An Affair Most Wicked

278 Pages·2010·1.02 MB·English

by  MacLean Julianne

Heiress 2
An Affair Most Wicked
Julianne MacLean
My Dear Miss Wilson,

I have no wish to spoil you chances of meeting the decent and
respectable man you desire. Yet I find I cannot idly sit back and
accept that. I will never see you again or — forgive me for my candor
—kiss you again. If I were like other gentlemen. I would say good-bye
to you now and wish you the best. But I have not behaved as a
gentleman for many years… Do you understand my meaning?
S.

So begins a very wicked correspondence between the scandal-ridden Marquess
of Rawdon and Clara Wilson, an heiress with more than a few of her own secrets
to hide. Clara has come all the way to London to find respectability, but she has
always craved excitement, and adventure has always sought her out.
This time, excitement is a man unlike any she has ever met before, one who is
stunning, brilliant, and definitely not what her mother had in mind. Clara’s
cautious younger sister Adele warns her to be wary and remember her past
follies, but her spirited older sister Sophia urges her to risk it all for love. Clara
knows the answer lies somewhere in between, but with her heart and her future
on the line, the stakes will never be higher…
Prologue

London, 1883

Lady Berkshire stood outside her bedchamber in the full light of the
afternoon, and gathered her wrap around her voluptuous naked form. She leaned
a shoulder against the doorframe and sighed contentedly as she handed her
lover’s greatcoat to him. “Come back on Thursday?”
Standing tall and sumptuous in the corridor, his golden hair spilling onto his
shoulders in unfashionable disarray, her lover smiled. His devilish charm filled
the corridor like a beam of sunlight, radiant and warm.
Lady Berkshire, who was still flushed from their afternoon frolic, melted like
hot butter before him, for she had just experienced, firsthand, the validity behind
the rumors.
Yes, it was all true. The beautiful marquess had a flare for the erotic. An
intensity in the bedroom. A talent for lavish, liberal lovemaking.
He was Seger Wolfe, the Marquess of Rawdon, and among the ladies who
liked to whisper in the dark corners of London’s late-night drawing rooms, he
was England’s most coveted lover.
With boyishly appealing green eyes, he watched her run a slender hand
seductively down the front of her neck and along her collarbone while she
waited eagerly for his reply.
“I’m afraid I have an appointment on Thursday that cannot be postponed,” he
said.
“Friday then? I’ll have strawberries.” Beneath the melodic intent to entice, her
voice was laced with pleading.
Seger considered her invitation with care. It was not his habit to see any one
woman more than twice in the same week, and never under any circumstances
exclusively. Most women knew the boundaries merely by instinct. They knew
not to ask, and not to become possessive if they wanted him to return another
day, which almost invariably, they did.
Because of his ability to give more than he took, they all agreed.
He inhaled deeply and sighed, surprised by a sudden twinge of discontent that
was unusual at a time like this.
Lady Berkshire took a sultry step toward him and grasped his hand. “Please?”
She brought his forefinger to her lips, drew it into her mouth, and suckled on it.
“Perhaps on Friday,” he said softly.
Lady Berkshire gleamed with anticipation. “Friday, it is.”
She stepped back into her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a
quiet click.
Seger stood for a moment, staring down the long length of the empty corridor,
questioning his response just now. Something had lately been missing from his
usual enthusiasm for trysts like this, which made no sense. Lady Berkshire was a
skillful, enthusiastic partner beneath the covers. The climaxes today had been
both potent and plentiful for both of them.
He continued to stand outside her door, staring at it. Then he realized
something. He barely remembered what it felt like to make love to a woman
because he loved her.
Her.
Seger inhaled deeply. God. How long had it been, and why was he even
thinking about it now?
Bloody hell, he knew how long. Right down to the day. It was just under eight
years. Yes.
Thankfully, eight years of superficial encounters and casual intimacies for the
sole purpose of pleasure had for the most part emptied him of all memories of
her, and he was glad. There was no point pondering them now. She wasn’t
coming back. Death was rather firm in that regard.
He buttoned his coat and turned to leave, telling himself that this feeling of
dissatisfaction would pass, probably as quickly as it had set in. Everything was
fine, as it had been for the past eight years. Seger was content. He knew how to
enjoy himself, and enjoy himself he did. He found pleasure with women and
gave them immense pleasure in return. He liked the superficiality of his life and
his relationships. The women he flirted with were always cheerful and smiling.
Nothing was ever complicated or distressing.
To be frank, he wasn’t certain he would know how to understand a woman’s
deeper emotions even if he wanted to.
Not that he wanted to. He didn’t.
Seger descended the stairs and, with firm resolve, expelled those thoughts
from his mind. They did him no good.
He let himself out the front door of the fashionable London house, glanced up
and down the street, then crossed to where his coach was waiting a few doors
down.
He reminded himself that there was much to look forward to this evening. He
had a particular ball to attend—a Cakras Ball. As always, it promised to be a
tantalizing feast for the senses. Exactly what he needed for distraction. He would
no doubt meet a number of interesting women there. Beautiful women.
Adventurous women.
He climbed inside his coach and signaled to the driver to move on. His blood
quickened as he anticipated the evening ahead.
Chapter 1

The London Season
May 1883

Dearest Adele,
It is finally upon me—my first London ball. You cannot imagine how
my hands are trembling, for I fear that I will not fit in, that everyone
will see through me and know that I am not one of them.

I hope that will not be the case, of course, for I do long to be a part of
the Society here—the daily rides in Rotten Row, the receptions,
luncheons, and evenings at the theater. It has been an exhausting but
glorious experience so far, Adele, though I admit most of my
acquaintances have been frustratingly superficial.

I realize, of course, that that is to be expected. I am in England after
all, and people are extremely reserved. I suppose my frustration
comes from what occurred with Gordon two years ago. I must be an
oddity. I crave adventure and my heart wants it, yet I know how
dangerous it can be.

Good gracious, listen to me. I must strive to move beyond that
mistake if I wish to live a proper and virtuous life. I only hope that my
heart has not become too complicated for this distinguished place.
Sometimes I find it difficult to just smile and be pretty, which is what
is expected of me. I want something deeper than that. Something
more honest.

Indeed, what a challenge this is going to be…
Your loving sister,
Clara
Already late for her first ball in London—quite notably the most important
ball of her life—Clara Wilson stood in the doorway of her sister’s boudoir,
watching her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, flip through a huge stack of invitations.
“I’m sure it’s one of these,” Mrs. Gunther said, spilling a few of them over the
edge of the silver salver onto the mahogany desk. “It has to be.”
Mrs. Gunther was a staunch woman—the only person her mother trusted to
act as Clara’s chaperone in London. She was a great social matriarch in America
and came from a very prestigious family with very old money, but unfortunately
for Clara, her memory was not as sharp as it once was.
“It was at—or somewhere near—
Belgrave Square
. I at least know that. I remember Sophia describing it.”
Clara’s tiny heels clicked over the marble floor as she crossed the room to
peer over her chaperone’s shoulder. There were certain to be a number of balls
‘at or somewhere near’
Belgrave Square
this evening. “Is there any way I can help you remember,
Mrs. Gunther?”
They had to find it soon, for they were already late.
Mrs. Gunther flipped through invitation after invitation. They all looked the
same—square, ivory cards with fancy titles in lavish print, and they all belonged
to Clara’s older sister, Sophia.
Three years ago, Sophia had become the first American heiress to marry a
duke. She and her husband, James, were immensely popular among the
Marlborough House set, and there were never any shortages of social
engagements to attend at any given moment. Which made the task of finding the
correct invitation all the more difficult now.
“The Wilkshire Ball, the Devonshire, the Berkley…” Mrs. Gunther said. “No,
no, no. The Allison Ball. Could that be… ? Wait, Lord and Lady Griffith… was
that it?”
Mrs. Gunther continued to guess haphazardly at the names, and Clara’s hopes
for the evening took a deep, sickening dip and settled uncomfortably in her
belly. Everything depended on this one night, and if Clara did not reach that ball
tonight, there might not be a second chance. For Clara—the latest American
heiress to invade aristocratic London—had to pass the test. In order to be
accepted and welcomed into British society like her sister had been, Clara had to
glide into a London ballroom and win the approval of the Prince of Wales. Or
end up returning to New York, where her position in society was fragile, to say
the least.
She shook away the shiver, for she could not afford to have her mind
congested with misgivings tonight. The past was in the past. It was time to move
forward.
“Ah.” Mrs. Gunther turned to face Clara and handed her the invitation. “Here
it is. The Livingstons on
Upper Belgrave Street
. I’m certain this is it. We can go now, my dear.”
Releasing a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Clara
smoothed a gloved hand over the antique lace on her French silk gown, and
touched the glittering diamond-and-pearl choker at her neck. She led the way out
of her sister’s boudoir, the precious ivory invitation safe in her hand.
A moment later, they were stepping out of the brilliantly lit manor and into the
dark, still night. Mantles buttoned at their bare necks, ivory fans dangling from
their wrists, they walked down the stone steps to the coach.
As soon as Clara stepped onto the sidewalk, however, her heel imposed upon
a crack and she stumbled. The invitation went sailing out of her gloved hand,
and she toppled sideways into a tall, extravagantly liveried footman who caught
her and righted her before she even had a chance to notice him there.
Clara collected herself. “My word. Thank you! What a decidedly convenient
place for you to be standing just then!”
Without a hint of a smile, the young man nodded.
Clara gazed at him for a moment, but he stood like a palace guard, his face
made of stone.
Clara sighed hopelessly. The English.
Pray, the people she would meet tonight would have a little more personality.
A sense of humor at least.
Clara picked up the invitation. She looked at it more closely, and pointed a
finger. “What’s that symbol in the corner?”
Mrs. Gunther squinted at the small triangular medallion printed on the card,
with the letters MWO above it. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Sophia when we see her.”
The footman handed them up into the crested black coach with shiny silver
fittings, then hopped onto the page board as the vehicle lurched forward and
turned toward Belgravia.
A short time later, they pulled up in front of a grand manor house, lit up like a
sparkling jewel in the night. Clara could hear the music from the orchestra
inside. Couples moved past the large windows, twirling on the dance floor to a
Strauss waltz. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sizzled through her
veins, and she gathered up her silk skirt to follow Mrs. Gunther out of the coach
and onto the sidewalk.
They made their way up the stone path to the front door beneath a massive
portico. A broad-shouldered, bald man with an earring stood at the entrance, and
when Clara and Mrs. Gunther approached, he stepped in front of the door, which
was closed tightly behind him.
Mrs. Gunther rolled her shoulders in that haughty way of hers, a skill she had
perfected to a science. “We are here for the ball,” she said in her best matriarchal
voice, with one intimidating eyebrow raised.
“Do you have an invitation?” His deep, booming voice didn’t intimidate Mrs.
Gunther. She kept her eyes on his as she reached into her gleaming silver purse.
“Here.” She handed it to him.
He glanced over it, then lifted his narrow gaze to assess each of them
individually. Clara felt a prickling of dread, as if they were about to be turned
away. Was this how her Season in London was to begin? A failure, before she
even set foot in the door?
There was suspicion in his voice. “You’re American?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Gunther replied.
“You’ll be a novelty, then.” He stepped out of the way of the door and opened
it. “You’ll find the masks on the oak table just inside the entrance.”
Mrs. Gunther eyed him incredulously. “Masks?”
Clara nudged her through the door before she could question him about the
mask theme, for Clara did not want to appear as if they did not belong. She