Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,2

MWO above it. “I’ve no idea. I’ll ask Sophia when we see her.”

The footman handed them into the crested black coach with shiny silver fittings, then hopped onto the page board as the vehicle lurched forward and turned toward Belgravia.

A short while later, they pulled up in front of a grand manor house, lit up like a sparkling jewel in the night. Clara heard music from the orchestra inside while couples moved past the large windows, twirling on the dance floor to a Strauss waltz. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sizzled through her veins, and she gathered up her silk skirt to follow Mrs. Gunther out of the coach.

They made their way up the stone path to the front door beneath a massive portico. A broad-shouldered, bald man stood at the entrance, and when Clara and Mrs. Gunther approached, he stepped in front of the door, which was closed tightly behind him.

Mrs. Gunther rolled her shoulders in that haughty way of hers, a skill she had perfected. “We are here for the ball,” she said in her best matriarchal voice, with one intimidating eyebrow raised.

“Do you have an invitation?” His deep, booming voice didn’t intimidate Mrs. Gunther. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she reached into her purse.

“Here.” She handed it to him.

He glanced over it, then lifted his narrow gaze to assess each of them individually. Clara felt a prickling of dread, as if they were about to be turned away. Was this how her Season in London was to begin? A failure, before she even set foot in the door?

There was suspicion in his voice. “You’re American?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gunther replied.

“You’ll be a novelty, then.” He stepped out of the way of the door and opened it. “You’ll find the masks on the oak table just inside the entrance.”

Mrs. Gunther eyed him incredulously. “Masks?”

Clara nudged her through the door before she could question him further about the mask theme, for Clara did not wish to appear as if they did not belong. She wanted to fit in.

Once they were inside, Mrs. Gunther said, “I did not like that man.”

“Neither did I. I’ll feel better when we see Sophia and James.”

They found a large crystal bowl full of feathered masks just inside the door, and Clara chose a cream-colored one to bring out the auburn highlights in her dark brown hair.

A woman walked by while they were donning their masks, and Clara could have sworn she wasn’t wearing a corset. Clara’s lips fell open. She was about to say something to Mrs. Gunther but caught herself. Surely, she had been mistaken.

They withdrew to the cloak room to freshen up, then made their way across the crowded grand hall toward the ballroom.

As soon as Clara stepped inside, her mood lifted. She relaxed and cleared her mind of all the mistakes she feared she would make, for what a dazzling room it was. Couples swirled around the floor in bright splashes of color and glitter. The music from the orchestra seemed to come from the blue beyond, so skilled were the musicians, and all the ladies and gentlemen looked elegant and happy.

A footman approached with a tray of champagne and offered glasses to Clara and Mrs. Gunther.

Mrs. Gunther shook her head and waved a hand to decline. The man’s brow furrowed, and he looked at them strangely. “Really, you must,” he said in a pleasant tone, raising the tray toward them again. “Lord Livingston would be disappointed if you didn’t try it.”

Clara, still wanting to fit in, took a glass of the bubbly and carefully sipped, savoring its delicious taste and delighting in the way it poured heat through every limb. The footman winked at her as he left.

“Did you see that?” she said to her chaperone.

Mrs. Gunther touched her arm. “Pardon me? Oh, my dear, you don’t have a dance card.” She stopped a lady passing by and asked her.

Clara left the issue of the winking footman alone.

The woman, wearing a black and white feathered mask and a garnet gown trimmed in velvet, laughed. “We don’t bother with names here,” she said, then continued on her way.

Clara suddenly felt as if she’d followed Alice down the rabbit hole.

“Perhaps it’s because the Prince is coming,” Mrs. Gunther surmised. “They say he is not at all as prim as his mother, and he prefers to move with the fast set.”

“What if someone asks me to dance?” Clara whispered. “What about introductions?”

“No one else seems to be bothering with them.” Mrs.