Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,7

her face. “Married!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “No! And if I were, I would certainly not be here having this indecent conversation with you!”

He glanced this way and that, as if he weren’t sure what to do with her. After some brief deliberation, he took her by the elbow and began to escort her back to the ballroom. “You need to leave.”

“But what is this place?”

“Not the sort of place you should know anything about.” He quickened his pace, and Clara had to scramble to keep up with him.

“Don’t run,” he said. “You’ll attract attention.”

“How can I help it? You’re practically dragging me on my knees!”

“Don’t speak to anyone else. Get out of here now, and for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone where you were. Do you understand?”

“What I understand is that I should never have danced with you.”

He stopped and looked down at her, his eyes fierce and dark. “I must correct you on that point. You were, in fact, very fortunate to have danced with me. You are a tempting little flower, and another man might not have been so understanding, or so apt to let you go.”

He marched her back to Mrs. Gunther, gave a polite bow, and lingered a moment, staring at Clara as if he weren’t quite ready to leave. Then he directed his gaze toward Mrs. Gunther. “Good evening, madam. It is my understanding that you are in the wrong house this evening. I implore you to take your charge and leave here, immediately. Good night to you.”

With that, he turned and walked off.

With trembling hands and a throbbing pulse, Clara walked into the Witherington Ball only moments after their footman informed them that the Prince of Wales was not at Livingston House. He had arrived not long ago at the house two doors down.

Clara was breathing hard, partly from her hasty escape, but mostly from the memory of following a handsome, seductive stranger into the dark shadows beneath a staircase, and feeling the shocking, sizzling lure of temptation.

She had thought she was stronger than that.

Groping for some semblance of normalcy, she glanced around the room in search of her sister, Sophia, the Duchess of Wentworth, and spotted her near the orchestra, conversing with her husband, James.

“There she is,” Clara said to Mrs. Gunther, who was still unaware of what Clara had been up to when she was supposed to be sipping punch. She was now pressing Clara for answers. “Let’s go and tell her that we’ve arrived.”

Mrs. Gunther led the way around the perimeter of the room. Sophia’s face lit up with a radiant smile when she noticed them. Wearing a Charles Worth gown with gold lace and jewel trimmings, topped off by a sparkling tiara—a requisite among married ladies when royalty was present—Sophia met them halfway, leaving her husband to socialize with a group of gentlemen.

“Where were you?” Sophia asked. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Clara spoke breathlessly. “We went to the wrong ball.”

“The wrong ball? Which one? And why do you look so pale? Are you unwell?”

Mrs. Gunther spoke haughtily to Sophia. “It was a disgrace.”

Clara gazed imploringly at her sister, who knew her well enough to guess that she wished to speak privately. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Gunther. Perhaps Clara and I could have a moment alone. Would you excuse us?”

Mrs. Gunther’s brow furrowed, but she nodded in agreement and snapped open her plumed fan. “I will wait by the fountain.”

As soon as Mrs. Gunther left them, Sophia led Clara aside to a private corner. “What happened? You look as white as pastry dough.” She reached into her jeweled purse for an embroidered handkerchief and used it to dab at Clara’s forehead. “Perhaps we should find somewhere to sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit down. I’m fine. I just need to know where I was.”

Sophia paused. “How can I possibly—”

“We had to wear half-masks, and there were no dance cards. Everyone was drinking a tart punch that kicked like a mule, and no one wished to be introduced.”

Sophia covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “Oh, dear.”

“What was it?” Clara asked. “Please, tell me.”

“Were you at Livingston House?”

“Yes, and what do you mean, ‘Oh, dear’? Tell me, before I lose my mind.”

“You went to a Cakras Ball,” Sophia finally explained. “But how in the world did you get in?”

“We had an invitation.”

“From where?”

“Mrs. Gunther picked it up from your desk. She couldn’t remember the address of where we were supposed to meet you,