Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,81

would prefer to keep certain things private. I’m sure you understand.”

Gillian shifted her riding crop from one hand to the other. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness. I sounded like a busybody just now. I loathe people like that. Don’t you?”

Clara merely nodded, and they rode out of the park toward home.

That night, when Seger came to her bed, she smiled flirtatiously and removed her nightgown, and pushed every thought of Gillian and Daphne, and all those other women, from her mind. She would not again make the mistake of spoiling the only intimacy that existed between herself and her husband. She would enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed and be the adventurous woman Seger had fallen in love with.

“Has he ever shown you a picture of Daphne?” Gillian asked Clara over breakfast the next morning. “He had a miniature of her at one time. He must still have it somewhere. I can’t imagine he would ever discard it.”

Clara spoke with a pretense of indifference, though she was tempted to throw her toast in Gillian’s face. “No, I can’t imagine he would either.”

“Well, she was very beautiful, and the reason I ask is because you are beautiful, too. To be honest, you resemble Daphne. We’ve all noticed. Auntie mentioned it the first time she saw you. The housekeeper mentioned it, too.”

Clara struggled not to reveal her surprise. She tried to sound unruffled and merely curious. “In what way do I resemble her?”

“You have the same color hair, and your mouth is the same.” She pointed at her own mouth. “It’s the lips. Seger has an appreciation for lips, doesn’t he? Have you noticed that about him?”

Clara could barely believe Gillian’s audacity. But under no circumstances would she take the bait. Instead, she smiled playfully. “Yes, I suppose he does have an appreciation for lips. I can certainly attest to that.”

She was pleased that her voice hinted at all sorts of wicked innuendo. It knocked Gillian off kilter. The poor girl’s cheeks flushed bright red.

Clara returned to sipping her tea.

Gillian was quiet for a moment, then she made another attempt to knock Clara off balance. “Do you know about the gravestone?”

Clara saw the competitive glint in Gillian’s eyes, and realized that things were spiraling out of control. There was nothing subtle about Gillian’s desire to attack Clara. Her intentions were not up for debate. Gillian was charging ahead at a full gallop, sword drawn, and she didn’t care if Clara knew it. The space between them was now an open battlefield.

“What gravestone?” Clara asked dryly.

Gillian raised an eyebrow in a spiteful manner. Was she not even going to try to be subtle?

“Daphne’s gravestone. He had one erected, you know.”

Clara had to admit defeat on this point. She sipped her tea and set the cup down in its saucer. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, I wouldn’t think he would mention it. He had it erected in their private meeting place at his country estate, and planted daffodils all around it. Daffodils were her favorite. He told me about that once, when he was lonesome for her.”

Clara took a calming breath and leaned forward in her chair. “Gillian, your comments about my husband are beginning to give me a headache.”

Gillian’s chin rose up a notch. “I don’t know why that would be the case.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” There was such challenge in the cursed woman’s eyes!

Clara squeezed her fists with fury. “In the future, let us try to talk of other things. You have other interests, don’t you? Music? Books?”

Gillian smiled sardonically. “I understand, Clara. I understand completely.”

Clara had just finished brushing her hair before bed, when Seger entered her bedchamber carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, his voice low and seductive, his eyes warm.

Having never shared a bedroom with a man other than Seger, Clara wondered if all husbands were as gracious and charming as he.

Not likely, she decided, feeling quietly aroused. “You always know what I’m in the mood for.”

With great appreciation, Clara took in the breadth of his shoulders and the sheer perfection of his body as he moved across the room. He was flawless beyond contemplation. He looked like the statue of David, if one could imagine David wearing a black silk robe. She, for one, preferred to imagine her husband quite without the robe.

And yet, her marriage was not all red wine and roses. For one thing, her monthly had begun and she