Falling for the Marquess - Julianne MacLean

Prologue

London, 1883

Lady Berkshire 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, the Marquess of Rawdon smiled. His devilish charm filled the corridor like a beam of sunlight, radiant and warm.

Lady Berkshire, who was still flushed from their afternoon tryst, 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.

When he did not immediately accept her invitation, she tried again. “I’ll have strawberries and chocolate.” Beneath the melodic intent to entice, her voice was laced with pleading.

Seger considered her invitation with great care. It was not his habit to see the same woman more than twice in a single week, and never—under any circumstances—exclusively. Most women understood 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.

He inhaled deeply and sighed, surprised by a sudden twinge of discontent that was unusual at a time like this.

“Perhaps on Friday,” he said.

Lady Berkshire’s big blue eyes lit up with anticipation. “Friday, it is.”

She stepped back into her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a gentle click.

Seger stood for a moment, staring down the long length of the empty corridor, questioning his response just now. Something had been missing lately from his usual enthusiasm for encounters like this, which made no sense. Lady Berkshire was a beautiful woman and an entertaining bed partner.

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 exhaled heavily. 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.

Thankfully, eight years of superficial encounters and casual intimacies for the sole purpose of pleasure had emptied him of almost 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 great pleasure with women he didn’t know very well, and he enjoyed the superficiality of those relationships. The women 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 did not.

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 Lady Berkshire’s 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 that evening. He had a ball to attend—a Cakras Ball. As always, it promised to be a tantalizing feast for the senses. Exactly what he needed for a 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

Dear Adele,

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

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

I realize, of course, that that is to be