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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  In the two weeks since the ball, he’d spent most of his time searching for her amid the crowds at whatever event they both happened to be attending. Whenever he had happened to catch sight of her, she always seemed to be talking to some other man. At dinner parties, silly rules of precedent always prevented him from sitting beside her at the table, and though she’d saved him a dance at every ball, it hadn’t always been a waltz, worse luck. As a result, he’d spent most of his time since the Montcrieffe ball tamping down either lust or jealousy, perfectly aware he had no right to either, and by the time two weeks had passed, he was in a state of such acute frustration, he felt ready to chuck the entire business and go find some form of employment that was more relaxing to his mind and easier on his body—prizefighter, perhaps, or lion tamer.

  But after a fortnight of this frustration, he found himself relieved of it, and his mood took a decided turn for the worse. She vanished from society altogether, and after a full week passed with no sign of her at any party or ball, he decided to find out what was going on. Catching Lady David at the opera during intermission, he asked after Clara and was assured that though she was quite well, she had been obligated by unforeseen circumstances to return home for an indefinite period. A press for more details yielded no additional information, and Rex, not knowing whether to be worried or exasperated, decided it was time to find Clara and hear from her what these unforeseen circumstances were. On the off-chance he might be responsible in some way for her absence, he acquired a bottle of champagne from the refreshments steward, then he left Covent Garden and took a taxi to Belford Row.

  When he arrived at Clara’s home, the windows of the newspaper showed the front office to be dark and empty, but there was light spilling from Clara’s office into the corridor at the back, and he concluded she must be working late. He tried the door, and finding it unlocked, he went inside, but when he called her name, there was no answer. Despite that, he went inside, thinking it best to extinguish her lamp before presenting himself at her front door, for an unattended lamp was a fire hazard. As he crossed the outer office, he made a note to give Clara a sound lecture about leaving lamps lit and doors unlocked, but when he entered her office, he found her still there, and at the sight of her slumped over her desk, sound asleep, her cheek pillowed on the back of her hand, the fingers of her other hand still clenched around a pencil, any lectures about anything died on his lips.

  He removed his top hat and took a step closer, then stopped, realizing he probably ought not to wake her, and yet, he could hardly think leaving her to sleep this way, hunched over her desk, was a better idea. Before he could decide, however, some instinct woke her. She jerked upright, an abrupt move that rolled her chair back a few inches and sent a lock of her hair tumbling down over her face.

  “Rex?” She brushed the loose lock of her hair back from her forehead, blinking sleepily at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “A courtship, even a sham one, takes two people, I’m afraid.”

  She sighed and pulled her chair close to her desk again. “Sorry, but I’ve been terribly busy with the paper.”

  “Ah.” He glanced at his surroundings, noting the untidiness of her office, a characteristic he did not remember from his previous visits here. Stacks of newspapers, files, and other documents seemed to be everywhere—on chairs, on filing cabinets, on the floor, and on her desk. Also on her desk were sheets of drawing paper, charcoal pencils, and various other stationery supplies. “Yes, so I see.”

  He looked at her again, noticing that her hair wasn’t fashioned in its usual austere crown. Instead, the locks were piled in a careless, haphazard sort of chignon at the back of her head that was soft and pretty and looked ready to tumble down at the slightest provocation.

  That was dangerous thinking, but even as he gave himself the reminder, he said, “You’ve changed your hair.”

  She flushed. “I don’t have a maid here, and I’ve been too occupied to bother much with it,” she mumbled, lifting her hands to the messy chignon as if to tidy it.

  “Leave it,” he ordered. “It’s deuced attractive that way.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself in the head.

  “It is?” She touched the chignon self-consciously, giving him a dubious look. “But it’s so untidy.”

  He had no intention of explaining why that might have a certain appeal, and fortunately, she spoke again, preventing him from having to invent some absurd explanation.

  “You brought champagne?”

  “I did.” Pushing aside the images of her with her hair tumbling down around bare white shoulders, he came in and set the bottle in front of her. “You’ve been missing from every social gathering this week. Lady David assured me you weren’t ill, but she was so evasive on the subject that I thought your absence might be my fault. So, I decided to find out what was going on. I hope I haven’t blotted my copybook in some way?”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing to do with you. As for Carlotta, she hates having to explain to anyone that I have an occupation, especially one as middle-class as running a newspaper. That’s probably why she refused to enlighten you. It embarrasses her that I’m engaging in a profession, however temporary it might be.”

  “I see. But what is all this?” he asked, gesturing to the disarray all around her with his hat. “What’s happened?”

  “I fired Mr. Beale.”

  “You did?” He grinned, setting his top hat aside as he sank into the swivel chair opposite her. “What delightful news.”

  She made a face at him as she shoved her pencil behind her ear. “Yes, well, I’ve been paying for that delight ever since. First, the typesetter quit. Being the only remaining male employee in a company of women made him uncomfortable, he said. So, Hazel and I had to typeset last week’s issue ourselves. Then, the printing press gave out—after, I’m thankful to say, we’d printed all the copies. I had to scramble like mad to find a qualified firm to contract the typesetting and printing for this week’s issue, and I’d barely done that before Hazel’s aunt came down with ‘flu and she had to go home to Surrey. I meant to let you know what was happening, but, honestly, Rex, I just . . . forgot.”

  She gave a little laugh, shaking her head and sending the looser lock of hair tumbling down again. “Terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Perfectly understandable.” He leaned forward, frowning as he noted the tired lines and shadows of her face. “You look quite done in, my lamb.”

  “I am a bit tired,” she admitted and attempted to shove the loose tendril of her hair back again, but when it immediately fell back over her brow, she left it there, as if too weary to bother trying to tuck it into place.

  He did it for her, reaching out to curl it behind her ear Fighting the temptation to linger and touch the soft skin of her cheek, he let his hand fall. “More than a bit,” he said gently, leaning back in his chair.

  “It’s not only work here that’s worn me out. The season had become this mad dash from party to party.”

  “It tends to get that way.”

  “It’s been rather nice to have a change, even if the pace of my days hasn’t slowed.” She gave a laugh. “The odd thing is that I’m actually enjoying myself here. That’s something I never thought would happen.”

  “Still, I daresay you’re due for a rest. Perhaps you should go upstairs and go to bed.”

  “I can’t.” She gestured to the pages spread across her desk and the credenza behind her. “I have to finish this first.”

  “And what is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

  “With Hazel gone, I’m not only the publisher and the editor, but also the advertising artist. I have a meeting with Ebenezer Shaw first thing in the morning in which I’m supposed to show him ideas for advertisements to launch his company’s newest product. Hazel left me with some conceptual ideas, but she did not have time to do any sketches before she left, so I must do them. I’ve been trying, but . .
.” Clara’s shoulders slumped as she stared down at her efforts. “Sketching is something for which I have little talent, I’m afraid.”

  He glanced at her pathetic attempts and was forced to agree.

  “They’re awful, I know,” she said as if reading his mind. “But I can’t cancel the meeting. He’s such a curmudgeon, he’s likely to withdraw the entire campaign if I’m not prepared, and if he does that, we could lose over a thousand pounds in advertising revenue. More, if he’s in a sour mood.”

  “Never fear.” Rex stood up and began unbuttoning his black evening jacket. “You shall not lose a single penny.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he slid his jacket off his shoulders, slung it over the back of his chair, and began unfastening his cuff links.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” He dropped the heavy silver cuff links into her pen tray and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. “I’m going to help you.”

  Chapter 15

  If Rex had any hope his announcement would cause Clara to deem him her knight in shining armor, rush into his arms, and shower him with grateful kisses, he was immediately disappointed.

  She frowned, her skepticism obvious. “Have you any talent for drawing?”

  “More than you, my sweet,” he countered, plucking her charcoal pencil from behind her ear. He spread out her sketches, and a quick glance over her stick men, skewed bottles, and scribbled notes told him what she was attempting to do. “Shaw’s Liver Pills has a new patent medicine, I see.”

  “A cure for colds.”

  He made a scoffing sound that earned him a disapproving look.

  “Disparaging our advertiser’s product,” she said dryly, “is not inspiring my confidence in your ability.”

  “Perhaps this will.” Rex pulled a fresh sheet of drawing paper in front of him, bent over the desk, and began to sketch. It only took a few quick strokes to capture the essence of a happy baby and relieved mother, and by the time she had circled around to his side of the desk, he’d added a replica of a medicine bottle to one side and scrawled the Shaw’s insignia at the top. “There,” he said, straightening. “How’s that?”

  Staring down at the page, she made a choked sound of relief, something halfway between a sigh and a sob, and he began to think her initial dim opinion of him was getting a polish at last. He wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he savored it just the same.

  “It’s good. Truly good.” She turned toward him, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank you, Rex. Thank you.”

  Her brown eyes were filled with enough gratitude and relief that he thought of pushing his luck and demanding some sweet, sweet compensation, but he refrained. “I just wish I’d known you were in this sort of difficulty earlier,” he said instead. “I’d have come straight here this evening and spared myself the pain of listening to two hours of Wagnerian opera.”

  “Is that where you were? Covent Garden?”

  He nodded. “That’s where I spoke with Lady David. I saw her across the way, in the duke’s box, noted you weren’t with her party, and decided it was time to run you to earth.”

  “I’m so glad you did. Can you . . . would you mind doing a few more of these?”

  “That depends. Have you anything to eat?”

  “You want food?”

  “Well, there are other compensations I could ask for,” he couldn’t resist saying, “but I’ll settle for a plate of sandwiches.”

  “I think I can manage that.” She gestured to some handwritten pages piled on one side of her desk. “Those are the notes of my meeting with Hazel before she left for Surrey. Read those and you’ll have an idea of what we had in mind. We want to propose six advertisements.”

  “So, six sketches?” When she nodded, he resumed his seat and reached for her pile of notes. “Consider it done.”

  Clara went off in search of sandwiches, and after reading through her notes, he set to work. By the time she returned, he had completed two sketches and was halfway through a third, but when he caught sight of the tray she put on the desk beside him, he stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as he stared askance at the four miniscule triangles on the plate.

  “If you expect work out of a man, you’ll have to feed him better than that, Clara.”

  “It doesn’t seem like much food, I suppose, not to you. But—” She stopped, and as he turned in his chair to look at her, he noted in some surprise the hot color flooding her cheeks. “It’s j . . . just that our cook is still in the kitchen. Sh . . . she’s always the last to . . . umm . . . to go to bed. If I had asked her for more food than I usually eat . . .”

  “She’d get the wind up?” he finished for her when she stopped again.

  Clara nodded, looking at her feet. “It’s not really proper, you know,” she whispered. “You being here. Alone. With me.”

  It wasn’t proper at all. More than that, it was risky as hell, especially given what had already passed between them, but he had no intention of pointing that out.

  “I understand. Though I can’t imagine how even a dainty creature like you can subsist on a meal like that,” he added, waving a hand at the sandwiches. “It isn’t even a meal, now that I think on it. It’s a snack.”

  “I can bring you more in a few hours, after Mrs. Gibson’s gone to bed. That is, if you’re still here by then.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

  She smiled, and as always when she smiled at him like that, Rex felt the world slipping dangerously sideways.

  He looked away, gesturing with his pencil to the sketches he’d completed. “You might look over those and tell me I’m on the right track,” he said. “Then I suggest you fetch a glass, if you can sneak it out from under your cook’s prying eyes. If not, we’ll both be swigging that champagne from the bottle.”

  She complied, giving him the reassurance he needed to continue, then she went in search of a glass. Unexpectedly, she brought back two, because as she explained, champagne flutes were part of the crystal, and weren’t kept in the kitchen but in the china cupboard in the dining room. Mrs. Gibson wouldn’t miss them.

  “Just be sure to wash them and put them back before morning,” he advised, “or heaven knows what your cook will think. Can you open it?” he added, gesturing to the champagne.

  “I can try.”

  She did, but once she’d removed the wire cage and begun working to free the cork, he decided he’d better intervene. “The last thing we need is to have the cork go flying, break something, and make such a racket it brings your cook swooping in to see what’s going on. Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

  He moved to stand behind her, his arms coming around her to grasp the bottle, demonstrating how to open it and stealing for himself a few tantalizing moments of having her in his embrace. Once the champagne cork had popped, however, even his lame excuse for standing behind her with his arms around her was gone.

  He didn’t move.

  Neither did she, and he took advantage of it, turning his head to inhale the delicate orange-blossom scent of her hair. He closed his eyes, thinking how easy it would be to pull her back against him, to bend his head and kiss her neck . . .

  Christ, he was making himself insane.

  He lowered his arms and stepped back, stepping to her side to pour champagne, and he decided it might be best to start a conversation on a safe topic.

  “So, you fired Mr. Beale. How did this momentous event occur?”

  “I lost my temper, and before I knew it, the words, ‘you’re fired’ were out of my mouth. Words, I must say, that gave me great delight.”

  He grinned as he handed her a glass of champagne and began to pour one for himself. “What happened to all that rot you tried to tell me about having no authority to give him the sack, doing one’s best to get along, and respecting your sister’s judgement?”

  “I didn’t really think about any of that. He was abusing a member of the staff, and I just . . . let fly.” She gave a s
igh. “I’m living with the consequences now, though, I’m afraid.”

  He set aside the bottle and glanced at her, noting again the weariness in her face. “Which have been arduous, I see.”

  “Well, as I told you once, editor is the most important position on the staff. I’m not accustomed to making these decisions. I knew how hard my sister worked, of course, but I never realized until she went away the burden of being in charge. I’ve never really overseen anything, you see. Most of my life, Irene has protected and looked after me. I’ve been quite sheltered.”

  Rex couldn’t summon any regret that her paragon of a sister wasn’t hovering over her like a hen with one chick. Although as he shot a considering sideways glance over her, he appreciated that her current lack of a chaperone made the temptations tormenting him even harder to resist.

  “And now that Mr. Beale’s gone,” she went on, bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, “I’m in charge of everything. It’s rather daunting.”

  “You’re doing all right so far,” he said and picked up a sandwich.

  “Am I?” She rubbed her nose, looking doubtful. “I hope so.”

  “Buck up. Paper’s getting printed, all’s right with the world.”

  “I suppose that’s the only way to look at it at this point.” She paused and took a sip of champagne. “Has your father relented yet and reinstated your allowance?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

  “I only ask because our bargain might be in jeopardy. I may not be able to finish the season. If I don’t find an editor, I shall have to carry on here until Irene comes back. I doubt I’ll have time to do both, especially if this past week is any indication.”

  “No applicants for the post?”

  “We’ve had a few. They all seem qualified, but none seem right.” She paused, considering. “I don’t know if that’s true, actually, or if I’m just terrified of choosing wrong and I’m procrastinating over the decision out of fear.”

  “You can’t let fear stop you from making decisions like that.”