Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,21

potential husband, at least by Sophia and Mrs. Gunther, and this made Clara pay attention.

He was, she supposed, a handsome man. With dark hair and mustache, he possessed a certain impressive maturity. There was something about him, however, that made her feel ill at ease, as if she would always have to sit up straight while in his presence.

As soon as he moved on to mingle about the room, Clara glanced at Mrs. Gunther who was sitting forward in a chair, watching Clara’s every move. She sat back, however, after the duke turned away.

“It’s getting late,” Clara whispered to Sophia when there was a free moment. “Do you think he changed his mind?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

At that moment, an older woman approached the door with a younger lady at her side. The woman was of medium height and proud looking. The girl appeared shy and nervous.

The majordomo announced: “Lady Rawdon and Miss Gillian Flint.”

Clara’s stomach went whoosh. It was Seger’s stepmother.

Sophia greeted her warmly. “Lady Rawdon, welcome.”

“Your Grace. May I present my niece from Wales, Gillian Flint.” She gestured toward the girl behind her, who curtsied.

Sophia smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She turned toward Clara. “This is my sister, Clara Wilson.”

They exchanged light pleasantries, but when Lady Rawdon moved on, she scrutinized Clara’s extravagant gown from top to bottom and gave her a cool glare. The younger Miss Flint admired Clara’s jewels enviously then followed with her head down.

Pulse pounding, wondering if the marquess would arrive next, Clara watched the top of the stairs, but a group of ladies ascended. No wild-looking, wavy-haired gentlemen in sight.

Another half hour went by and the frequency of arrivals began to diminish. Clara’s feet were getting sore. He’s not coming, she thought. He changed his mind.

The disappointment was difficult to keep at bay, though she did her best not to show it. She glanced at Lady Rawdon across the room, speaking with a group of older women. At that moment, Sophia nudged her. Hard.

Knocked slightly off balance, Clara stepped to the side, then turned to the door just as the majordomo announced, “The Marquess of Rawdon.”

The world seemed to stop turning. All Clara heard was the noisy, thunderous rush of her blood in her ears.

He was here. At last.

Her gaze went first to his eyes, for she’d never seen them without the mask. They were deep green, large and expressive. She had known before that he was handsome, but this was mind-altering. He was everything she had imagined, and more, with the divine presence of a Greek god. Her body pulsed with sizzling, nervous excitement, and her stomach whirled with butterflies.

It wasn’t until a few seconds later, as the marquess was shaking James’s hand and saying something that made James laugh, that Clara noticed he had cut his hair. Though it was by no means short, it was not wild about his shoulders any longer.

Had he trimmed it because of this single assembly? Had he gone out and changed himself just for her? Or would he have done it for any other invitation?

Either way, the sight of it made her feel joyful inside. He had come out of hiding.

Clara watched him greet Sophia. “Duchess, it is an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” Sophia replied, turning casually toward Clara. “May I present my sister, Clara Wilson of New York. This is Clara’s first Season in London, Lord Rawdon.”

He moved to stand before her. He was so tall, grand and sophisticated that she almost forgot to breathe. “At last,” he said, bowing his head to her.

A shiver of desire tingled across her flesh. “Welcome to Wentworth House, my lord.”

Locked in his smoldering gaze, Clara melted at the grandeur of his face—the masculine line of his jaw, the discerning intelligence in his eyes. Neither of them spoke, until the moment was broken by Sophia, who cleared her throat. Clara felt wrenched out of a trance.

The marquess smiled again, more broadly this time, as if he recognized that she was enamored. Not that he hadn’t seemed enamored himself, but perhaps that was just his way. Perhaps he was enamored with all women.

The divorce scandal of three years ago flitted across her mind. She reminded herself to be wary.

The marquess’s gaze swept across the crowded drawing room, but before he ventured inside, he faced her one more time. “I would enjoy hearing about America this evening, Miss Wilson, if you would be inclined to describe your home to me.”

“I will seek you out,” she replied.

“I look

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