But oh, he was so beautiful, and so far, he was the only man in London who made her heart go pitter-pat.
Well, at least now she knew. The fantasy of him was indeed just that—a fantasy. He could only be a lover in the physical sense. She had to keep her head on straight about that.
What a shame, she thought. What a sad, frustrating shame.
The very next day, a letter arrived for Clara. Not recognizing the penmanship, she took it upstairs to her room, flopped down on her belly and broke the seal.
My Dear Miss Wilson, it began...
Her heart began to pound.
You must forgive me this indulgence, but I could not resist the inclination to write to you and tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed our discourse last evening at your sister’s assembly. I had considered calling on the duchess today, but decided against it, as I felt it was too much progress for a man like me, in too short a time. I cannot, I’m afraid, delve into a complete recovery from my wicked ways and evolve overnight into a proper gentleman who pays calls to respectable young ladies, sipping tea in brightly lit drawing rooms.
Instead, I choose to write you a letter, where I would be free to say the things I would have wanted to say, had I been in your delightful, delectable company this afternoon.
Why am I writing this? you must be wondering. I am wondering that myself. I have no idea. As I mentioned last night, I am not presently seeking a wife and I usually confine myself to less perilous associations. Perhaps it is the French wine I am sipping. No, it is not. It is you. You enchant me.
Clara’s heart flipped over inside her chest. She rolled over and sat up, then walked to the window to continue reading.
I have no wish to spoil your chances of meeting the decent and respectable man you desire, yet I find I cannot sit idly back and accept that I will never see you again, or—forgive me for my plain manner of speaking—kiss you again. I could not stop looking at your lips last night. I wanted to find another dark staircase.
But I digress. As you see, I am too frank for the society you accept as your own. If I were like other gentlemen, I would say goodbye to you now and wish you the best. But I have not behaved as a gentleman for many years, and I find myself plotting other ways to kiss you again and satisfy my passions without causing too much damage in the process. Do you understand my meaning? Do you have any ideas?
Sincerely,
S.
Clara could hardly breathe. Was he serious? Surely not! He must be teasing her again. This was scandalous! She could not reply to something like this. What if someone found out?
She read the letter again. Heaven help her, her blood was rushing so fast, she felt faint.
This was madness. She could not take part in a wild and wicked affair. She’d brushed up against scandal once before and did not wish to do so again. She had come to England to meet respectable gentlemen and avoid that sort of thing. How had she managed to stumble across the worst, wildest rogue in London? And she’d allowed him to kiss her!
She paced back and forth across the room, telling herself that she would not, under any circumstances, reply to this letter. That would be social suicide. She must break all contact with him, for it was clear he was exactly the kind of man she should avoid. The kind of man she had initially feared he was—a rake and a libertine. The kind of man who was very dangerous to her, for over the past week, she had discovered that she was not as strong as she thought she was. Where the gorgeous, tempting marquess was concerned, she was actually quite weak.
Clara squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deeply. She must concentrate on meeting therightsort. The kind of man she had hoped to meet when she’d steamed across the Atlantic dreaming of a proper future. She wanted a man who would be faithful to her. A man who would have the integrity not to stray outside of his marriage, because that’s what it took to be faithful. Honor and integrity. Everyone felt passion and temptation. Those with honor did not act upon it. The marquess seemed to act on every base impulse he felt.
Clara read the letter again. It was shocking. She lifted her chin and folded the paper and stuffed it deep into the back of one of her drawers.
No, that wasn’t a good place. Her maid might find it. She pulled it out and stuffed it under her mattress, then made a firm decision to thrust the Marquess of Rawdon out of her mind once and for all. For good. For eternity. She would not think of him again. No. She would forget him. He was not the man for her.
There. She went to her door and ventured out into the corridor to join Sophia for tea.
He was forgotten.
The next day she read the letter again. It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed not to pull it out in the middle of the night and read it. Somehow, she had resisted that urge and congratulated herself in the morning.
It was almost noon now, however. She had not been able to get through even half the day.
I could not stop looking at your lips last night. I wanted to find another dark staircase.
Her toes curled inside her shoes. Something tingled in her nether regions. She should not have read it. It had been a foolish thing to do. She was weak, to have been seduced from clear across the city by ink and pen. Weak, weak, weak. He was an expert at lovemaking to be sure.
She should have known better. She should have burned his wicked words right after she’d read them. She should not be infecting her brain with them now.
She read the letter again.
What a scoundrel he was.Any ideas?he had asked. As if she would entertain such thoughts.
