Perhaps it was the way Miss Wilson made him feel. She, like Daphne, possessed innocence, and consequently whatever existed between them was fresh, not sordid as most of his relationships had been since Daphne left this world.
Suddenly, he felt dissatisfied with everything about his life. He remembered the things he had wanted when he was twenty, and how eager he had been to become someone’s husband. He had wanted Daphne to be his partner for life, to share his joys and pains. He’d wanted a home filled with children.
He sat in silence, staring unseeing out the window at the passing traffic, barely hearing the clatter of the coach or the noise from the street. He had not wanted anything like that since then. He had given the idea of marriage a very wide berth.
Seger tipped his head back against the seat. Daphne disappeared from his mind.
Instead he thought of Miss Wilson sitting in the duchess’s drawing room across from him only moments ago, sipping her tea. What a vision she had been, beautiful and charming and glowing with smiles. Intelligent as well, discussing light politics and other things. She was a remarkable woman, and she inflamed his senses like no other. She possessed some kind of magic. A power that he feared could bring him to his knees.
Strange, how he feared it and wanted it at the same time.
Then he thought of Clara reading the last letter he had sent. He imagined how she had comprehended his promise not to ruin her.I know how to give pleasure without destruction. What was her expression when she’d read such licentious words? Surely no gentleman had ever written anything like that to her before.
He felt a sudden urge to apologize—a strange and extraordinary impulse for Seger, who had written similar things to other women in the past and never thought twice about it. It was a jarring reaction now. He wished he could take the letter back. He wished he could start over where she was concerned and handle everything differently. More politely.
Those thoughts brought a frown to his face.
Wearing a low cut, royal blue velvet gown and feathers in her hair, Clara walked into the large opera box with James, Sophia, and Mrs. Gunther. Before she sat down, she glanced at the brightly lit theater below. People were filing into rows, taking their seats. A hum of conversation filled the auditorium while the orchestra warmed up with a dissonant array of violins, flutes and trumpets, all practicing scales.
Many seats below were still empty. Clara gazed across to the other side where the more luxurious boxes were filling up. She found herself staring at every fair-haired man who caught her eye, searching for one in particular.
“It’s quite a magnificent theater,” Mrs. Gunther said as she sat down and withdrew her mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her beaded reticule. She held them up to her eyes to examine the elaborate set on the stage.
Clara sat down as well, while Sophia and James remained standing at the back near the open curtain, conversing with someone.
It had been a full week since Clara had seen or heard from Lord Rawdon, and she was desperate to know why. She had not responded to his last letter, taking a chance that his unexpected afternoon call had been his way of retreating from the scandalous nature of their acquaintance and beginning a proper courtship. She had watched for him at every social event since, hoping he would continue his re-emergence into society, but she was disappointed at every turn.
She began to wonder if she had made a mistake in not replying to his letter. Perhaps he had taken her silence as a rebuff.
It seemed all she ever did where he was concerned was analyze the situation and wonder endlessly what he was thinking or how her actions had been received. If only they could be honest with each other and communicate freely and candidly.
She supposed that was what he’d been trying to do when he wrote those scandalous letters. He’d wanted to escape the pretensions of the Marriage Mart, which he openly admitted to despising.
Just then, someone touched Clara’s shoulder. She turned to discover that the tall Duke of Guysborough had entered the box.
“Good evening, Miss Wilson.” He moved to the empty chair beside her and sat down. “It’s been an exceptional week for entertainment, has it not?”
She had encountered the duke at most of the assemblies and balls she’d attended the past few days and had danced with him more than once. “It certainly has been,” she replied. “How is your mother?”
They talked about the dowager’s health, then discussed the opera they were about to see. Mrs. Gunther listened politely to all that was said and smiled and nodded with approval. Then the duke gave his farewell and stood up to converse with James for a few more minutes before leaving the box.
“What a charming gentleman,” Mrs. Gunther said, leaning in close.
Almost too charming, Clara thought. Too perfect. Could she live up to that sort of ideal on a daily basis?
“I believe he fancies you,” Mrs. Gunther added.
Sensing that the performance was about to begin, Clara reached into her purse for her opera glasses. “It’s difficult to say. He’s very friendly to everyone.”
“Yes, but especially to you. I’ve been keeping count of his dancing partners and you hold the highest honor for most waltzes each night.”
Clara raised her opera glasses and looked more closely at the stage decorations. “I didn’t realize you were keeping count of anything.”
“Only because he’s such an excellent prospect. Has he spoken to you about his children?”
“A few times, yes.”
“He has only one son, you know. The boy is eight I believe.”
