An Affair Most Wicked (5 page)

“That’s all? You just danced?”

When Clara didn’t answer right away, Sophia grabbed hold of her upper arms and held her firmly, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Clara, what happened? Are you all right?”

The room seemed to be spinning. Clara nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Thank goodness.”

“But I was very lucky.”

“How?”

“I danced with a man who was charming and wonderfully handsome, and he took me for a glass of punch.”

“That punch,” Sophia said quietly, “is pure rum, with a little juice added for color.”

“I only had a few sips. But then the gentleman escorted me to look at a painting, and we lingered there a while… He was very handsome and—”

“Clara, what did you do?”

“Nothing! Or rather, I followed him under the stairs.”

Sophia blanched. “Did he kiss you?”

Clara’s inability to answer the question said everything that needed to be said. She gazed at her sister imploringly.

“Was it very awful?” Sophia asked. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Clara shook her head. “No, it was nothing like that, and that’s the worst part.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t understand what happened to me. I
wanted
him to kiss me, Sophia, and I was powerless to resist, even when I knew it was wrong.”

Sophia stared at Clara, then pulled her into her arms. “Is that all that happened? Just a kiss?”

“Yes. I managed to put a stop to it. Eventually.”

“Hush, now. I’m sorry. I know how important it is to you, to be cautious and prudent. But take heart, it could have been worse. He might have believed you wanted more and demanded it.”

“I think he did believe it. At first anyway.”

“But you told him otherwise? And he accepted that?”

“He was surprised, but as soon as he discovered I was not married, he took me back to Mrs. Gunther immediately, and insisted that we leave.”

Sophia shook her head in disbelief. “You were very fortunate to have met
him
, Clara, whoever he was.”

“That’s exactly what he said.”

The two sisters stood in silence for a moment, listening to the orchestra play a Minuet. Finally, Clara’s heart rate returned to a less expeditious pace.

“It felt like some kind of dream world,” she said. “What are these Cakras Balls?”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one was listening, and leaned in to whisper in Clara’s ear. “The Cakras Society is a secret, exclusive club, that no one is supposed to speak about outside the gatherings, so I must be very quiet. They hold balls where the guests may leave the ballroom for trysts in corners or in the bedrooms of the house. The MWO stands for ‘married women only,’ and all social rules are relaxed in favor of anonymity and liberation, but most importantly, in favor of pleasure.”

Clara stared dumbfounded at her sister. “Do husbands and wives go there together?”

“Some do, but I suspect that most who attend keep their spouses in the dark about the whole thing.”

“That’s appalling. You mean to tell me that each and every person I saw there was cheating on their spouse?”

“Not all of them. Like I said, some married couples go together, and many single gentlemen attend.”

“But how do
you
know about it, Sophia?”

Sophia colored, and began to walk along the edge of the ballroom. She whispered to Clara, who walked beside her. “James belonged to the society, when he was younger.”

“James? Your
husband
, James?”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, and… well… we attended a few of the balls together when we were first married.”

“
You
went there? I thought
I
was the only one who had ever done anything wild.”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder again. “We stayed together all evening, of course, and I must admit, it was wicked fun. We danced as much as we wished, drank champagne, and slipped away when we felt like it, finding some dark alcove to be alone.”

“Sophia, I’m surprised. You’ve always been so responsible.”

“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying one’s husband,” Sophia replied, smiling deviously, “and allowing him to enjoy you. It keeps marriage interesting and exciting, and a happy marriage is a gift to everyone involved, including one’s children.”

Clara laughed quietly. “Leave it to you to find the charity in lovemaking.”

Sophia inclined her head at her sister. “You can find anything you desire in lovemaking, Clara, but I should not be telling you these things. Mother would throw me to the hogs if she could hear me now.” Sophia stopped and nodded at a lady across the room. “The point is, you should not have gone to that ball.”

“I’m fully aware of that, 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 a scandal. I’ve already come close enough to that fate and skirted it. I doubt I would be so lucky a second time.”

Sophia nodded, and continued to walk with Clara around the room. “You told no one who you were? You wore your mask the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“We are fortunate in the fact that most people who attend a Cakras Ball do not attend any other social functions in the same evening, to prevent 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—toss it out.”

Perspiration began to stifle Clara. “I should leave right away.” She glanced anxiously around the ballroom.

“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. You, my dear sister, are among the prettiest.” She smiled, but Clara knew her sister well enough to see the concern in her eyes.

“Now, you must try to forget about what happened tonight,” Sophia continued, “and bring some color back to your cheeks. I have already spoken to the Prince 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 get you home.”

Chapter 3

“It has become a verifiable stampede.”

Quintina Wolfe, the Marchioness of Rawdon, tossed the
Morning Post
down 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 waltzed into a ballroom last night 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 Wolfe, the Marquess of Rawdon, 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 this morning, he found himself diverted. He glanced up from his own copy of the paper.

“I beg your pardon, Quintina? Did you mention an American?”

God, he had not yet managed to sweep last night’s brief but consequential encounter from his mind. He could still hear the woman’s deep, sultry voice in that irresistible American accent, and the appealing way she’d purred and shivered when he had whispered in her soft, dainty ear.

He had returned home early from Livingston House, for he had lost all interest in ‘dancing’ with anyone else after she’d left, but a lot of good that had done him. Last night, in bed, he had smelled her perfume on his hands. He had remembered the luster in her unfathomable brown eyes. It was the kind of luster he’d only seen once before in his life, and it had bloody well kept him awake and tossing like a flounder all night.

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 carry 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 yourself. Another tart with obnoxious manners and objectionable breeding has arrived with trunkloads of American dollars, hoping to become one of
us
. Pox on her. She’s a trollop, like all the rest. Honestly, what can they be thinking?”

Seger reached for the open paper, barely listening to his stepmother ranting openly about the Americans. He had learned to ignore her tirades in that regard—ever since that cocksure Californian had purchased her parents’ family home after her father died. It had been the talk of London for a while, and it was no secret how Quintina felt about her neighbors overseas.

“Did you know,” she said, “that she’s the sister of the Duke of Wentworth’s young American wife, who came from a hovel somewhere in the middle of the country, where her ancestors were bootmakers and butchers. But then again,” she waved a hand, “the duke was not exactly in an enviable position in society, was he? Being so deeply in debt…”

Seger picked up the paper and found the headline: ANOTHER AMERICAN HEIRESS JOINS STAMPEDE TO ACQUIRE ENGLISH TITLE.

The article went on to describe the estimates and sources of her father’s wealth, the young woman’s unparalleled charm, and the details of her attire, mainly her exquisite Worth gown. “It was the color of a fresh magnolia,” the writer said, “with pale blue flower sprays. She wore pearls and lilies in her thick, mahogany hair.”

Seger’s gut began to twist and roll as he read word after word of the excruciatingly disturbing article. Her name was Clara Wilson.
Clara
.

It was her. The beautiful, bewitching—and idiotic— young temptress.

What the bloody hell was wrong with the girl? Didn’t she know she would attract attention by dancing with the Prince of Wales, and that every gentleman who had laid eyes on her at the Livingston Ball would be making the connection this morning, licking his chops and planning how he was either going to ruin her altogether, or use what he knew to squeeze the largest wad possible from her rich American father?

Dammit, everyone had seen him dancing with her, too, and Seger was more than recognizable, even in his mask. He was one of the regulars at the Cakras Balls, and had never bothered to try and hide that fact. All of society knew he avoided ambitious single women like he avoided the plague, for he was not interested in being anyone’s prized acquisition.

He knew what real love was. He’d had it once, and he knew it could not be arranged, nor bought, nor snuffed out by a strict and sometimes cruel social code.

He would not marry to please his tenants or the royal court or his stepmother. Especially his stepmother. Such a path had been forced upon him once, and it would not be forced upon him again. It was a matter of principal now. He would not surrender to it. Besides, he preferred his life exactly the way it was.

He gazed coldly at Quintina. There were still so many things not yet forgotten. Or forgiven.

Seger raked a hand through his hair and pushed the still-glowing embers of resentment down into the deepest corners of his being where they belonged. They did him no good out in the open. What was done was done, and he could not change the past. It was best left forgotten.

He turned his attention back to the paper and read the rest of the article about the American. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

No doubt, there would be conjecture about his intentions if their encounter at the Cakras Ball became known. Everyone would wonder if he would marry her; some would expect him to, for he had compromised her reputation by disappearing with her under the stairs.

“Bloody hell.” Seger crumpled the paper in his fist, whirled around and threw it into the fire.

This was precisely why he did not flirt with debutantes. He did not wish to marry until he was good and ready, and he was not ready now. He would not be forced. His marriage would be on his own terms.

Seger watched the newspaper shrink as the red flame consumed it, then he faced the table again.

His stepmother was staring at him in stunned silence, her thin-lipped mouth dangling open.

After a second or two, she raised an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what
I
wanted to do with that paper.” Then, with notable concern, she glanced up at Gillian Flint, her niece, who was just entering the breakfast room. Gillian removed her spectacles, smoothed her skirt and sat down.

Seger nodded at Gillian—the daughter of his stepmother’s dead sister, Susan, who had been Lady Hammond. Gillian was visiting from Wales, enjoying her first Season here in London under the chaperonage of her aunt. From what he’d heard from his stepmother, the young woman had been a great success so far.

Quintina furiously buttered her roll. “I wish we could do the same to that American heiress, and all the others like her. Throw her into the fire. We have our own English girls to arrange into marriages, and we should not have to suffer this kind of vulgar, garish invasion. They think they can
buy
their way in. It is simply shocking.”

Nostrils flaring, she returned to her breakfast, and Seger turned his attention away from her.

He could not eat another bite, however, for now he knew the American girl’s identity, and her blossoming notoriety was prime fodder for a scandal.

Seven days later, Clara waited in the drawing room at Wentworth House for Sophia, James and Mrs. Gunther, for they were about to embark upon another exhausting evening of society balls and assemblies.

Tonight Clara wore a pale yellow, short-sleeved satin gown with a tight
cuirasse
bodice and an off-the-shoulder, lace-trimmed décolletage, ornamented with a deep silk
fichu
. Her skirt was draped and caught up at the side, with a flounced train decorated with lace and velvet niching.

She gazed at herself in the enormous gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace, fiddling absentmindedly with one of her earrings, and wondering if the mysterious masked lover she had met a week ago would recognize her if they met again.

Thankfully, no one else had recognized her. At least she didn’t think so. There had been some concern after that
crass article
in the paper, but when Clara went out the next evening and the evening after that, nothing untoward had occurred. It seemed the English were as discreet and reserved as they led the rest of the world to believe. Or perhaps no one wanted to stir up a scandal and make a fool of the Prince of Wales.

Clara moved away from the mirror and sat down, wondering who she would meet tonight, and if any of the gentlemen would intrigue her.

She had met dozens of young aristocrats the past week, but none had possessed the striking charismatic presence of her secret paramour, or the tantalizing features of his person as a whole. As a matter of course, she forgot the plain gentlemen she had met this week very quickly after the initial introduction and the obligatory brief but polite conversation. She could picture none of their faces now, even though she had been able to look at them fully and without restrictions for a good many minutes.

Contrarily, the only face she could conjure in her imagination possessed a pair of striking green eyes and a full mouth, a deeply dimpled chin and a strong, square jaw below a narrow, black mask. Clara knew she would spend most of her evening thinking about him, searching ballroom after ballroom for that thick, golden hair and that confident, sensual walk.

Sophia, James and Mrs. Gunther entered the room, and in minutes, they were all walking out the door and stepping into the coach.

Four drawn-out hours later, Clara entered her third ball of the evening. She was exhausted from the constant string of introductions and the challenge of making conversation with English gentlemen while remembering to curtsey to this one, not to curtsey to that one, and for pity’s sake, not to become distracted and call an earl a “sir-something” or a baronet a “lord.”