like me to do?”

“Talk,” she said too quickly. “At least, to start off with.”

His face warmed. “So you are not averse to the idea of my kissing you. I’m glad to hear it.” He leaned back. “Just for the record, I prefer to talk first, too. What would you like to discuss?”

Clara considered it. “Well, here in your carriage at two A.M., I doubt that polite rules apply, so can we avoid talking about the weather?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I would like to ask all the questions I’ve been told are too forward in polite society. I would like to know more about you, Lord Rawdon. I would like to know about your family and your home and your childhood. I would like to know more about the affairs you’ve had.”

His head tilted back a bit. He still looked amused. “I’m game, as long as you promise to oblige me the same way.”

“I’d be happy to.”

He casually pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. His touch made her tingle. “Where would you like me to begin?”

Clara turned slightly to face him on the seat. “Where did you go to school?”

He told her about attending Charterhouse, about his grades. He’d been an exceptional student academically.

“Were you well behaved as well?”

“I was a model student, usually a favorite of my professors and prefects. I was one of the few lucky ones who never once received a caning.”

Clara grinned. “An achievement to be sure, but I doubt it was luck if you were well behaved. Did you attend university?”

“Yes, I went to Cambridge, then I went abroad for a few years to Paris and India.” He told her about his travels, the things he had seen and done.

Clara listened to everything with keen ears, fascinated by all of it, soon forgetting that she was here on a mission to gather information and decide whether or not he was redeemable. Instead, she merely began to enjoy herself.

They chatted about their favorite pastimes, unusual tastes, embarrassing moments. The marquess had a surprising interest in botany. Clara enjoyed sketching people’s faces. The marquess once posed for an inexperienced artist in Paris who was attempting to paint Zeus. It had turned out very badly. Clara had once drawn a picture that made the model look like a pomegranate.

He could be very amusing, she discovered as she laughed at something he’d said. He seemed to greatly enjoy a lot of little things in life, like a perfectly cooked salmon steak, or a quiet ride over the dewy countryside at dawn.

Before Clara knew it, an hour had passed and she realized she had not learned half of what she had wanted to learn about this man. There suddenly seemed to be much more to learn than she had initially imagined.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

“No. My mother had a difficult time bringing me into the world and the doctor told her not to have any more children. Seven years went by and she made the mistake of forgetting his advice. She and the baby died before she made it to the birthing bed.”

“I’m sorry. Do you remember much about her?”

His expression softened. “She was a quiet, unassuming woman, and very kind. When my father remarried, he chose a more outspoken woman—my stepmother—but they were unfortunately unable to have children, which I believe partly explains the marchioness’s deep affection for her niece.”

“Miss Flint? The young woman who attended my sister’s assembly?”

“Yes. Her own mother died a few years ago. She was Quintina’s twin.”

“Ah, it’s no wonder she is close to her.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Clara answered the marquess’s questions about her upbringing and education in America. She described her early childhood in Wisconsin, what it was like living in a one-room cabin in the woods before her father moved them to the city and slowly but surely earned his fortune on Wall Street. She told him about learning to speak French in Paris with her sisters, and described her etiquette training in finishing school.

Then she decided it was time to broach a new subject.

“What about your affairs?” she asked directly, knowing she had to become more efficient in this conversational quest. “That woman from the divorce case. Did you love her?”

His eyes narrowed devilishly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. No, I didn’t, but neither was the sentiment returned.”

“How long were you involved with her?”

“Only for a couple of months, but never steadily. She was a regular at the Cakras Balls and when we met there, we often spent time together, but I wasn’t the only man she carried on with, nor was I the only witness in court that day.” He brushed a fleck of dust off his lapel. “She was a witty woman. She enjoyed limericks.”

Clara did not particularly enjoy hearing about him with another woman. She knew, however, that the questions were necessary and she reminded herself that she was a rational woman and that feeling jealous did not make sense. He did not belong to her.

Still, she didn’t like it.

“Where is the woman now?”

“I have no idea. She left England after that. She might have gone to Ireland. Her husband is still here, though he stays in the country most of the time. He took a second wife last year and I believe they are expecting their first child.”

Clara settled back onto the deeply buttoned upholstery. “Have you never been serious with anyone?”

“Ah. The questions are becoming more stimulating, aren’t they?” He gazed up at the ceiling for a moment. “Yes, I was serious once.”

Clara sat forward. “How serious?”

“As serious as a young man can get. I wanted to be married.”

Clara stared wordlessly at him.