“Thank you, but . . .” He paused, giving her a grin. “You could at least smile when you say that.”
She laughed, and for no reason she could define, his grin vanished.
“Now, that’s a bit of all right,” he murmured. “Smile like that at the next ball, Clara, and you’ll have every man in the room eating out of your hand.”
She sobered, swallowing hard. He was exaggerating, of course, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she held out her hand for the pages.
“I’ll have Miss Huish type this,” she said forcing herself to sound briskly efficient as he gave her the column, “and deliver it to Mr. Beale with the instruction that he isn’t to edit a single word. Although . . .” She paused, tapping her index finger against one line of his handwriting as a thought struck her. “This bit about how a good listener has more charm than a good talker . . .”
“Yes? What about it?”
She looked up. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” As she asked the question, she thought of Elsie Clark, and she knew the answer. “You’re not a shy person, but you do that with people, don’t you? Listen, rather than talk. Is it to get people to like you or is it a natural talent for you?”
“Both, I suppose.” He made a face. “I fear you’ve uncovered my deepest secret, Clara. I have a compulsive desire to be liked. It’s something I’ve had all my life, but it stems—I have no doubt—from the fact that I have a pair of self-absorbed and completely impossible parents. They spent most of my youth so occupied with destroying each other that they often forgot I existed. It hurt, you see. It hurt like hell.” He paused and drew a breath. “Still does, if you want the truth.”
She studied his face, suddenly seeing past the flawless symmetry of his features, past the perfect aquiline nose and splendid square jaw and azure blue eyes, seeing the boy he’d once been and the parents he’d just described. Somehow, imagining it hurt her, too, and she couldn’t help wondering again if her first impression of him as a heartless cad might have been utterly wrong.
Before either of them could speak, a cough interrupted, and Clara looked past him to find Annie standing in the doorway.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Clara, but . . .” Annie paused, giving her a look of warning that put her instantly on guard. “Your father sent me down.”
“What a timely interruption,” Galbraith murmured, his voice light. “Another moment, Clara, and God only knows what further confessions you’d have gotten out of me.”
He turned toward the doorway, and Clara saw Annie’s eyes widen in pleasurable surprise. It was the sort of reaction he probably got from every housemaid who ever laid eyes on him, and one that brought Clara squarely back to reality.
“Yes, Annie?” she asked. “What does Papa want?”
The maid tore her gaze from the viscount with what seemed to be a great deal of effort. “He wants to know about tea, Miss Clara.”
“Tea?” She stared back at the maid in dismay.
“Yes, miss.” Annie’s pale gray eyes took on a hint of apology. “He wants to invite his lordship up to the drawing room for tea.”
At that unthinkable prospect, Clara’s dismay deepened into horror. She loved her father, but tea with him was always a difficult business, and with a stranger present, it would be unbearable. “For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled, rubbing her fingers over her forehead, “how does Papa even know Lord Galbraith is here?”
“I believe I can explain that,” the viscount put in. “I came to your front door, not perceiving there was an entrance to the newspaper office beside it. The woman who opened the door to me offered to bring me through the house and around, but I told her not to bother and I would use the street entrance. But I did leave my card with her, of course.”
“Mrs. Brandt, that would be, my lord,” the maid volunteered. “She’s the housekeeper. If you do decide to come up, she’ll be wanting to know if you prefer India or China tea?”
“It’s only half past two,” Clara put in before the viscount could answer, and the sharpness of her own voice made her wince. But she couldn’t help it, for she was desperate to prevent this calamity. “It’s far too early for—”
“Tea would be lovely,” Galbraith said cutting the ground right from beneath her feet, and Clara nearly groaned aloud. “Tell Mr. Deverill I would be delighted to accept his invitation, Annie, thank you. And please inform Mrs. Brandt that I would prefer whichever tea is Miss Clara’s particular favorite.”
The maid giggled at that, but then she caught sight of Clara’s face and sobered at once, giving a cough. “That be India tea, my lord,” she murmured. “Darjeeling.”
“Excellent.” With a nod to the girl, he turned back around, returning his attention to Clara, and Annie departed, giving Clara a glance of sympathetic understanding just before she vanished from view.
The maid’s sympathy only deepened her dismay, and Clara frowned at Galbraith. “That was rather high-handed.”
“Was it?” he asked in surprise. “The invitation was directed to me, and I accepted it. Speaking of invitations, I have one to give you.” He started to reach into his breast pocket, but stopped as he caught sight of her expression. “My apologies,” he said quietly, his hand falling to his side. “I didn’t realize you would mind if I came to tea.”
“It’s not that,” she cried. “I don’t mind . . . exactly. It’s just—”
She broke off, for the truth was too humiliating to utter, and her mind couldn’t seem to fashion a believable reason for her reluctance.
“I’m supposed to be courting you, remember?” he said, a gentle reminder that only seemed to make everything worse. “Meeting your father is something I would be required to do at some point, Clara.”
He was right, of course. “Very well,” she muttered and stood up, chin high, trying to ignore the shame that was already flooding through her. “Let’s have tea. Just don’t expect a party.”
Chapter 10
Rex had never considered himself a dense sort of chap. In fact, he rather took pride in his ability to appreciate the undercurrents of a social situation and the reasons for them. In this case, however, he had to admit himself utterly baffled.
Clara didn’t want him to meet her father—that much was clear. Her shoulders were set, her chin high, her expression wooden, and as they crossed the foyer, her profile reminded him of nothing so much as the nautical figurehead of a ship as it sailed into the teeth of a storm. The rapidity of her stride told him she wanted that storm over as quickly as possible.
She led him up the stairs and along a corridor, offering no explanations along the way, but once in the drawing room, the introduction to her father had barely been made before Rex realized no explanations would be needed.
The man was sodding drunk.
Quite accustomed to men in their cups, Rex schooled his features in the polite civility required of a gentleman and bowed, but as he straightened, he cast a sideways glance at Clara, and his polite veneer almost cracked.
Her face bore its usual placid coolness, but her eyes gave her away. They stared into his chin, dark and bleak and filled with shame. Looking into them was like looking into an abyss.
“Forgive me for not standing up to receive you, Lord Galbraith,” Deverill said, a distinct slur in his voice and a strong waft of brandy in the air as he spoke. “Blasted gout.”
Rex returned his attention to her parent, noting the wheeled chair in which he sat, and the foot propped on a heavily padded stool in front of it, and he wondered if the drinking had caused the gout, or vice-versa. “There is no need for apology, sir. Gout, I understand, hurts like the devil.”
“It does, it does.” Deverill picked up his teacup from the table beside him, and his hand trembled as he raised it to his lips, causing the amber liquid to spill over and another wave of brandy scent to hit Rex’s nostrils.
Clara must have detected the scent as well, for she moved away from her parent, making for the settee across the room. “Will you sit down, Lord Ga
lbraith?” she said, issuing the invitation with a painfully obvious lack of enthusiasm, and as she sank down on one end of the settee and gestured for him to sit at the other end, he wondered if he ought to make some excuse and leave instead. On the other hand, a hasty departure was probably the usual reaction of guests when faced with this situation, and if he ran for the door, it might serve only to deepen her shame. Besides, he still had Auntie Pet’s invitation in his pocket.
“Thank you, yes,” he said, then set his hat on a nearby table and moved to take the offered place on the settee, striving to act as if nothing at all was amiss.
“Delighted you could join us, my lord, and that Clara has a suitor at last.”
“Papa,” she protested, giving Rex an agonized glance, which he ignored. Since being a suitor was just the image he was attempting to convey, he had no intention of contradicting the description by word or deed.
“Now, Clara,” Deverill said, heedless of his daughter’s protest, “it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve only been out for a short while. Clara’s sister, Lord Galbraith, married the Duke of Torquil not long ago.” It was a boast, dragged into the conversation by a man who wished to impress another with his connections. Clara knew it, too, for when Rex cast a sideways glance at her, he saw her wince and turn away to reach for the teapot.
“Would you like tea, Lord Galbraith?” she asked, her voice sounding an octave higher than usual as she began to pour.
“Thank you, yes. Plain,” he added as she reached for the sugar tongs. “No sugar or milk.”
She turned in his direction to hand him his cup and saucer, but she didn’t quite look at him.
“Notice she doesn’t offer her father any tea,” Deverill said, lifting his own cup, tilting it back and forth a little, grinning as he gave Rex the knowing look of one man of the world to another. “She knows it’s not necessary. I’ve got my tea already.”
Rex felt a wave of pity. “Yes,” he agreed mildly. “So it would seem.”
His reply must surely have conveyed something of what he felt, but Deverill didn’t seem to notice. His daughter, however, was a different matter.
“Sandwich?” she asked, her voice still unnaturally bright. “Or would you prefer a scone with cream and jam?”
When he looked into her face, he banished any hint of pity from his own, for that emotion was one he sensed she would not welcome. “A scone would be lovely, thank you.”
“Do you know His Grace?” Deverill asked.
“Not well, I’m afraid.” Rex took the plate Clara handed him, placed it on his lap, and once again turned his attention to the other man. “Though we have met, of course.”
“He and Irene are in Italy on honeymoon. Taking their time about it, too,” he added with a chuckle. “Marriage seems to agree with her. Would you ever have guessed that, Clara?”
“Not in a hundred years, Papa. My sister,” she added for Rex’s benefit, “has often declared quite adamantly that she’d never marry.”
Deverill gave a bark of laughter. “Funny that. The daughter who vowed she’d never marry has made a brilliant match and is off on her honeymoon, and the one who’s always wanted a husband and children more than anything is still waiting her turn. You’ve got the connections now, Clara, so best get on with it.” He gave Rex a meaningful glance as he spoke. “Don’t want to be forever outshone by your sister, do you?”
He slid his gaze to the girl beside him, watching as the color in her cheeks deepened, and he decided it was time to offer her Auntie’s invitation and take his leave. He finished his scone, but before he could down the last of his tea and depart, the door opened and a man entered the room.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said to Mr. Deverill, “but Dr. Munro is here for your weekly appointment.”
“Bah, doctors,” Deverill said, an indignant sound that made his opinion of the medical profession quite clear. “Send him away.”
“Really, Papa, you do need to see the doctor occasionally,” Clara said before the manservant could turn to leave again. “And you never know. He might have some new treatment to offer.”
“I doubt it. Munro’s a dour Scotsman. His idea of how to prolong one’s life is to take away all the things that make life worth living.”
“See him for my sake, then,” she said, beckoning the servant into the room. “If not for your own.”
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled as the servant crossed the room toward him. “But it’s so unnecessary. All Munro will do is look at me with all that disapproval of his, and tell me not to drink.”
“Then your meeting with him should be blissfully short,” she pointed out, the cheery determination in her voice reminiscent of a nursery governess dealing with a recalcitrant child.
“I doubt it,” he shot back as the manservant moved behind his wheeled chair and released the brake mechanism. “The list of things I’m not supposed to have grows longer by the day. No strong cheese, no animal fats, no drink of any kind, no sugar, no milk—not even in tea . . . I ask you, Clara, what’s left on a man’s plate after all that’s taken away?”
She didn’t offer a reply to his question, but as the valet rolled her father’s chair past her seat, she stood up, signaling the manservant to pause.
Rex rose as well, watching her as she leaned down to kiss her father’s cheek, a tender regard for her parent that—in his opinion at least—the other man did not deserve.
“I will see you tomorrow, Papa,” she said as she resumed her seat. “In the meantime, do try to obey the doctor, hmm?”
Still grumbling, he was wheeled out of the drawing room, but as they departed, he gestured for his valet to close the door behind them, giving his daughter a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder just before it swung shut.
Clara’s cheeks were now absolute scarlet. She made a sound, half sigh and half groan. “I am so sorry about that,” she mumbled, lowering her head into her hand as if to hide her hot face. “One’s parents,” she added with a smothered laugh, “can be so embarrassing.”
Despite the laughter, it was obvious that she was not amused. “I am the one who should apologize,” he answered at once. “Forgive me. If I had known—”
“It’s quite all right,” she interrupted, sparing them both his self-recriminations on the subject. Lowering her hand, she straightened in her seat and looked at him. “As you pointed out, you’d have been expected to meet him sometime.”
“Yes, but we could have arranged it for a time when he would be . . . himself.”
“I doubt it. He hasn’t been himself since I was eleven.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she grimaced, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Heavens, I don’t know what made me say that. Most of the time, other people have to pry words out of me.” She stirred a little on her end of the settee. “But you already knew that,” she added in a low voice.
“Yes, although . . .” He paused, giving her a frown of mock aggravation. “I’ve not seen much of this reticence, myself, Clara. You don’t ever seem to hold your tongue with me.”
“Goodness, I don’t, really, do I?” she said with a laugh. Then her smile faded a bit as she considered. “That’s because of you, I expect, not me. You’re very good at . . . drawing people out.”
“That can be said to work both ways, for I rarely talk about my parents, particularly about what life with them was like before they separated. I certainly never discuss it with anyone outside the family. Well, now,” he added, trying to inject a lightness into his voice, “today has been quite the day for sharing confidences, hasn’t it? Given how we started, who’d have thought you and I would ever be doing that?”
“Neither of us, that’s certain. Are we . . .” She paused, her expression taking on a hint of surprise as she turned toward him on the settee. “Are we becoming friends, do you think?”
Through the window beyond her shoulder, sunlight suddenly flooded the room, making him blink. Leaning sideways a little to keep the light out of his eyes, he
studied her where she sat at the other end of the settee. The ray of sunshine that fell over her formed a nimbus of light behind her coronet of soft brown hair and gave her an angelic appearance. But when he looked down, he noted that the sun also made the silhouette of her body plainly visible through her white shirtwaist.
At once, desire stirred within him, making it clear that his body, at least, did not want to be her friend.
Still, with a girl like her and a man like him, there was no other course possible, and with profound regret, he tore his gaze away from the shadowy outline of her shape. “Perhaps we are,” he said and took a swallow of tea, rather wishing his own cup had brandy in it, for he could really do with a drink. Absent that, conversation seemed his only distraction from the dangerous direction of his thoughts.
“What happened when you were eleven?” he asked, handing over his empty plate and settling back against the arm of the settee with his tea as the sun moved behind clouds again. “Sorry if I’m prying,” he added at once, hoping she’d tell him anyway.
“My mother died. My father was quite a hellion in his youth, but when he married my mother, he promised her he’d reform. Unfortunately, he kept that promise only until she died. After that, he took to drink again. I suppose after her death he saw no reason to refrain.”
“No reason? What about you and your sister?”
“Until this year, he’s been manageable enough. But now, with Irene married, and me staying with the duke’s family for the season, he’s gotten much worse. There’s no one here to check him, you see. It seems any time I come up to visit him, he’s always—” She paused, lifting one hand toward the door. “Well, you’ve seen for yourself how he is.”
“And your brother? Could he do nothing about it?”
“Papa would never listen to Jonathan. They quarreled years ago, Papa tossed him out of the house, and he went to America to make his own way. They haven’t spoken since, for my father refuses to answer Jonathan’s letters or heal the breach. So, even if Jonathan were here, he’d hardly be able to exert any influence. In fact, if my brother crossed our threshold, I doubt he’d have the chance to give Papa a lecture on his drinking. The house would combust before he could get in a word.”
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 15