Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,34
his unexpected afternoon call had been his way of retreating from the scandalous nature of their acquaintance and beginning a proper courtship. She had watched for him at every social event since, hoping he would continue his re-emergence into society, but she was disappointed at every turn.
She began to wonder if she had made a mistake in not replying to his letter. Perhaps he had taken her silence as a rebuff.
It seemed all she ever did where he was concerned was analyze the situation and wonder endlessly what he was thinking or how her actions had been received. If only they could be honest with each other and communicate freely and candidly.
She supposed that was what he’d been trying to do when he wrote those scandalous letters. He’d wanted to escape the pretensions of the Marriage Mart, which he openly admitted to despising.
Just then, someone touched Clara’s shoulder. She turned to discover that the tall Duke of Guysborough had entered the box.
“Good evening, Miss Wilson.” He moved to the empty chair beside her and sat down. “It’s been an exceptional week for entertainment, has it not?”
She had encountered the duke at most of the assemblies and balls she’d attended the past few days and had danced with him more than once. “It certainly has been,” she replied. “How is your mother?”
They talked about the dowager’s health, then discussed the opera they were about to see. Mrs. Gunther listened politely to all that was said and smiled and nodded with approval. Then the duke gave his farewell and stood up to converse with James for a few more minutes before leaving the box.
“What a charming gentleman,” Mrs. Gunther said, leaning in close.
Almost too charming, Clara thought. Too perfect. Could she live up to that sort of ideal on a daily basis?
“I believe he fancies you,” Mrs. Gunther added.
Sensing that the performance was about to begin, Clara reached into her purse for her opera glasses. “It’s difficult to say. He’s very friendly to everyone.”
“Yes, but especially to you. I’ve been keeping count of his dancing partners and you hold the highest honor for most waltzes each night.”
Clara raised her opera glasses and looked more closely at the stage decorations. “I didn’t realize you were keeping count of anything.”
“Only because he’s such an excellent prospect. Has he spoken to you about his children?”
“A few times, yes.”
“He has only one son, you know. The boy is eight I believe.”
Clara continued to use the opera glasses to discreetly search the boxes on the other side of the theater.
“I would suspect,” Mrs. Gunther continued, “that he would like to have more sons to secure his line. One can’t take chances with a dukedom.”
Clara perused each box and peered at the audience below.
“You’re not listening to me,” Mrs. Gunther said, sitting forward and looking over the rail. “I ask you, what down there could possibly be more interesting than the Duke of Guysborough?”
“I’m just looking at the fashions, Mrs. Gunther. There are some lovely gowns this evening.”
Mrs. Gunther continued to peruse the audience below. “Poppycock. You’re looking for that disreputable marquess. Is he here?”
Clara sat back and stared at Mrs. Gunther. “No, I do not believe he is.”
“Good.” She sat back, too, and lowered her voice. “He is not the sort you should mix with, Clara. I realize he is a peer, but his reputation overshadows that fact. There is your own reputation to think of. I must insist that in the future, you give him the cut direct.”
“Cut him? I couldn’t do anything like that.”
“You must, in order to deliver a clear message. You cannot afford to sully yourself. You mustn’t do anything to discourage more respectable men—like the duke—from considering you as a bride. You must convey perfection.”
“I’m hardly perfect, Mrs. Gunther. No one is.”
“But some people are more perfect than others, and despite his elevated rank, the marquess is very low down on that scale. The gossip about him, may I say, is detestable.”
Clara was beginning to feel ill. “Gossip can sometimes be exaggerated.”
“Do not defend him, dear girl. Even if it is exaggerated, appearances are as important, if not more important, than the truth.”
Clara knew she shouldn’t argue with Eva Gunther, a grand New York matriarch, but she couldn’t help herself. Her hands had closed into tight fists. “How can you say that? What if he is, in actuality, a good man, merely misunderstood?”
Not that she believed that herself. She had no idea. Well, she had some idea. Judging by the letters he