The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2)

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Very well,” she said before she could talk herself out of this. “We have a bargain. I’ll have a footman deliver the latest batch of Lady Truelove’s letters to you first thing in the morning, along with a bank draft of one thousand pounds.”

  “Letters?” He gave a laugh, staring at her in disbelief. “You mean real letters from real people?”

  “Of course. What?” she added, savoring his surprise. “Did you think we invent them?”

  “Something like that, yes,” he confessed, sobering, and she could tell he was appreciating the reality of what he’d just taken on.

  “Sorry if you were hoping to spend the next two months writing fiction,” she said, rather relishing his chagrin. “But being Lady Truelove requires you to help actual people resolve genuine problems. As I said, I’ll have the latest correspondence delivered to you in the morning. From those letters, you must choose one, write a response suitable for publication, and deliver it to me by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Two o’clock? That’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t it?”

  “I regret the short deadline, but it can’t be helped. You’ll have more time for your future efforts, but the upcoming edition goes to press Saturday night.”

  “Today is only Thursday.”

  “I require time to contact your chosen correspondent and acquire formal permission to publish their letter. I will also need to make sure your answer is appropriate.”

  “I daresay even I can manage to be appropriate when the occasion calls for it,” he said, his voice suspiciously grave.

  She frowned. “Don’t be glib about this. The people who write to Lady Truelove will be counting upon you for genuine guidance. I intend to make sure you don’t disappoint them or guide them in a morally improper direction. And I expect you to take this job seriously.”

  “I shall do my best to come up to snuff. Just remember, this sort of thing works both ways.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’ve told me what you expect of me, but I haven’t yet told you what I expect of you.”

  Clara’s heart gave a hard thump against her ribs, and it was several seconds before she could respond.

  “But you did tell me, remember?” she said at last, managing to inject a deceptive sweetness into her voice. “You intend to court me.” She gave him a wide, bright smile. “I merely have to tolerate you.”

  He laughed, but before he could reply, the bells sounded, indicating that the performance was about to begin. Clara turned away and took her seat, but when Galbraith moved behind her chair and bent down close to her ear, she discovered their conversation was not quite over.

  “I realize I’ll be doing all the work,” he murmured, his voice low so the others moving to take their seats would not overhear. “Nonetheless . . .” He paused, his warm breath against her ear making her shiver. “I think I got the better bargain, Clara.”

  Suddenly, every cell in her body was tingling with awareness. She could smell the sandalwood fragrance of his shaving lotion. She could feel the tickle of one unruly lock of his hair against her temple. She could almost hear the hard thud of her own heartbeat.

  Thankfully, the lights dimmed. He straightened to take his own seat somewhere behind her, but though he was unable to see the evidence of how his closeness and his words affected her, she feared he was fully aware of the feelings he had evoked. He was, she acknowledged in chagrin, that sort of man.

  The orchestra began to play the overture to Verdi’s Aida, but even over the music, she could still hear his words from that afternoon echoing in her mind.

  I know women.

  He certainly did. And though he might be right that he was the one required to do all the work in this mock courtship, it wasn’t as if her part was going to be a stroll in the park. Quite the contrary, for only a few suggestive words on his part, and she could barely draw breath.

  Clara pressed a hand to her tightly corseted ribs and grimaced. This mock courtship hadn’t even begun, but she feared she might already be in over her head.

  Chapter 9

  Rex had no illusions about his own character. He liked women, he’d discovered just what delights they could offer about the time he turned fifteen, and he had never suffered any pangs of conscience about the fact that most of the delights he preferred were carnal in nature.

  And though he did have certain strict rules when it came to his conduct with women, he’d never been one for suppressing naughty thoughts about them, particularly nowadays when thoughts were all he could afford. By the time he sat down behind Clara, the image of her laughing face and the orange-blossom scent of her hair had already lit the erotic fires of his imagination.

  Unfortunately, the view he had of her now afforded that fire little in the way of fuel. Her back, sheathed completely in deep pink silk, her hair, swept up in its usual severe braided crown, the back of her long, slender neck—he stopped there, his gaze caught at her nape just above the edge of her evening gown.

  In the dimness of the theater, her pale skin seemed to gleam like alabaster, but he’d wager it was as soft as velvet. If he leaned forward and kissed her there, he could find out for sure.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the imagined texture of her skin against his mouth, and the desire in his body deepened and spread. His breathing quickened at the imagined scent of orange blossoms. A picture of her formed in his mind, an image of all that brown hair unbraided and falling loose around her small, round breasts and pale pink nipples.

  Fully aroused, he shifted in his seat and grimaced, appreciating that this sort of thinking did have its drawbacks. Unrelieved, it would soon make him deuced uncomfortable. And since with her it could never be relieved, going down this road was probably unwise.

  Clara Deverill was not a dancer at the Gaiety, or a woman on the town. She was innocent, pure, and definitely marriage-minded. Her opinion of his character put him just a little above—or perhaps even below—the slimy muck that lined the bottom of ponds. She might look as soft as a lamb, but she had a surprisingly steely core and a staunch sense of morality. And though she had a bit of a stammer when she was nervous, her tongue could sting him quite well when the need arose.

  If he hoped any of that would put paid to his erotic imaginings, however, he was mistaken, for he immediately began contemplating various ways Clara could employ her tongue for purposes more pleasurable than stinging him, and he shifted in his seat again.

  “For heaven’s sake, Rex,” his cousin Henrietta whispered beside him, “what is wrong with you? You’re wriggling like a boy at Sunday service.”

  Rex gave a caustic chuckle. “You have no idea how inappropriate that analogy is right now, Hetty,” he muttered and opened his eyes.

  “Indeed?” purred his cousin. “Dare I wonder who is the subject of these irreverent thoughts? Do tell.”

  Rex cast a sideways glance at her, noting her amused expression. “Nothing to tell,” he said and looked away, pretending a sudden interest in the performance going on below. “And even if there were,” he added, striving to sound carelessly blasé, “it wouldn’t matter. As a gentleman, I am obligated to keep mum.”

  “Such discretion does you credit, of course, though I shouldn’t think it necessary. But then . . .” She paused, her gaze glancing sideways to the seat directly in front of his. “Perhaps we’re not talking about a Gaiety Girl.”

  There was a question in those words, giving him the perfect opportunity to begin playing the part he’d created for himself, but before he could affirm the direction of her speculations, Clara’s words of a short time ago came back to him.

  What you’re asking me to do is deliberately mislead the members of your family.

  He stirred in his chair again, frustrated by something beyond mere physical discomfort. Guilt was an emotion he did not care for and could certainly not afford to indulge.

  He did not respond to Hetty’s inquiry, however. He simply smiled, and his cousin, thankfully, returned her attention to the sta
ge.

  Rex tried to do the same, but it wasn’t long before his gaze strayed again to the woman in front of him, and his imagination once again set to work. As he contemplated undoing the silk-covered buttons down her back and kissing the soft skin of her neck, he succeeded in banishing from his mind any notions of guilt about his chosen course, but these delightful contemplations also caused his lust to flare up even more hotly than before, and he appreciated he had another problem, one far more inconvenient than the whispers of his conscience, one with implications he’d hadn’t really considered until this moment.

  Clara was a woman he could not bed, and though a few lusty thoughts about her made for a damned fine diversion, if he allowed them to become a habit, his life would become damnably frustrating. Unrequited lust was a devilish thing.

  The first act came to an end, and Rex knew he had about three quarters of an hour before the intermission to bring his body and mind back under stern regulation. In most cases, that would be more than enough time to distract his thoughts from a particular woman, but as he studied Clara’s slim, straight back and the long, delicate line of her neck, he suspected he would need every one of those forty-five minutes.

  Attending the opera provided few opportunities to converse with others, and Clara could only be grateful for the fact, for Galbraith’s extraordinary proposition had left her rather at sixes and sevens. Looking back on it the following morning, the entire episode felt like something out of a dream.

  Reminding herself that its dreamlike quality stemmed from the fact that it was a sham courtship, Clara strove to remember her priorities. As promised, she sent him Lady Truelove’s correspondence first thing in the morning, and on impulse, she enclosed a personal note as well, suggesting he consider the Devastated Debutante’s letter for his first column. She strove to give her recommendation an appearance of professional interest by stressing the wide appeal of the Debutante’s problem, and she hoped he wouldn’t realize her action was motivated by a deeper purpose.

  After dispatching the bundle of letters to his residence in Half Moon Street, she turned her attention to the articles Mr. Beale had selected for that week’s edition and the layouts he had designed for them, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate longer than five minutes at a time. Despite her best efforts, Galbraith and his outrageous proposal insisted on invading her mind.

  I wish to court you. I should like you to allow me the privilege.

  Some girls, of course, had men lined up around the block who were eager to express such sentiments, but for Clara, that sort of thing was rare indeed. Even now, eighteen hours later, his words still evoked the same undeniable thrill they had the night before. Her lips still tingled at the memory of his heated gaze.

  He’d been thinking about kissing her last night. Clara had no experience with kissing at all, but she’d recognized the look in his eyes as he’d stared at her mouth. It was the same look he’d given her on the dance floor at his aunt’s ball.

  A kiss would break quite a few rules, wouldn’t it?

  The thrill within her grew stronger, and Clara scowled down at the layouts on her desk, aggravated with herself. For a man like him, a kiss was probably nothing—as easy as winking and just as easily forgotten. As for this courtship, it was a charade for the morally-questionable purpose of misleading his family, and when she thought of them—Lady Petunia, Sir Albert, and the various cousins she’d met last night, Clara couldn’t help doubting herself for agreeing to such an outrageous proposition.

  Still, the deed was done, the agreement made, so she tried to look on the bright side. Perhaps he was right that his notice of her would draw her to the attention of other possible suitors, suitors who might also wish to pay her romantic attentions, who might want to kiss her.

  Somehow, that didn’t seem quite as thrilling a prospect, and Clara tossed down her pencil with a sigh of exasperation. Damn the man, what was it about him—

  A knock on her door interrupted, and Clara hastily seized her pencil. “Come in,” she called, bending over the layouts and striving to seem hard at work as the door opened.

  “Miss Deverill.”

  She looked up and felt again the inclination to sigh, but for a completely different reason. “Mr. Beale,” she greeted the editor without enthusiasm. “What can I do for you? If you’ve come for the layouts, I’ve not quite finished with them, but I’ll bring them to you the minute I’ve finished—”

  “Lady Truelove’s column has not yet arrived,” he cut in with his usual impatience. “At least, that is what Miss Huish told me just now before she departed for lunch. Is that true?”

  “Miss Huish is only going to lunch now?” Clara glanced down at the brooch watch pinned to her lapel. “But it’s nearly two o’clock.”

  “I instructed her to wait until after she’d sorted the afternoon post, and it was late in arriving today.”

  Clara frowned. “It is not right to keep someone this long without a break for lunch.”

  “I haven’t had my lunch either, Miss Deverill,” he answered sourly, “not that I expect you to care about that.”

  Deciding she must prove him wrong on that score, Clara wiped any hint of disapproval off her face and assumed a manner of concern, hoping to get the wretched man out of her hair as expeditiously as possible. “Oh, but I do care, Mr. Beale. It’s abominable that you should have to go this long without your lunch! Why, you might faint away from malnourishment,” she added, trying to sound appalled rather than delighted by that notion, “and then where would we be? You must go for your lunch at once.”

  She waved him toward the door, but to her dismay, he didn’t move. “Lady Truelove’s column,” he reminded. “Where is it?”

  “The deadline isn’t until five o’clock, and since it is now only just two, I hardly think we need feel any anxiety—”

  “Her column has always arrived in the Thursday afternoon post, but for the second week in a row, it has not come as expected. So, where is the blasted thing? Don’t tell me the woman is late again this week?”

  “I’m told the column is being delivered by hand,” she replied, crossing her fingers beneath the edge of her desk where he couldn’t see them, and hoping to heaven Galbraith wasn’t going to let her down. “A . . . ahem . . . friend is bringing it. Any moment now—”

  “A friend of hers, or yours? Either way,” he added before she could answer, “I am hardly reassured, Miss Deverill.”

  Clara was tempted to reply that reassuring him was not one of her highest priorities, but she refrained, knowing she had to preserve at least a semblance of harmony with the man until Irene returned. At that point, Mr. Beale would become the thorn in her sister’s side, thank heaven, and cease to be hers.

  “That is a shame,” she murmured politely and sat back down. “But for my own part, I am confident the column will be here well before the deadline, so—”

  “See that it is,” he interrupted again, glaring at her. “You oversee the woman, and if her column is late, I shall know who to blame.”

  “No need for blame,” a male voice intervened, and recognizing it, Clara gave a sigh of relief. She looked past Mr. Beale to the doorway where Galbraith was standing, an envelope in his upraised fingertips and a smile curving his lips. “Lady Truelove’s words of wisdom have arrived, ready to be shared with all her avid readers.”

  Despite this welcome news and the breezy tone of his voice, there was a curious tenseness in his wide shoulders and a strangely brittle quality to his smile, and Clara watched him in puzzlement as Mr. Beale turned and started toward the door.

  “About damned time,” the editor said, pausing beside Galbraith and holding out his hand.

  The viscount, however, ignored him. Instead, he removed his hat and offered Clara a bow, then moved to one side of the door so that the editor might pass through.

  With a sound of impatience, Mr. Beale reached out as if to take the envelope, but Galbraith evaded the move, lowering his arm and tucking the missive behind his back
, still smiling, his semblance of careless ease still in place.

  “You may give Lady Truelove’s column to me,” the editor said, his hand outstretched as if still expecting the viscount to hand it over.

  Clara opened her mouth to belay that order and ask that the column be brought to her, but as she looked at Galbraith, she saw Galbraith’s smile vanish, and she knew her intervention would not even be needed.

  He glanced over the other man, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow, a tiny gesture that somehow managed to convey polite disinterest and utter contempt at the same time.

  From her position, Clara could only see a fraction of the editor’s face, but it was enough to reveal the red flush that flooded his cheeks, and she found the picture of a discomfited Mr. Beale so delightful that she almost laughed out loud.

  Despite his obvious awareness of the snub he’d just received, Mr. Beale did not take the hint and depart with good grace. “I am the editor of the Weekly Gazette,” he said, his hand still outstretched.

  “How edifying.” With that, Galbraith stepped around him and started toward Clara’s desk. It was a clear dismissal, and though Mr. Beale turned to scowl at the viscount’s back, he did not attempt any further discussion of the subject. Instead, he stalked out of the office without another word, but he made his displeasure quite clear by slamming the door behind him.

  “I believe I’ve given offense,” Galbraith said, grinning a little as he paused in front of her, not seeming the least bit bothered by Mr. Beale’s offended sensibilities.

  “With that man, it’s not a difficult thing to do,” she assured him. “Would you mind opening the door again? The last thing I need is for any members of the staff to start gossiping about me because I’m alone with you behind closed doors.”