Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,11

their way in. It is simply shocking.”

Nostrils flaring, she returned to her breakfast, and Seger turned his attention away from her. He could not eat another bite, however, for he now knew the American girl’s name.

It was Clara. Clara Wilson.

Seven days later, Clara waited in the drawing room at Wentworth House for Sophia, James, and Mrs. Gunther. They were about to embark upon yet another exhausting evening of society balls and assemblies.

She gazed at herself in the enormous gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace, fiddled absentmindedly with one of her earrings, and wondered if the mysterious masked Casanova she had met a week ago would recognize her if they met again.

Thankfully, no one else had recognized her. At least she didn’t think so. There had been some concern after that crass article in the paper, but when Clara went out the next evening and the evening after that, nothing untoward had occurred. It seemed the English were as discreet and reserved as they led the rest of the world to believe. Or perhaps no one wanted to stir up a scandal and make a fool of the Prince of Wales.

Clara moved away from the mirror and sat down, wondering who she might meet that night. She had become acquainted with dozens of young aristocrats over the past week, but could picture none of their faces now, though she had been able to look at them fully and without restrictions for many minutes. The only face she could conjure in her imagination possessed a pair of striking green eyes and a full mouth, a deeply dimpled chin and a strong, square jaw below a narrow black mask. Clara knew she would spend most of her evening thinking about her secret paramour, searching room after room for that thick, golden hair and striking, charismatic presence.

Sophia, James and Mrs. Gunther entered the room, and they all made their way through the doorway and into the coach.

Four long hours later, Clara entered her third ball of the evening. She was exhausted from the constant string of introductions and the challenge of making conversation with English gentlemen while remembering to curtsey to this one, not to curtsey to that one, and for pity’s sake, not to become distracted and call an earl a “sir-something” or a baronet a “lord.”

Later, she sat down with Mrs. Gunther, clacked open her plumed fan and watched the dancers while absent-mindedly stroking the smooth jewel in her drop earring with a finger and thumb.

Again, her thoughts drifted to the vision of that incredible man, sauntering across a ballroom toward her. It all seemed like a ridiculous fantasy now. Perhaps the champagne and the punch had rattled her senses and made it all seem more magical than it truly was.

But certainly, the man’s effect on her had been real. She had not been able to extinguish the confusing, sweet longings that emerged every time she thought of him, every time she reminded herself that she did not even know his name, and that it was a very real possibility she would never see him again.

Still, Clara continued to dream of that night, imagining what might have occurred if she had gone with him to one of the private rooms as he had suggested. She envisioned a night of abandoned morality, bold and daring quests for pleasure, and the more she thought about it, the more intense and adventurous her fantasies became.

But that’s all they were, she reminded herself. Fantasies. She knew nothing about the man beneath the mask, except that he had not ravished her when he’d had the chance.

And for that—despite all her daydreams that indicated otherwise—she was thankful.

She also felt justified in her private affection for this stranger, for at least she could tell herself that he possessed some integrity, and that he was a true gentleman, under the circumstances. A hero who had pulled her from the fires of scandal, just as her father had done two years ago. If that mysterious gentleman had not marched her back to Mrs. Gunther and insisted that they leave, who knew where Clara might be today? Perhaps on a steamer somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, on her way back to America, her chances of marrying a decent man all but washed away.

On the other hand, her heroic fantasy man could have been married.

Married. She hoped he wasn’t. Pity the poor wife if he was, for how could any woman survive the knowledge that a husband like him was unfaithful and