Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean Page 0,9
are not yet married, and you should not have gone to that ball.”
“I’m quite aware, Sophia, but it cannot be undone. You must help me get out of this as smoothly as possible. The last place I want to be is at the center of another scandal.”
Sophia nodded and walked with Clara around the ballroom. “You told no one who you were? You wore your mask the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“We are fortunate in the fact that one of the rules of the Cakras Society is that guests do not attend any other social functions in the same evening, to avoid being seen and recognized. We must pray that everyone will be judicious tonight.”
“There’s a chance they won’t?”
“A chance, yes. Some people simply don’t care. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to burn that dress you are wearing, and don’t wear that diamond pendant again. And that comb in your hair—bury it at the bottom of one your trunks.”
Clara glanced anxiously about the room. “Perhaps I should leave.”
“No, you can’t leave now. You still have to dance with the Prince.” She began to primp the trimmings on Clara’s gown. “He has an open mind when it comes to foreigners, being half German himself, and thankfully for us, he has an eye for pretty ladies. And you, my dear sister, are among the prettiest.”
Sophia smiled, but Clara recognized the worry in her eyes.
“You must forget about what happened tonight,” Sophia continued, “and bring some color back to your cheeks. I have already spoken to Bertie about you, and he has requested a spot on your card, so you cannot leave without insulting the Crown.”
Clara nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Then let us find James. It’s time for your Season in London to begin. This time, we’ll begin it properly. Then we’ll take you straight home.”
Chapter 3
Dear Adele,
I take back what I wrote before about London gentlemen being as dull as the Knickerbockers. I met a most fascinating man the other night. I won’t tell you how I met him, only that he was very handsome and very exciting....
Clara
“It has become an unqualified stampede.”
Quintina Wolfe, the Marchioness of Rawdon, tossed the Morning Post onto the breakfast table and reached for her gold-trimmed teacup. “Have you read this yet, Seger?” she asked her stepson, the marquess. “Another American heiress has waltzed into a London ballroom, bold as brass, and danced with the Prince of Wales, and she’s made headlines because of it. I ask you, what is the world coming to?”
Seger had not read the society pages. He never read anything in the society pages, nor did he ever wish to, but when his stepmother spoke about it that morning, he found himself instantly diverted. He glanced up from his own copy of the paper.
“I beg your pardon? Did you mention an American?”
He had not yet managed to sweep last night’s brief but consequential encounter from his mind. He could still hear the young debutante’s sultry voice in that irresistible American accent, and the appealing way she’d purred and shivered when he’d whispered in her ear. He had left the ball early, for he had lost all interest in “dancing” with anyone else after she had departed, but a lot of good that had done him. Through the night, in bed, he could still smell her perfume on his hands, and he couldn’t seem to forget the luster in her eyes. It was a luster he had known only once before in his life, and it bloody well kept him awake all night, tossing and turning like a flounder.
Quickly, he attributed his sleeplessness to the fact that their “encounter” had been cut short, and because of that he was frustrated. He was, after all, not accustomed to being refused. He had become an expert at spotting fruit that was ripe, and ripe fruit was generally eager to be picked and tasted. Not in many years had he bothered to approach the type of woman who would not be willing or able to take things to the finish. What in God’s name had induced him to mistake a debutante for a seasoned trifler?
Perhaps it was because she resembled Daphne in certain ways—her dark hair and brown eyes, and her facial expressions. He supposed he had needed a closer look.
Quintina stabbed the paper with her long, bony finger. “It’s all there in black and white. Read it for yourself. Another tart with obnoxious manners and objectionable breeding has arrived with trunks full of American dollars, hoping to become