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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “I did receive it, yes. And it’s every bit as good as last week’s. You have a true talent for giving advice, even if I sometimes question the morality of it.”

  That dry qualification compelled him to respond with his best innocent stare. “My advice to ‘Speechless in South Kensington’ was immoral?”

  “You know I’m talking about your advice to your friend, Lionel. Although while we’re on the subject, I’m not sure advising a young man to arrange a supposedly accidental encounter with the object of his affections while walking the most adorable puppy he can find is quite aboveboard.”

  “I don’t see why not. The poor fellow’s desperately in love, but the girl takes no notice of him. He wants to gain her attention and begin a conversation, and a puppy is an effective way to do both. A baby would have been even better, of course, but I couldn’t imagine any young man would be willing to walk down the street in front of his ladylove’s house pushing a pram. So, I settled for a puppy.”

  She laughed. “A wise decision. Though you do realize that within a week, young men all over town who are in love will be acquiring adorable puppies and walking the streets with them?”

  “Well, if they keep the puppies, London will have fewer stray dogs, and more young couples will fall in love. I’m not sure I see a negative aspect, except that they’ll all be expected to get married, poor devils. Speaking of marriage-minded people,” he added, glancing past her, “I see Lady Geraldine Throckmorton is here today. Dina,” he clarified as he noted Clara’s bewildered look, “to her friends. Dark hair,” he added as Clara turned her head. “Green walking suit, walking a white poodle on a lead.”

  “She’s quite elegant, isn’t she?” Clara commented, sounding a little surprised.

  “Very,” he agreed as she returned her attention to him. “Also, fashionable and sophisticated. That’s what drew her to Lionel, I expect. The attraction of opposites.” He paused, looking at Clara, appreciating that truth about human nature more than he ever had before. “People tend to be rather perverse that way.”

  “I wasn’t.” Her absurd little nose wrinkled up as she grinned. “I fell madly in love with a vicar.”

  “True,” he agreed, and laughed a little. “Your tastes seem to have changed since then.”

  He regretted that careless comment at once. He’d meant it to be self-deprecatingly witty, but that wasn’t how it had come out, and he rushed to qualify it. “I didn’t mean to imply that I think you’re falling for me. I’m not the sort to suit your preference. God knows, that’s been clearly established, and—” He broke off, feeling deuced awkward, something he wasn’t accustomed to and didn’t like in the least. “What the devil is it about you, Clara Deverill?” he muttered in chagrin. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met in my life who can make me stammer like a schoolboy.”

  “I certainly seem to be making you stammer today. I rather like it, actually.”

  “Like it?”

  “Yes.” She smiled that wide, pretty smile of hers. “I’m usually the one doing the stammering.”

  That smile not only left him tongue-tied, it also caused the world to tilt a bit sideways again. He looked away, wondering in desperation if this topsy-turvy state was going to continue indefinitely, a question that impelled him to down his remaining champagne.

  Fortified, he set his empty glass on the table beside his chair and returned to their previous, much-safer topic. “Unlike Dina, Lionel isn’t the least bit elegant, I’m afraid. He’s more like Fitz—that’s his dog,” he added, as she gave him a bewildered look. “Fitz is a sheepdog, and Lionel’s a great deal like him—friendly, ambling, loyal. Dina, on the other hand, is very much like her poodle, elegant, sharp, perfectly groomed. People are rather like the dogs they choose, aren’t they?”

  “Are they?” She tilted her head, studying him. “Which breed are you?”

  “Wolf,” he said at once, not knowing if he was reminding her of that fact, or himself.

  She made a face. “I meant, what breed of dog do you own?”

  “Hounds, though strictly speaking, they aren’t mine. They’re my father’s, and used only for foxhunting. At Braebourne, you see, we don’t breed ratting terriers, or retrievers, or anything remotely practical.”

  She laughed, then sobered. “How does your friend, Lionel? Is he all right? Or is he still in the throes of heartbreak?”

  “I don’t know, actually,” Rex confessed, keeping his voice light. “I’ve called twice, but his servants have told me both times that he’s not receiving. And I’ve not seen him at White’s when I’ve been there. Unless I want to chase him through the corridors of Parliament, I’m not sure what else I can do but wait for him to soften.”

  “He still thinks you betrayed his confidences, then?”

  “Seems so. In fact, I’m sure that suspicion is becoming more cemented in his mind with each passing day.”

  “Why now?”

  He met her gaze. “Word is starting to get ’round that you’ve caught my eye. That, I’m sure, is reinforcing his belief that I was indiscreet.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m sorry you’re on the outs with your friend over my actions, and perhaps it was wrong of me to interfere, but his courtship—if one can call it that—was not aboveboard, so I can’t find it in my heart to regret that Lady Throckmorton ended their amour because of what I wrote. And I still think it was very wrong of you to advise him as you did.”

  “I did it in the hope of giving them both more time together so they could decide how they truly felt about one another.”

  “You did it to help him avoid the dreaded state of matrimony.”

  “Not true. Be fair, Clara, if you please, and recall precisely what I said. I first told him he ought to break it off, since he wasn’t sure he wanted to marry her, but when he expressed reluctance to do that, I gave him another option.”

  “A morally questionable one.”

  “But a better one than having to part irrevocably, in my opinion. And far, far better than to marry in haste and repent at leisure.”

  “I don’t know.” She paused, considering. “There could have been serious consequences, you know, to what they were doing. For her, particularly.”

  “You mean a child, I assume?”

  “That, yes, but if they were caught, there would have been disgrace, ruin, and shame for her, child or no.”

  “Lionel would stand up, do the right thing, if any of that were to happen.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  “I am sure. I’ve known Lionel since school days. He’s an honorable man. Despite,” he added as she raised a skeptical eyebrow, “what you might think.”

  “Then I don’t see why he can’t court Lady Throckmorton in an honorable fashion, especially now that he knows marriage is her expectation.”

  “Once two people take the step Lionel and Dina have, they’ve rather crossed the Rubicon.” As he spoke, he wondered if his words were in defense of his friend or a reminder to himself. “Chaperoned walks and a stolen kiss or two behind the hedgerows might seem a bit tame to them now.”

  “Or it might have the opposite effect. It might serve to increase their anticipation by suspense.”

  “It might.” Irresistibly drawn, he looked at her mouth, then wondered why he was torturing himself. “At least until the poor chap hurls himself off a bridge,” he muttered, leaning back again in his chair.

  Desperate for a new distraction, he looked away, and was heartily glad to see Lord James Standish walking toward them. “Standish,” he greeted. “God, man, you look like the devil.”

  “No doubt,” the other man agreed as he sank down, breathless and disheveled, beside their chairs, then fell back into the grass. Rolling his head, he looked at the girl beside him. “Why didn’t I bring Nanny, Clara? Remind me.”

  “Because it’s her day out.” She looked him over, then she laughed. “Galbraith’s right. The boys seem to have worn you to a nub already.”

  “They have, and I�
�m not ashamed to admit it. William’s with them now, but if that continues too long, the poor fellow’s likely to resign. If Torquil comes back to find we’ve lost our first footman, he’ll be fit to be tied.”

  Rex moved to rise. “I can send a footman to fetch your nanny, Standish, if she’s at Torquil House.”

  “That’s all right,” Clara said, standing up, bringing Rex fully to his feet and impelling Standish to rise as well. “Let Nanny have her day out. She’s earned it. I’m happy to take the boys for a bit.” She glanced at Rex, then back again. “If you will both excuse me?”

  Rex bowed. “Of course.”

  “You’re a brick, Clara,” Standish called after her as she crossed the turf toward the twins and the poor footman who was trying valiantly to assist them in launching their kites.

  “Your footman deserves a tip, Standish,” Rex said, turning to the other man. “Helping you look after those boys of yours today.”

  “He’ll have a large one, I assure you. But if you’ll pardon me, Galbraith, I must take advantage of this heaven-sent opportunity and help myself to some of the sandwiches while I have the chance. Join me?”

  Rex shook his head. “Thank you, no. I’ll eat later.”

  With a nod, Standish moved off, headed for the marquee where refreshments had been laid out. He’d barely departed, however, before Rex was joined again, this time by Hetty, who was carrying two flutes of champagne.

  “Here,” she said, offering him one. “I noticed your glass was empty.”

  “You’re an angel, Cousin.”

  “Angel?” Hetty laughed, sinking into the chair vacated by Clara. “I do believe that’s the first time anyone’s called me that.”

  “For good reason.” He resumed his seat and took an appreciative swallow of champagne. “And given this most uncharacteristic show of solicitude on your part,” he added, leaning back in his chair, “I can only conclude you have a deeper purpose.”

  She grinned at him from beneath her yellow straw hat as she tucked a loose tendril of her chestnut hair beneath the crown. “Curiosity. Miss Deverill,” she clarified when Rex gave her an inquiring look.

  “Ah,” he said, pretending to be suddenly enlightened. “But why ask me about her? You met her yourself at the opera.”

  “A quick introduction before you cut her from the herd. And then the performance started.” There was a wicked, knowing gleam in Hetty’s green eyes that recalled his acute discomfort on the night in question.

  “I can’t be of much help in satisfying your curiosity, Cousin, for I met Miss Deverill myself only a few days before you did. Best ask Auntie Pet, if you want to know more about her.”

  “Auntie Pet is the one who sent me over here.” She paused and took a sip of champagne. “She seems to think you have a romantic interest in the girl.”

  “Hope springs eternal.”

  “Auntie’s terrible, I know. She’s the same way with me, and my sisters and brothers—shoving potential spouses at us every chance she has, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “It doesn’t. As for Miss Deverill, I can assure Auntie—and you as well, for I know perfectly well that Auntie is not the only one in my family crossing her fingers and hoping for miracles—that the girl is not the least bit attracted to me.” Even as he spoke, the damnable memory of sinking beneath Clara on that settee flashed through his mind.

  “A woman who can resist you? Heavens.”

  Clara’s lack of resistance seven days ago was, he feared, going to be a fundamental source of torment to him for the foreseeable future. “God, Hetty, you talk as if all the pretty girls of London are falling at my feet.”

  His cousin stared at him, her eyes going ingenuously wide. “Is this one pretty? I hadn’t formed an opinion, myself, but it seems you have.”

  He gave her a warning look, but of course, being Hetty, she ignored it. Sitting up a bit straighter, she turned in her chair and studied the girl who was standing on an open stretch of turf, holding a reel of kite wool and talking with the twins. “She has a lovely figure,” Hetty said after a moment and sighed. “So dainty. I’d kill for that tiny waist and those long legs.”

  Rex set his jaw, valiantly resisting delicious contemplations about Clara’s figure as he watched her attempt to launch the kite. Her effort failed however, crashing the toy almost immediately into the turf and sending her and the two boys into peals of laughter.

  If I had children, I’d never be bored.

  “She seems quite sweet.”

  He stiffened, looking at his cousin. “Are you being catty?”

  His voice was quiet, but a hint of what he thought of that comment must have shown in his expression, for looking at him, even his intrepid cousin shrank back a little.

  “No, Rex,” she said. “I’m not, actually. That was my impression when I met her, and it’s still my impression.”

  Something in him relaxed.

  “I only remark on it because . . .” She paused. “Sweet girls aren’t your usual cup of tea, that’s all.”

  The attraction of opposites.

  He hastened into speech. “Miss Deverill and I are just friends.”

  One of Hetty’s dark brows lifted a fraction. “Friends? You and any girl alive . . . friends?”

  Her skepticism about that notion made him feel oddly defensive. “Is it so hard to imagine?”

  She laughed. “Frankly, yes! Granted, you seem on very friendly terms with women of a certain type, much to Aunt Petunia’s dismay. But I doubt any demirep could be described as your friend. And you’re amiable as can be to women you consider out of bounds—married women, women in love with other men, etcetera. But when it comes to young, unmarried ladies, we know you pay no attention to them at all, as a rule, which is quite right of you, you rake. So, tell me how this particular girl could possibly have become your friend.”

  Because God has a wicked sense of humor.

  Rex shrugged. “These things happen,” he said lightly.

  “Not to you.” She sobered. “Be careful, Rex. Don’t . . . hurt her.”

  He stirred, already quite aware of the damage a man like him could inflict upon a girl like Clara if the desire he felt for her was allowed free rein. “I told you, Miss Deverill has no romantic aspirations about me whatsoever. She knows me for just what I am.”

  “That’s rather what I’m afraid of.” With that enigmatic comment, Hetty rose and walked away, leaving Rex to watch Clara and battle the dragons of his lust.

  Chapter 13

  During the remainder of the picnic and the fortnight that followed it, Clara played the role she’d agreed upon. At every social function to which she and Rex were both invited, she greeted his attentions with the polite tolerance she’d promised, but nothing more.

  As for Rex, he became the quintessential gentlemanly suitor, interested but not too interested. He sent his next two columns to her office through the post, for as he explained on one of the rare occasions when they could manage a private word, if he came to her office every Thursday on Lady Truelove’s behalf, the members of her staff were sure to suspect the truth. And though he occasionally called on her at the duke’s house, with Carlotta hovering as a proper chaperone should, slipping her a letter of any sort would have been impossible.

  His interest in her was duly noted by society, as was her indifference to him, and not only did it give the gossip columnists a great deal of amusement at his expense, it also succeeded in drawing the notice of other men, just as he’d predicted it would.

  Clara, who hadn’t really believed him on that score, was rather taken aback when several young men, as well as the members of their families, began calling on her. Unprepared, she found it hard to manage the newfound attention, but she resisted the urge to withdraw back into her shy shell.

  She did her best to apply the advice Rex had given the Devastated Debutante to her own situation, and she was amazed to discover that though she might not be as beautiful as her sister, she did have certain powers of attra
ction. And though she stammered her way awkwardly through quite a few conversations, she soon learned the art of making fun of her own stammering tongue. In every conversation, she strove to set aside her self-consciousness, and she worked hard to make every person she spoke with feel at ease in her company. Slowly, gradually, she grew more comfortable with attention, began to relax, and gained a measure of confidence that she’d never possessed before. For the first time since she entered society, she began to truly enjoy herself.

  But it was in early June, at her second ball of the season, when Clara realized just how much society’s view of her had changed. She’d barely greeted her hosts and entered the ballroom before one of the many young men she’d met during the past two weeks approached her and asked for his name to be placed on her dance card. He’d barely departed before there was another, and then another, and within fifteen minutes her dance card was nearly full.

  “Heavens, Clara,” Sarah said, laughing. “You are the belle of the ball this evening.”

  Astonished, pleased, and more than a little bemused, Clara glanced over the names on the card attached to her wrist. “It must be the dress,” she said, making her friends laugh even though she’d only been half joking.

  “If it is the dress,” Angela put in, “then I definitely deserve some credit.”

  “You?” Sarah made a sound of derision. “I’m the one who advised her to pick the rose-pink silk at Vivienne because pink’s her best color.”

  “Yes,” Angela responded at once, “but I’m the one who advised her to lower the neckline.”

  “Only because we read in in Lady Truelove.”

  As her sisters-in-law debated the issue, Clara glanced down, dubious. Low neckline or no, she doubted her less-than-impressive bust was the reason for her recent social success, and when she looked up again, she knew it for a fact, because standing only a few feet away was the real reason.

  He was watching her, his face grave, hands in the trouser pockets of his evening suit and one shoulder propped against a marble column. Windblown, rakish, a modern Adonis come to earth, and her breath caught in her throat.