“I certainly hope so.” He bowed and retreated.
The marchioness watched her stepson turn away from Miss Wilson. “Theyhavemet before,” she whispered to Gillian. “I am sure of it. Did you see the way she traipsed across the room to talk to him? It was the crudest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Heaven help us all if she’s picked him out of the crowd.” Quintina glanced toward the fireplace, where a group of gentlemen were standing in a circle. “Why isn’t she hounding after the Duke of Guysborough, for pity’s sake? He’s the best catch in the room.”
“For the same reason as myself, I believe, Auntie,” Gillian replied. “He’s not the one she wants.”
The marchioness clenched her jaw and sighed. “I hate to admit it, Gillian, but you could learn a few things from the American girls, despite their brazenness. In fact, I believe that brazenness is precisely what has all our men tripping over themselves to talk to them.” She squinted her eyes in disgust. “It’s because those girls are smiling and laughing all the time, telling stupid, unbelievable stories. IdespiseAmericans.”
Gillian regarded her aunt with surprise.
“They don’t know their place,” Quintina continued. “They are overconfident. They think that they can buy their way in with money their fathers earn.Working,I might add. You have no idea how it broke my heart to see my family home go to a vulgar American laborer, who earned his fortune panning for gold. Panning! I hate that word. I’ve never so much as touched a pan in my life. Nevertheless, Americans remind me of leeches. They’re here to latch on. They don’t realize the greatness of England.”
“You forget Yorktown, Auntie.”
“Oh,hmph. Do you have any stories to tell, Gillian? Have you never done anything wild or different? I heard, for example, that the duchess, before she came to London, went on a buffalo hunt once. She said she knew how to throw a tomahawk. What is a tomahawk, by the way, do you have any idea?”
Gillian shook her head.
“No, I didn’t think you’d know. It’s just as well. It’s probably an American sport of some kind.”
They sat down on a settee. “You’re going to have to try harder tosaysomething,” the marchioness said to her niece. “And keep your head up. You never look at him when he talks to you.”
“I can’t help it, Auntie. I become nervous.”
She patted Gillian’s hand. “I understand, dear, but you must endeavor to get over that. You must try harder to put a sparkle in your eye. It looks as if Seger is finally ready to move forward with his life. The fact that he came here this evening was astonishing, to say the least, so you must be first to take advantage of this opportunity. Watch the American girls and see what they do. Perhaps I’ll have a few new gowns made for you, like the ones they are wearing. Would that help, do you think?”
“I believe it would, Auntie. Miss Wilson’s dress is very pretty.”
“Well, well, well,” Quintina replied, patting her niece’s hand again. “It’s the least I can do. You have no mother to see to your future, and if she were alive—my dear, dear sister—she would want you to be happy, to have everything you desire. You’re a good girl, Gillian. You deserve a husband you can be proud of, and I would like to see our family’s bloodline continue in such a prestigious vein. I wasn’t able to give the marquess any children, but you could be the one to provide the next heir. We shall not give up hope, darling. Now do as I say. Watch the American and see how she handles herself.”
As an afterthought, Quintina added, “She looks a little bit like Daphne, don’t you think? It’s rather disconcerting.”
Gillian turned her gaze toward Clara Wilson, the famous heiress, the sister of the Duchess of Wentworth. The girl was surrounded by a crowd of doting gentlemen, all of them laughing at her stories, enchanted by her smile, just as Seger had been only moments ago.
A tiny muscle twitched at Gillian’s jaw, and she squeezed her reticule so tightly that she broke the looking glass inside it.
Chapter 7
Dear Adele,
Sometimes I feel so out of place here. I am not like the other English ladies. I try to be reserved, but at heart I know that I am not. What I really want is to be an open book with those I care about, and I want to find a husband who is that way, too. I’m tired of talking about the weather. I want a soul mate, someone who will not be superficial.
The marquess, interestingly enough, is not afraid to break the customary rules of conduct. He’s quite different from the rest, but I fear that Mrs. Gunther does not approve of him....
Clara
“Is it time to continueour conversation, yet?” Lord Rawdon whispered in Clara’s ear.
He had come up behind her unexpectedly, startling her with the heat of his breath upon the side of her neck. Her entire body erupted in gooseflesh.
Champagne glass in hand, she turned. “I’m willing if you are.”
He smiled and offered his arm. They walked into the music room where a German pianist was scheduled to begin shortly. “Shall we take our seats?”
“Yes.” Clara allowed him to lead her to the front row. They were the first guests to sit down. The pianist’s assistant was arranging sheet music; a liveried footman stood near the open doors.
“You’ve been very popular this evening,” Lord Rawdon said. “Why is it that Mrs. Gunther hasn’t dragged you away from any of the other gentlemen? She doesn’t disapprove of me, does she?” His last comment dripped with sarcasm.
Clara gave him an apologetic look. “She is on a mission for my mother, I’m afraid. She wants to be sure I am married off to the highest-ranking peer possible, and the most respectable.”
