An Affair Most Wicked (11 page)
She felt a stab of disappointment.
From everything he’d said tonight, it was easy to gather that he wanted only brief, frivolous affairs, not deep soulful ones. He was not the sort of man who was suited to a marriage based on fidelity—like that of Clara’s sister, Sophia, and her husband James. They were devoted to each other in every way. They knew each other’s hearts as well as they knew their own, and they had no desire to stray.
Feeling discouraged, Clara watched the pianist cross the room and take a seat on the piano bench. He laid his fingers on the ivory keys.
Clara realized miserably that her desires were caught in a paradox. She craved excitement. In her heart she wanted to burst out of the box of polite behavior, yet she wanted to be respectable. She wanted a man who believed in piety and the
institution of marriage. She wanted a morally upright man, but not a dull one, which was a difficult combination.
Gordon had been wild, but he had not possessed any honor. She had learned a sturdy lesson with him. Because of that, she was determined now. Just as the marquess had said, she was ambitious toward that end and would not settle for less than what she wanted.
She felt another wave of disappointment move through her. She did not believe the Marquess of Rawdon could be what she wanted. Like Gordon, he was far too wild. He did not seem interested in what was socially proper. He did not seem inclined toward true intimacies of the heart, only pleasures of the flesh. He continually pushed her away when she tried to take a step forward and move away from flirting. He had said he was relieved he was not the kind of man she would want for a husband.
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, disappointing shame.
The very next day, a letter arrived for Clara. Not recognizing the penmanship, she took it upstairs to her room to read on her bed.
She flopped down on her belly and broke the seal.
My Dear Miss Wilson
, it began…
Clara’s 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 myself 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 chose 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 did a back flip inside her chest. A huge, goofy grin split her face. She rolled over and sat up, then walked to the window to read more.
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 mischievous 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 squealed. Was this some kind of joke? Was he serious? Surely not! This was scandalous! She could not reply to something like this. What if someone found out?
She read the letter again. Good God, her blood was rushing so fast, it was surely turning white-hot in her veins.
This was insane. She could not take part in a wild and wicked affair. She’d brushed too close to scandal once before and did not wish to do so again. She had come to England to avoid that sort of thing. How had she managed to stumble across the worst rogue in London? And allow him to kiss her!
She paced back and forth across the room, telling herself that she should 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 the
right
sort. The kind of man she had hoped to meet when she’d steamed across the Atlantic dreaming of a beautiful 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 way 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 and had 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.
God help her, she had quite a few.
But she would certainly
not
tell 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 him that she was not interested in anything untoward, and that she would prefer it if he refrained from any further insinuations in the future.
She looked at his handwriting again and felt a flutter within her breast. This was his personal penmanship. The ink on this paper had come from his very own desk. His huge, 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 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 would lead, but her head was telling her to be careful and prudent and not be foolish. She wanted so very badly to be virtuous.
Lord
. She was having a barrel of a time listening to the right voice.
Sighing deeply, hoping she was not doing anything
too
terribly 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 couldn’t help herself. She snatched up the letter, rose to her feet and tore at the seal. She read Lord Rawdon’s brief reply:
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 to smother the urge to shriek. She’d never felt like this before. What was it about this particular man that brought out such strong sexual impulses in her? She hadn’t felt like this with Gordon. It had been
naďveté and the pressure from her parents that had caused her problems with him, not this kind of blatant, hungry desire. She should not be communicating with this man in this way.
She stuffed the letter under her mattress with the last one and tried to go back to her respectable correspondence. That was impossible, however, with her mind where it was at the present time—frolicking in the house of sin, entertaining all kinds of lewd, indecent thoughts about a golden-haired marquess, lying naked in his bed. He was so impossibly gorgeous.
Ten minutes later, she realized she was still resting her chin on her hand, staring blankly at the wall. She felt inebriated.
She shook her head at herself and realized she could not possibly resist replying to his letter, depraved as it was. She pulled a blank piece 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 one yet. All boys grew up to be men eventually, didn’t they? Wasn’t it possible he could be 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 onto that hope? Probably.
Nevertheless, she dipped her pen and began to write. She forced 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, my dear, so no one will witness my hand sliding up your dress.
S.
Clara shook her head in total disbelief. Of all the shocking, cheeky nerve! The audacity! What kind of wanton woman did he think she was? She would not be lured into sin because he simply requested it in a note, no matter how clammy her palms were at the moment, or how loopy she felt.
Congratulating herself again for her impressive iron will in the face of such astounding provocation, she picked up her pen to reply:
My lord, your suggestions are appalling. Is it your intention to ruin me?
C.
Clara received the marquess’s reply the next morning. She had to admit, she was exceedingly curious about how he would respond to her blunt accusation. She tore open the letter and began to read:
Dear Miss Wilson,
I apologize if I gave the impression that I wanted to ruin you. I have no desire for such a thing. You have my word that I would do everything in my power to prevent it. I am discreet and I know how to give pleasure without destruction. You may trust me completely in that regard.
S.
Clara couldn’t believe the marquess’s reply. He was still trying to seduce her after she had clearly, in no uncertain terms, told him no. Had he no shame?
The time had come to end this. For real this time. She could not see him again.
She was about to write another reply and say just that, when a knock sounded at her door. A maid said, “Miss Wilson, the duchess requests your presence in the drawing room.”
Clara called out, “Is it important?”
“There is a gentleman caller, miss.”
A swarm of butterflies dashed into Clara’s belly. She rose and went to the door. “Do you know who it is?”
She pulled the door open, but the maid was gone.
Standing motionless holding the doorknob, Clara blinked. Had the marquess come to call properly? Was he willing to make this concession, or was it another gentleman calling to pay his respects?
