Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,10

one of us. Pox on her. She’s a trollop, like all the rest. Honestly, what can they be thinking?”

Barely listening to his stepmother’s open rant about the Americans, Seger reached for the paper.

“Did you know,” she said, “that she’s the sister of the Duke of Wentworth’s young American wife, who came from a hovel somewhere in the middle of the country where her ancestors were bootmakers and butchers. But then again…”—Quintina waved a hand— “the duke was not exactly in an enviable position in society, was he? Being so deeply in debt....”

Seger picked up the paper and found the headline: another american heiress joins stampede to acquire english title.

The article went on to describe the estimates and sources of her father’s wealth, the young woman’s unparalleled charm, and the details of her attire, mainly her fashionable Worth gown. “It was the color of a fresh magnolia,” the writer said, “with pale blue flower sprays. She wore a diamond pendant and pearls and lilies in her thick, mahogany hair.”

Seger’s gut began to twist and roll as he read word after word of the excruciatingly disturbing article. The beautiful, bewitching—and idiotic—young temptress from the Cakras Ball. Her name was Clara Wilson.

What the bloody hell was wrong with the girl? Did she not know she would attract attention by dancing with the Prince of Wales, and that every man who laid eyes on her at Livingston House would be making the connection that morning, licking his chops, and planning how he was either going to ruin her entirely, or use what he knew to squeeze the largest wad possible from her rich American father?

Everyone had seen Segar dancing with her, too, and Seger was more than recognizable, even in his mask. He was one of the regulars at the Cakras Balls and had never tried to hide it. All of society knew he avoided ambitious young debutante’s like he avoided the plague, for he was not interested in becoming anyone’s prized acquisition.

He knew what real love was. He’d had it once, and he knew it could not be arranged, or bought, or snuffed out by a strict and sometimes cruel social code.

He would not marry to please his tenants or the royal court or his stepmother. Especially his stepmother. Such a path had been forced upon him once, and it would not be forced upon him again. It was a matter of principle now. He would not surrender to it. Besides, he preferred his life exactly the way it was.

He gazed coldly at Quintina. There were many things not yet forgotten. Or forgiven.

Seger raked a hand through his hair and pushed the still-glowing embers of resentment down into the deepest corners of his being where they belonged. They did him no good out in the open. What was done was done, and he could not change the past.

He turned his attention back to the paper and read the rest of the article about the American. No doubt, there would be conjecture about his intentions if their encounter at the Cakras Ball became known. Everyone would wonder if he would marry her. Some would expect him to, for he had compromised her reputation by disappearing with her under the stairs.

“Bloody hell.” Seger crumpled the paper in his fist, whirled around and threw it into the fire. This was precisely why he did not flirt with debutantes. He did not wish to marry until he was good and ready, and he was not ready now. He would not be forced. His marriage would be on his own terms.

Seger watched the newspaper shrink as the red flame consumed it, then he faced the table again.

His stepmother was staring at him in stunned silence, her thin-lipped mouth dangling open. After a second or two, she raised an eyebrow. “Well done, Seger. That’s exactly what I wanted to do with that paper.”

Just then, her niece, Gillian Flint, entered the breakfast room. Gillian was visiting from Wales, enjoying her first London Season under the chaperonage of her aunt. From what Seger had heard from his stepmother, the young woman had been a great success so far.

Gillian removed her spectacles, smoothed her skirt and sat down.

Quintina furiously buttered her roll. “I wish we could do the same to that American heiress, and all the others like her. Throw them into the fire. We have our own English girls to arrange into marriages and we should not have to suffer this kind of vulgar, garish invasion. They think they can buy