Heaven help her, she had quite a few.
But she would certainlynottell him what they were.
That night, by candlelight, Clara dipped her pen in the ink jar and paused above her stationery. How to begin, how to begin... It was necessary to inform the marquess that she was not interested in anything untoward, and that she would prefer it if he refrained from any insinuations in the future.
She looked at his handwriting again and felt a warm fluttering in her belly. This was his personal penmanship. The ink on this paper had come from his very own desk. His big, masculine hands had touched this paper not long ago. Perhaps he had blown gently on the ink to dry it.
Her belly quivered as she imagined all of that.
Clara shut her eyes and shook her head, forcing herself not to think about him sitting at his desk writing to her, or doing anything else for that matter. She had to focus on the task at hand.
If only she knew what to say. There was a part of her that did not want to end this. It was exciting and invigorating and flattering. He was a grand and beautiful man and he found her attractive. All her sexual instincts were telling her to encourage him and see where this might lead, but her head was telling her to be careful and prudent and not be foolish. She wanted so very badly to be virtuous.
Oh, dear.She was having a barrel of a time listening to the right voice.
Sighing deeply, hoping she was not doing anythingtooterribly risky, she lowered her pen to the page. Then it came to her. She smiled and began to write.
My lord. You are very naughty.
Sincerely,
C.
The next morning, another letter bearing the marquess’s seal was brought by a footman to Clara’s boudoir, who picked it up off the silver salver and calmly thanked the young man. She set the letter on the corner of her desk and feigned disinterest until the footman left the room and closed the door behind him, upon which time she could not help herself. She snatched up the letter, rose to her feet and tore at the seal.
Miss Wilson,
I laughed out loud when I read your note. You are enchanting. Again, I implore you. Any ideas?
S.
Clara covered her mouth with her hand. She’d never felt like this before. What was it about this particular gentleman that brought out such overpowering impulses in her? She had not felt this way with Gordon. It had been naïveté and pressure from her parents that drove her to make mistakes with him, not this kind of blatant, hungry desire. She should not be communicating with this man in such a wicked fashion.
Clara stuffed the letter under her mattress with the last one and returned to her more respectable correspondence. That was impossible, however, with her mind where it was—frolicking in the house of sin, entertaining all sorts of lewd, indecent thoughts about a gorgeous, golden-haired marquess.
Ten minutes later, she realized she was still resting her chin on her hand, staring blankly at the wall. She felt inebriated.
Shaking her head at herself, Clara realized she could not possibly resist replying to his letter, depraved as it was. She pulled a blank sheet of stationery out of her desk drawer.
For a moment she sat there, tapping the clean end of her pen against her lips, wondering if it was possible for the marquess to ever be faithful to one woman. Perhaps he had simply not met the right lady yet. All boys grew up to become men eventually, didn’t they? Wasn’t it possible he could have arrived at that crossroads? She was his first debutante, after all, or so he claimed. Perhaps he was ready to change. Perhaps she could teach him about real love. Was she foolish to hold on to that hope? Probably.
Nevertheless, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write, while forcing herself to be serious and scrupulous.
Lord Rawdon,
You must realize that this manner of correspondence is utterly inappropriate. I do not wish to continue this, as I have explained that I am not interested in any kind of immoral affair. If you wish to see me, please do so in a proper, respectable place, at which time I would be happy to converse with you.
C.
She congratulated herself on her most inspiring self-restraint.
Another reply arrived that very afternoon.
But I don’t wish to see you in a proper, respectable place. I wish to be quite alone with you, Miss Wilson, so that no one will witness my hand sliding up your dress.
S.
Clara gasped in shock. Of all the cheeky nerve! The audacity! What kind of wanton woman did he think she was? She would not be lured into sin simply because he suggested it in a note, no matter how clammy her palms were at the moment, or how loopy she felt at the thought.
