Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,28

fingers on the ivory keys.

Clara realized miserably that her desires created a paradox. She craved excitement. In her heart she wanted to burst out of the box of polite behavior, yet she wanted to be respectable. She wanted a man who believed in piety and the institution of marriage. She wanted a morally upright man, but not a dull one, which was likely a difficult combination.

Gordon had been wild, but he had not possessed any honor. She had learned a sturdy lesson with him. Because of that, she was determined now. Just as the marquess had said, she was ambitious toward that end and would not settle for less than what she wanted.

She felt another wave of disappointment course through her. She did not believe the Marquess of Rawdon could be what she wanted. Like Gordon, he was far too wild. He did not seem interested in what was socially proper. He did not seem inclined toward true intimacies of the heart, only pleasures of the flesh. He continually pulled back when she tried to move away from flirting. He had said he was relieved he was not the kind of man she would want for a husband.

But oh, he was so beautiful, and so far, he was the only man in London who made her heart go pitter-pat.

Well, at least now she knew. The fantasy of him was indeed just that—a fantasy. He could only be a lover in the physical sense. She had to keep her head on straight about that.

What a shame, she thought. What a sad, frustrating shame.

The very next day, a letter arrived for Clara. Not recognizing the penmanship, she took it upstairs to her room, flopped down on her belly and broke the seal.

My Dear Miss Wilson, it began...

Her heart began to pound.

You must forgive me this indulgence, but I could not resist the inclination to write to you and tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed our discourse last evening at your sister’s assembly. I had considered calling on the duchess today, but decided against it, as I felt it was too much progress for a man like me, in too short a time. I cannot, I’m afraid, delve into a complete recovery from my wicked ways and evolve overnight into a proper gentleman who pays calls to respectable young ladies, sipping tea in brightly lit drawing rooms.

Instead, I choose to write you a letter, where I would be free to say the things I would have wanted to say, had I been in your delightful, delectable company this afternoon.

Why am I writing this? you must be wondering. I am wondering that myself. I have no idea. As I mentioned last night, I am not presently seeking a wife and I usually confine myself to less perilous associations. Perhaps it is the French wine I am sipping. No, it is not. It is you. You enchant me.

Clara’s heart flipped over inside her chest. She rolled over and sat up, then walked to the window to continue reading.

I have no wish to spoil your chances of meeting the decent and respectable man you desire, yet I find I cannot sit idly back and accept that I will never see you again, or—forgive me for my plain manner of speaking—kiss you again. I could not stop looking at your lips last night. I wanted to find another dark staircase.

But I digress. As you see, I am too frank for the society you accept as your own. If I were like other gentlemen, I would say goodbye to you now and wish you the best. But I have not behaved as a gentleman for many years, and I find myself plotting other ways to kiss you again and satisfy my passions without causing too much damage in the process. Do you understand my meaning? Do you have any ideas?

Sincerely,

S.

Clara could hardly breathe. Was he serious? Surely not! He must be teasing her again. This was scandalous! She could not reply to something like this. What if someone found out?

She read the letter again. Heaven help her, her blood was rushing so fast, she felt faint.

This was madness. She could not take part in a wild and wicked affair. She’d brushed up against scandal once before and did not wish to do so again. She had come to England to meet respectable gentlemen and avoid that sort of thing. How had she managed to stumble across the worst, wildest rogue in London? And she’d allowed him to kiss