Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,37

a silver platter. Alone without pretensions. Without restrictions. There was no time, after all, to get to know the real man through superficial encounters in crowded drawing rooms.

He’d told her she could trust him to do everything in his power to protect her from ruin, and oddly enough, she did trust him in that regard. Every instinct she possessed—and she was operating wholly on instinct where the marquess was concerned—told her that he would not ravish her if he had the chance. He had on two other occasions proven that to be true when he’d instructed her to leave the Cakras Balls and not return.

Her belly swarmed with apprehension. Could she sneak out of the house undetected and not get caught?

By Jove, she was going to try.

Chapter 9

Dear Adele,

Have you met anyone interesting in New York? I hope there are some new faces, because sometimes I fear that I will be a complete failure here and end up back there before I have a chance to blink.

Love,

Clara

Wearing a dark gown, no jewels and sensible shoes, Clara tiptoed down the stairs, then down another flight to exit the quiet house through the servants’ back entrance. She left the door unlocked and moved quickly through the foggy night along the side of the house to the front—where indeed, a carriage was waiting in the shadows across the street, a considerable distance away from the nearest street lamp.

She approached slowly, her heart pounding like a mallet in her chest. This was an adventure, to be sure, but presently the excitement was translating into a dreadful, nauseating knot in her stomach, for she did not know what to expect. She had never been out alone at night before, nor had she ever agreed to such a scandalous, secret rendezvous with a rake. In his carriage. Just the two of them.

She neared the shiny black vehicle and circled around the back of it. The door opened onto the sidewalk and light from inside the carriage spilled onto the ground. The marquess stepped out into the chilly mist. He wore formal attire—a black jacket, white waistcoat and white necktie. No hat or gloves.

“I knew you would come.” He stepped forward and kissed her gloved hand. “Your carriage awaits.”

Clara glanced over her shoulder. The large coach blocked the view from the house, so Clara could at least relax about being seen.

He assisted her inside, then climbed in and closed the door.

A small lamp gave the lush, leather interior a dim, dreamlike glow while crimson velvet curtains covered the windows. Clara tried to breathe normally as she sat down and arranged her skirts.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Nowhere. We’ll remain here. Unless you want to go somewhere.”

She shook her head. “No, here is fine. Then I can leave when I wish.”

You’re thinking out loud, Clara.

“Precisely my thought as well.” With all his attention focused on her, he rested an arm along the back of the seat behind her.

She stared at his face. He was so handsome in the lamplight, it hurt just to look at him.

“So, tell me,” he said with a friendly, open expression, “what was the emergency?”

Clara tried to think clearly. She did not wish to tell him that she brought him here to inform him that someone had proposed to her. She was certain he would not be attracted to such desperation—a single woman carrying a torch for him, begging to see him immediately and sneaking out in the middle of the night to do so. He’d bolt like a fox. He would think she was entertaining foolish, romantic hopes that he, too, would propose, when in actuality, Clara was doing everything possible to shun those hopes.

“It wasn’t an emergency,” she said, “I just suddenly realized that I did not respond to your last letter, and I haven’t seen you for an entire week.”

The marquess was quiet for a moment, then he began to stroke her arm with the tip of his finger. “You know, I thought I might have shocked you with that last letter. Did I?”

She cleared her throat. “No. Well, perhaps a little.”

He continued to stroke her forearm, causing gooseflesh to erupt in every corner of her body.

“You can take off your glove if you like,” he said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

He merely shrugged.

She gazed at him for a moment that felt electrified, then swallowed hard and took both gloves off. She set them on the seat beside her.

It was strange that on all their previous encounters—except the first perhaps—she