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 one ofus.Pox on her. She’s a trollop, like all the rest. Honestly, what can they be thinking?”
Barely listening to his stepmother’s open rant about the Americans, Seger reached for the paper.
“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…”—Quintina 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 fashionable Worth gown. “It was the color of a fresh magnolia,” the writer said, “with pale blue flower sprays. She wore a diamond pendant and 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. The beautiful, bewitching—and idiotic—young temptress from the Cakras Ball. Her name was Clara Wilson.
What the bloody hell was wrong with the girl? Did she not know she would attract attention by dancing with the Prince of Wales, and that every man who laid eyes on her at Livingston House would be making the connection that morning, licking his chops, and planning how he was either going to ruin her entirely, or use what he knew to squeeze the largest wad possible from her rich American father?
Everyone had seen Segar 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 tried to hide it. All of society knew he avoided ambitious young debutante’s like he avoided the plague, for he was not interested in becoming anyone’s prized acquisition.
He knew what real love was. He’d had it once, and he knew it could not be arranged, or bought, or 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 principle now. He would not surrender to it. Besides, he preferred his life exactly the way it was.
He gazed coldly at Quintina. There were 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.
He turned his attention back to the paper and read the rest of the article about the American. 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. “Well done, Seger. That’s exactly whatIwanted to do with that paper.”
Just then, her niece, Gillian Flint, entered the breakfast room. Gillian was visiting from Wales, enjoying her first London Season under the chaperonage of her aunt. From what Seger had heard from his stepmother, the young woman had been a great success so far.
Gillian removed her spectacles, smoothed her skirt and sat down.
Quintina furiously buttered her roll. “I wish we could do the same to that American heiress, and all the others like her. Throw them 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 canbuytheir 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 he now knew the American girl’s name.
It was Clara. Clara Wilson.
Seven days later, Clara waited in the drawing room at Wentworth House for Sophia, James, and Mrs. Gunther. They were about to embark upon yet another exhausting evening of society balls and assemblies.
She gazed at herself in the enormous gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace, fiddled absentmindedly with one of her earrings, and wondered if the mysterious masked Casanova 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 might meet that night. She had become acquainted with dozens of young aristocrats over the past week, but could picture none of their faces now, though she had been able to look at them fully and without restrictions for many minutes. 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 her secret paramour, searching room after room for that thick, golden hair and striking, charismatic presence.
Sophia, James and Mrs. Gunther entered the room, and they all made their way through the doorway and into the coach.
Four long 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.”
Later, she sat down with Mrs. Gunther, clacked open her plumed fan and watched the dancers while absent-mindedly stroking the smooth jewel in her drop earring with a finger and thumb.
Again, her thoughts drifted to the vision of that incredible man, sauntering across a ballroom toward her. It all seemed like a ridiculous fantasy now. Perhaps the champagne and the punch had rattled her senses and made it all seem more magical than it truly was.
But certainly, the man’s effect on her had been real. She had not been able to extinguish the confusing, sweet longings that emerged every time she thought of him, every time she reminded herself that she did not even know his name, and that it was a very real possibility she would never see him again.
