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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Her questions, and the rawness in her voice as she asked them, threatened to send Rex straight off the rails and over the cliff. He curled his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and reminded himself sternly to stay on his side of the settee.

  “Well, he was wrong,” she choked. “I may be plain, and I may not have men tripping over themselves to propose to me, but even so, I would prefer never to marry than to settle for a marriage like that. I would rather have no husband at all than one who thinks me so undesirable that a true union with me would be distasteful.”

  Like a dam breaking, his control crumbled, desire overcame him like a flood, and he found himself beside her before he’d even realized he was moving.

  “You’re not undesirable,” he said, his voice savage even to his own ears. “For God’s sake, if you pay no attention to anything else I ever say, Clara, pay attention to that. You, my sweet, are eminently desirable, and any man who can’t see that making love to you would be like heaven on earth is an idiot, or a fool, or doesn’t desire women at all. I am none of those things, which is why during the entire time we’ve been sitting here sipping tea like civilized people, I’ve been having thoughts about you that would burn your wretched vicar’s notions of your purity to a crisp.”

  She stared at him in astonishment, her face pink as a peony. “You have?”

  “I have, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. And while we’re on the subject,” he added, appreciating too late that telling her about his erotic thoughts was only fanning the flames inside him, “you’re not the least bit plain, so rid yourself of that notion, too, if you please.”

  She frowned, a hint of wary skepticism coming into her face. “You don’t need to soothe my feminine pride, you know,” she said. “I’m no great beauty, and I accepted the fact long ago.”

  “Beauty, my luscious lamb, is in the eye of the beholder.” He leaned closer, irresistibly drawn. “When I look at you, would you like to know what I see?”

  “I—” She folded her arms, as if propping up a shield between them—very wise of her given his confession of a moment ago. Her frown deepened. “I’m not sh . . . sure.”

  “I shall tell you anyway, because you are clearly in need of additional opinions on the subject. The first time I ever saw you in that ballroom, I likened you in my mind to a morsel of shortbread on a tray of French pastries.”

  She made a face, clearly not thinking much of the comparison. “So, plain and ordinary, in other words.”

  “I happen to adore shortbread, I’ll have you know, and so do a lot of other people.”

  “Shortbread, indeed.” She made a scoffing sound. “What’s next? A mention of my sweet disposition?”

  Despite what his body was enduring, he couldn’t help a grin. “Hardly, since I’ve yet to see it. With me, you’re usually prickly as a chestnut, Clara.”

  She sniffed, her round chin jerking a little. “I’ve had some provocation on that score.”

  He had no intention of being sidetracked now. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I think of your looks, all right?” He took a profound, shaky breath, knowing what he was about to say was deuced important, and he had to keep his arousal in check or he’d never be able to say it without hauling her onto his lap and kissing her senseless. “I’m going to start with your eyes, because if memory serves, I told you once that you’ve got expressive eyes, and it’s quite true. Unless you’re embarrassed, your face rarely gives you away, so if I want to gauge what you are really thinking, I look in your eyes.”

  She ducked her chin, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of him being able to discern what she was thinking, but he wasn’t about to let her get by with that. Touching her right now, however, would be akin to lighting a match in a room full of powder kegs, so he bent down, tilting his head so that she had nowhere else to look but at him. “Eyes like yours are dangerous, Clara. They can slay a man with a look like an arrow through the heart. I should know,” he added, smiling a little, “because I’ve had to dig several arrows out of my chest since we met.”

  “Don’t,” she ordered in a fierce whisper, lifting her face to scowl at him. “Don’t tease.”

  He wasn’t teasing, not a bit, but he decided not to hammer the point. Safer for him if she didn’t appreciate the power she had to wound him. “You’ve got lovely skin,” he said instead, and because it was suddenly impossible not to touch her, he lifted his hand and allowed himself the torture of sliding his fingertips slowly across her cheek. It was like touching warm silk. “And some pretty freckles, too, I’ve noticed.”

  “F . . . freckles aren’t p . . . pretty. That’s absurd.”

  “Haven’t we already established that your opinion on this topic isn’t to be trusted? Now, where were we? Ah, yes,” he added, pressing the tip of his index finger to the patch of skin between her brows, smoothing out the frown that had appeared at his mention of freckles. “I think we were coming to your nose.”

  “What about my nose?” she cried, telling him he was touching on a vulnerable point, and he decided a frank acknowledgement was his best bet.

  “Well, it’s tiny, Clara.” He slid his fingertip slowly down the bridge. “It’s the tiniest button nose I’ve ever seen.”

  She sighed, her breath a soft huff of acknowledgement against his palm. “It’s a ridiculous nose, I know,” she whispered. “I used to pinch it all the time when I was a girl, hoping it would turn Grecian, but it never did.”

  “Good thing, too, because it’s adorable just as it is.” He pulled his hand back a fraction to plant a kiss on the turned-up tip.

  She gave a startled gasp at the contact and unfolded her arms, pressing her palms against his chest as if to push him away, impelling him again into speech. “And lastly,” he said, “there’s your mouth.”

  Her palms stilled against his chest.

  “It’s my favorite part of your face.” He opened his palm to cup her cheek and touched his thumb to her lips, giving in to the inevitable. “It’s because of your smile. When I was giving the Devastated Debutante examples of how she might draw men’s attention, and I put in the part about smiling, I was thinking of you.”

  “Me?” The word was a squeak of surprise.

  “Yes, you.” He moved his thumb, sliding it back and forth across her mouth. “Surely you know why?”

  “Not really,” she confessed in a strangled whisper.

  As he grazed his thumb back and forth across her mouth, he could feel her breathing quicken, and he knew he ought to stop, for what he was doing was well beyond the pale and no doubt beyond her experience as well. In fact, this might even be the first time in her life she’d been intimately touched by a man.

  If he possessed any hope, however vague, that reminders of her virginal innocence would give him the will to call a halt, he discovered at once that the very opposite was true. Her innocence seemed to inflame the wickedest desires within him and make him want her even more. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could keep lust at bay. And yet, he could not pull back.

  “You might think I put in that bit to help you overcome your shyness and further your goal of finding a husband,” he went on, “but that wasn’t my reason at all.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. My reason was purely selfish. You see, you have this stunning, absolutely ripping smile, and I’d really like the pleasure of seeing it more often. Most of the time, you’re so damnably serious. But when you smile . . .” He paused, his thumb stilling against her parted lips. “Ah, Clara, when you smile, you light up the room. Surely you know that?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head a little, as if she wanted to deny it or she didn’t believe him. “This is not a real courtship,” she said, her lips brushing against his thumb as she spoke, her hands curling into fists against his gray morning coat. “There is no need for you to pay me compliments.”

  There was every need, since it was clear she’d received precious few of them in the past, but he didn’t debate the p
oint. “Which doesn’t make what I’ve said any less true.”

  “I’m not sure I can trust you to tell the truth about anything,” she mumbled against his thumb.

  “What if I stop using words altogether, then, hmm?” He slid his thumb under her chin and pushed gently against her jaw, lifting her face. “Words aren’t necessary anyway.”

  “They aren’t?” she whispered.

  “Not for what I want to say.” With that, he bent his head and kissed her.

  Chapter 11

  The moment his mouth touched hers, Clara experienced a pleasure so keen it was almost like pain, so intense it was almost unbearable. The press of his lips was light, and yet, she felt it in every part of her body. From fingertip to fingertip, from the bottom of her feet to the crown of her hair, it seemed as if every cell and every nerve ending she possessed was awakening to this new experience.

  Her first kiss, she thought and closed her eyes, a move that ignited other senses. She became aware of his scent—a mixture of sandalwood and castile soap and something else, something deeper and earthier. She heard the tick of the clock on the mantel and the thud of her own heartbeat. She felt his warm palm cupping her cheek, his fingertips caressing the nape of her neck, his forearm brushing against her breast. In some vague corner of her mind, she knew it was all terribly improper and she ought to stop it, but she could not move. She could only feel, as the sweetness of it all washed over her and through her, becoming more potent with each tick of the clock. When his lips moved against hers and his tongue touched the seam of her closed lips, she stirred in agitation, giving a soft moan against his mouth.

  He pulled back a fraction, his lips brushing hers in a teasing caress. He lifted his free hand to slide his arm around her shoulders, and as his fingertips ran lightly down her spine, any notions of stopping this wondrous experience went out of Clara’s head and vanished into space. When he pulled her closer, she came willingly, gladly, her arms wrapping around his neck, her sound of assent stifled by his mouth capturing hers again.

  This kiss was more ardent, more demanding, his lips urging hers to part. When they did, his tongue entered her mouth—a shocking thing, and yet, as he tasted deeply of her, the pleasure within her deepened as well, bringing heat, and the sweetness of the first kiss gave way to a new sensation in the second, something hungry and wild, something almost desperate.

  His tongue pulled back, and driven by instinct, she pursued. As her tongue entered his mouth, the strange hunger in her rose even higher, grew even hotter. This was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to her, and yet, strangely, it wasn’t intimate enough. She pressed her body closer to his, her arms tightening around his neck, and suddenly, she was falling forward and he was falling back. As their bodies sinking together onto the settee, Clara felt an exultation unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

  He moved beneath her, making a rough sound against her mouth as if surprised, and who could blame him? Women, she knew well enough, weren’t supposed to be so brazen. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind, for he broke the kiss only long enough for both of them to take in air, and then, he was kissing her again, his tongue in her mouth and his arms tight around her. It was glorious.

  His arms were like steel bands, strong and tight around her. The strands of his hair felt crisp and silky as she raked her fingers through them. She could taste tea and strawberry jam on his mouth. Held in his embrace, captured by his kiss, her senses filled with him, everything else in the world faded to insignificance.

  Beneath her, his heat seemed to sear her through all the layers of her clothes. His body was lean and hard—particularly where his hips were pressed to hers with such shocking intimacy. She stirred against that hardness, and the pleasure brought by the tiny move was so sharp, so exquisite, that she tore her lips from his with an astonished gasp.

  For an instant, they stared at each other, and then, his embrace of her suddenly slackened and his arms slid under hers, his hands lifting to cup her face.

  “This has to stop,” he said, his voice a rasp in the quiet room. “It has to stop now, or God help us both.”

  Pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth, he gripped her shoulders, then he shoved her backward and sat up. Planting her firmly in her own seat, he let her go and slid at once to the other end of the settee.

  Clara turned to stare at the clock on the mantel ahead of her as she worked to regain a sense of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. She felt as if she’d been running, and because of her corset, she couldn’t take deep breaths, and in consequence, she felt a bit dizzy. Her body seemed afire, burning in all the places he’d touched her and even in some of the places he hadn’t. She’d often tried to imagine what kissing a man might be like, but heavens above, her imagination had never conjured anything even close to the reality.

  Was it the same for men? she wondered, and cast a sideways glance at him.

  He was not looking at her, but at the floor, his forearms resting on his parted knees. His breathing was hard, deep and labored. Watching him, her question was answered, and the knowledge that she had evoked in him the same feelings she had experienced made Clara want to laugh with joy, because for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to feel beautiful.

  Somewhere in the distance, a door banged. Though the sound was muffled by the closed confines of the drawing room, he heard it, too. He stirred, lifting his head, and she looked away, her happiness at what had just happened fading a little as it dawned on her how lucky they’d been. If anyone had come in and caught them—

  “Forgive me,” he said, interrupting that alarming line of speculation. “I have to go.”

  His voice was a welcome diversion from the sobering turn her thoughts had taken, and Clara jerked to her feet.

  “Of course,” she said, turning toward him as he stood up, and she worked to don a demeanor of polite civility and speak naturally, as if the most extraordinary experience of her life had not just happened. “Please express my thanks to your aunt for her kind invitation, and tell her I will respond as soon as I have spoken with my sisters-in-law.”

  He gave a nod and bowed, then walked toward the door, taking up his hat from the table where he’d left it earlier as he went. But then, he stopped, hat in hand, and turned to look at her over his shoulder, his perfect countenance graver than she’d ever seen it, his eyes so brilliantly blue that it almost hurt to look into them.

  “You’ve never been kissed before,” he said. “Have you?”

  His voice was so matter-of-fact, it wasn’t really a question, and she colored up at once, wondering how he could possibly be so certain.

  “No,” she admitted. “You were . . . you were the first.”

  He didn’t seem gratified to hear it. He pressed his lips tight together, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, and turned away to open the door, leaving her with no idea what had given her away. Perhaps she’d done it wrong somehow, made some terribly gauche mistake.

  That was a mortifying possibility, and yet, Clara’s joy refused to be dimmed. It lingered inside her—like sunshine caught in a box—even after he was gone.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  The oath reverberated through his head like a series of gunshots, condemning him with every step he took down the stairs, across the foyer, and out of Clara Deverill’s house.

  He walked straight past his driver, who had hopped down from the box and was waiting by the carriage door, opened umbrella in hand. “Go on, Hart,” he ordered over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “I’ll walk for a bit, then take a taxi home.”

  “But sir, it’s raining.”

  “Is it?” He strode rapidly on, his body in the hot, agonizing turmoil of unrequited lust, his mind glad of the cool drizzle already dampening his hat and coat. “Good.”

  “But sir,” Hart called again. “You’ll catch cold.”

  He made short shrift of the inclement spring weather and its possible consequences with a wave of his hand, and kept walking. A cold, he co
uld not help but feel, would be no more than he deserved for breaking his cardinal rule about women.

  Stay away from the innocent ones.

  Innocent young women invariably expected matrimony, and who could blame them? For a girl of good family, marriage was the only socially acceptable path through life, the only means of fulfilling physical desires, ensuring a stable future, and having children. His conversation with Clara over tea had only served to underscore why he’d established his cardinal rule in the first place.

  But for a man, even a peer, marriage was not a necessity, a fact for which Rex daily thanked heaven. He’d spent his entire youth watching his parents destroy not only each other, but also the passionate love that had brought them into matrimony in the first place. To love and then come to hate what you had loved—he could imagine no greater hell. And though he couldn’t remember the exact moment he’d decided never to wed, not once since then had he had cause to regret his choice, or even to doubt it.

  He still didn’t. And that made what he had just done all the more reprehensible.

  For Clara, marriage was not a mere necessity of existence. Romance, marriage, children, love everlasting—these things comprised the dream of her life. They were things she wanted and deserved, things he would never willingly offer any girl.

  A cold gust of wind came up, taking his hat. He watched, indifferent, as his gray felt derby tumbled through the air ahead of him and landed in a curbside puddle with an unceremonious plop.

  Rex stepped over it and kept walking.

  He passed Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium, and he couldn’t help giving it a resentful glance as he walked by, wishing he’d never agreed to meet Lionel there for tea. Why there, of all the bloody tea shops in London? Why her, of all the women in the world? It was laughable, ridiculous, and aggravating as hell that he should be lusting after a girl he could not have, a girl who wanted everything out of life that he avoided like the plague.