An Affair Most Wicked (3 page)

At that moment, a young gentleman with gold spectacles and fair hair approached and bowed. “May I have the honor of a dance?”

Clara glanced at Mrs. Gunther who hesitated at the man’s informality, then nodded, albeit reluctantly. Clara was surprised her chaperone allowed it without a proper
introduction, but she supposed the woman felt as anxious and out of place as she did, and didn’t want these eminent lords and ladies to know it.

So, not wishing to defy her chaperone, Clara allowed the gentleman to take her champagne glass and set it on a table, then accepted his gloved hand and walked onto the floor with him. They danced a waltz—she had yet to see any other dance performed—and when it ended, he escorted her back to Mrs. Gunther, thanked her, then went on his way.

“That was lovely,” Clara said, “but this is not at all how Sophia described it. She said the necessity for social graces was as bad if not worse than New York, and she’d had a terribly difficult time. That man did not even know who I was, nor I he.” She leaned closer to Mrs. Gunther, and whispered, “A few of the gentlemen aren’t wearing gloves. Look at that man there.”

Another couple twirled by.

Mrs. Gunther raised her chin in the air. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. We may be approaching the end of a century, but I hardly think society should act in such an uncivilized manner—noble or otherwise. Why, at one of
my
balls…”

Just then, a tall, imposing gentleman entered the ballroom. Clara’s attention flitted away from her chaperone’s social commentary and landed lightly upon the man now standing just inside the doors. He wore a black suit with tails and a white necktie and waistcoat, and his hair— golden and wavy like ripe wheat in the wind—was an unfashionable length, reaching his shoulders. He stepped into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and tossed his head in a most arrogant manner, throwing an errant lock of that golden hair away from his face.

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 jaw was firm and angled. Clara took another slow sip of the champagne.

He must have sensed her staring, for his gaze swung around the room and came to rest intently upon her.

For a long moment they watched each other, to the point where it almost seemed improper, yet Clara could not bring herself to look away. Not that she was feeling brave or daring. Quite 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 around the ballroom, straight toward Clara, his eyes never veering from hers. She sucked in a short, shaky breath, oblivious to whatever Mrs. Gunther was now 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 impossibly gorgeous gentleman. Clara could only presume that her chaperone was caught in the honey, too, for her lips were parted, but 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, then 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. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to England. It’s enlivening to meet you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, somewhat abashed by his choice of words.

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 large potted tree 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 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 strong arm encircled her corseted waist and 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 exquisite.”

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?”

He considered it a moment. “How would you like me to?”

Clara gazed at him, not quite 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 was 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 resplendent change from the ordinary.

He gazed at her. “Look around you. Every gentleman 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. “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. Firmly.

Stunned by the physical intimacy in the middle of the crowded ballroom, and flustered by the feel of the man’s hard chest against the flat of her hand, Clara tried to pull it away.

He held her hand where it was.

She 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 suddenly felt dry. In fact, she could barely breathe. Did this man always have this debilitating effect on women? If so, she was in for an engaging, perhaps difficult, first season here if she ever encountered him again.

They danced a little longer, and she noticed his pace was slowing, growing more and more leisurely with every musical bar of the waltz.

Clara found herself now 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, feeling a bit faint in the moist heat of the room. Or perhaps it was this beautiful man’s profound 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 clothed buffet table was overflowing with tea cakes and crumpets, huge 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 with some kind 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 Fuseli, 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 gentleman 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 beside her, watching her, taking in her response to the painting.

He leaned closer. “Some say it leads to the dark recesses of the mind.”

The heat of his breath in her ear caused a torrent of gooseflesh to surge like a tidal wave down the entire left side of her body.

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.

“God, but you are lovely,” he whispered.

Unaccustomed to such potent, open flattery, Clara grew breathless. “Thank you.”

“Your perfume is like strawberries.”

She turned to meet his gaze, and could not stop herself from staring up at his mask, trying to imagine what he would look like without it. He must surely be the handsomest 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 appealing way he looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful creature in the world, Clara followed him around the bottom of the staircase and along the side of it.

Suddenly, with a hazy, besotted awareness, she realized, with some distress, that he was leading her away, into the dim, private shadows beneath the stairs.