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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She laughed. “Says the man who’ll never marry.”

  “Really, Clara.” He made a scoffing sound, set aside his champagne, and reached for his drawing pencil. “It’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s exactly the same.” She laughed again as he shook his head in denial. “All right, then,” she added, settling herself on the edge of the desk beside him as he took his chair. “How is it different?”

  “An editor can be sacked,” he pointed out as he resumed sketching. “A spouse, alas, cannot.”

  “I agree the risk is higher, but surely the rewards are, too.”

  “What rewards?”

  “Love, for one.”

  He made another derisive sound to show how unimpressed he was by that argument. “My parents were in love, passionately so, if their friends’ accounts can be trusted.”

  “It wasn’t a marriage of alliance? I thought it might have been.”

  “Why? Because they didn’t live happily ever after?”

  She gave his leg a kick with her shoe, demonstrating how little she appreciated that acerbic rejoinder. “So, if they were in love, what do you think happened?”

  “My mother was unfaithful. She had affairs. I thought everyone knew that.”

  “So, it was all her fault?”

  “It was if you ask anyone in our family. Both sides condemn Mama and blame her for the whole messy business. Even her own relations won’t have anything to do with her.”

  “What about you? Do you condemn her?”

  “I wish I could,” he said with a sigh. He put a last flourish on the sketch before him, set it with the others, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper to start the last one. “My life would be so much less complicated.”

  Before she could ask what he meant by that, he went on, “Don’t think I deem her blameless, because that’s not the case either. My mother is beautiful and weak and terribly, terribly insecure. She needs constant reassurance and support. My father, being an impatient man, and blunt to a fault, was never capable of filling that sort of need, or even understanding it.”

  “What you’re saying is that they were never suited.”

  “About as suited as oil and water. From what I understand, I had barely learned to walk before they drifted apart, and by the time I went off to school, they could only tolerate each other’s company if it presented an opportunity to blame each other and tear each other to bits. After I left for Eton, my mother launched her first affair, and . . . well, the rest, as they say, is history. I’m surprised you don’t know all about it. It was reported in the papers in lurid enough detail.”

  “I was only a little girl when they separated, far too young to be interested in reading newspapers. I don’t know any of the lurid details you speak of.”

  “You’ve missed nothing by not knowing. When love goes awry and turns to contempt, it’s always a sordid tale.” He paused for another sandwich and a swallow of champagne. “Given the sort of people they are, I can’t fathom how my parents ever thought it could be otherwise.”

  “For some, love is blind.”

  He nodded. “In my parents’ case, very much so. Especially my father. My mother was already a scandal before they ever met, from what I understand. How he ever thought she’d transform into a faithful partner and loving helpmate, I have no idea. Anyone with sense could have told him that she could never be what he wanted her to be.”

  “There was no way they could reconcile their differences?”

  “My parents?” The idea was so absurd, he laughed, and it must have been a harsh sound, because she winced.

  “Sorry,” he said at once, “but it’s clear you’ve never met them. In most cases when a marriage falls apart, it’s true that the two people attempt to put things back together. If that fails, they still soldier on, being discreet and presenting a united front to the world, even if they privately go their separate ways.”

  “What did your parents do?”

  He gave a laugh. “They threw discretion to the winds. My mother stopped making any attempt to hide her affairs—she wanted Papa to divorce her, you see, so she gave him ample grounds, again and again, but he refused to free her. He dug in his heels, and the next few years provided the press with plenty of mutual mudslinging to report, damaging my entire family’s social position. The one bright spot was that the scandals spurred the family to work on my father, and though he still refused to divorce her, he did agree to legally separate from her. The separation has failed to rid either of their souls of the acrimony they feel toward each other, but it has at least made it less likely that one of them will kill the other, something that was always a distinct possibility when they lived under the same roof.”

  “Not all marriages are like your parents’. My parents were happy together. Until—”

  She stopped, but he knew what she’d been about to say. “Until your mother died.”

  “Well, yes, and then Papa rather went to seed. But love’s hardly to blame for the fact that he chooses to drink.”

  “It’s unfair for me to blame love, I suppose, but there it is. My father chooses to remain bitter and wounded and unforgiving. He won’t let go of a woman whose love for him vanished over twenty-five years ago. My mother, on the other hand, being both more affectionate and more shallow than my father, loves love so much she does it every year, rather like debutantes do the season. Every time, she’s sure this time the love is true and everlasting, only to find herself crushed and disappointed when it all falls apart. My parents, your father . . .” He shrugged and took a swallow of champagne. “What good did love ever do any of them?”

  “I’ve known from the start you were a cynical man,” she said. “I suppose I just didn’t realize how cynical. But Rex, some people who marry are happy.”

  “Yes, so the matchmaking members of my family remind me daily. Even my father, who to this day refuses to quit the hell he made for himself, wants me to marry. But what’s the point of it? Why should I?”

  “What about children?”

  “I have an heir, and though he may be a distant cousin, at least the estates won’t revert to the Crown when I die.” He shrugged. “Marriage is a difficult business. To my mind, frankly, there’s not enough reward in it for the risk.”

  “Perhaps if you ever truly fell in love you’d change your mind.”

  “I doubt it.” That reply was so uncompromising, Clara’s face so solemn, watching him, he felt he had to lighten the moment. “I think if I ever had an inclination to love, I’d just want it over as quickly as possible. Love is painful, they say,” he added, forcing a laugh. “Why prolong the agony?”

  She didn’t smile in return. Instead, she gazed back at him, her eyes dark and steady, and in their depths, he saw—God help him—a hint of pity.

  He sobered at once, looking away, reaching for the bottle to refill their glasses. “And how does one know it’s true love anyway? That’s the trouble with it. Infatuation and desire blind you, so there’s no way to know if you’ve got something that will last through a lifetime. When you fell in love with your vicar, you were sure you wanted to marry him, but you must agree that if you had done so, he could never have made you happy.”

  She considered. “I don’t think I thought about it from that standpoint. It all seemed very simple and straightforward to me. I loved him. If he loved me, then of course we would marry. What else is there?”

  His hand tightened around the glass in his hand as he slanted a glance at her, the devil inside him appreciating all the delicious possibilities. “What, indeed?” he countered, holding her filled glass up for her.

  She took it, making a face at him. “Free love, I suppose,” she said, and took a swallow of champagne. “Hardly the culmination devoutly to be wished.”

  “Depends on one’s point of view,” he countered, setting the bottle aside and settling back with his glass. “I could say the same about marriage.”

  That bit of wit did earn him a smile, rather a ruefu
l one. “God help any woman who falls in love with you,” she said, shaking her head. “As to my vicar, I was only seventeen when I fell in love with him, so I’m sure infatuation was a large part of what I felt. But that wasn’t all of it. I cared very deeply for him, and though I couldn’t give him the sort of marriage he wanted, I still believe he cared for me.”

  Rex considered that, and gave a nod. “Yes, I think he did. Otherwise, he would not have been so honest with you. It’s lucky he was. Had he not told you just what sort of marriage he was hoping for, you’d have wed him in ignorance, only to be shocked and disappointed when the truth was revealed. And you’d also have been stuck for life with a man who could never have made you happy.”

  “Thank you, but . . .” She paused, giving him a rather tipsy smile over her glass as she swirled her champagne. “Had we ever married, I’d like to think I would have eventually persuaded him to abandon his notions of a celestial marriage.”

  A picture formed in his mind at once, of Clara standing in a bedroom somewhere in corset and drawers with that smile on her face, and his throat went dry, leaving him in need of several swallows of champagne before he could reply.

  “In the case of most men,” he said at last, “no persuasion would be needed, Clara, I assure you. But for your vicar, it’s my guess all the persuasion in the world wouldn’t have availed. I saw enough of that sort of thing at Eton to know.”

  Her smile vanished, and she gave him a puzzled frown. “What sort of thing?”

  “There are some men who just don’t desire women. Any women. Ever. Poor devils,” he added, shaking his head. “It’s illegal for men to desire other men, you see.”

  She stared at him, aghast and shocked, heaven bless her sweet, innocent mind. “That’s what you meant about being arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good heavens.” She shook her head, still trying to assimilate this theory of the events surrounding her marriage proposal. “It wasn’t me, then,” she said after a moment, and began to laugh. “It wasn’t me at all. It had nothing to do with me.”

  He took a deep breath, unable to look away from her laughing face even as he tried to shove images of her in a corset out of his mind, appreciating more than ever his newfound pleasure in self-torture. “Really, Clara, I don’t know why that’s such a revelation now,” he muttered. “I told you weeks ago it wasn’t you. I even demonstrated the fact, quite strongly, as I recall.”

  She stopped laughing, her smile faded away, and suddenly, in her face, he saw all the same desire he felt. Or least, he saw what he wanted to see. “And really,” he added, taking refuge in teasing, “I don’t know why you needed a demonstration anyway. Why can’t you just trust me when I tell you things?”

  “Maybe because . . .” She paused and licked her lips as if they were dry, drawing his gaze like a moth to a flame. “Maybe because you’re a rake and not to be trusted?”

  “I’m not though,” he blurted out. “Not a rake, I mean. Not anymore.”

  She laughed, clearly skeptical of that contention. And who could blame her?

  “Oh, I used to be,” he went on. “Don’t misunderstand me. I was once one of the most notorious men about town, and my reputation was well-earned. Drink, cards, low company, women . . . especially women. God,” he added, laughing in disbelief at how much his life had changed, “so many women. I chased skirts from the West End to the East and back again. Actresses, Gaiety Girls, mistresses, courtesans—any woman who didn’t expect marriage and wasn’t already taken was fair game to me.”

  “You speak as if all that’s in the past.”

  He gave a nostalgic sigh. “Well, let’s just say my wild ways have been temporarily suspended.”

  “Oh, I see.” Her brow cleared and she gave a nod. “Women, you said once, are deuced expensive. And now that your father and your aunt have both cut you off, you can no longer afford such things.”

  “Well, that’s true, yes, but I’m afraid this sad state of affairs came to pass two years ago, long before my father stopped my allowance.”

  “Years? The gossip columns say otherwise. They . . . h . . . have you with some new . . .” She paused and looked away. “You seem to . . . have a new m . . . mistress every other month.”

  “I know, but that’s all a hum, Clara. The women, the cards, the drink . . .” He paused, waving a hand vaguely in the air. “All that’s just a charade nowadays. A charade I created over two years ago, and one I maintained up until the night we made our arrangement at Covent Garden.”

  “But why would you do such a thing? For what purpose?”

  He shrugged. “I had to find some way to explain why I’m always short of funds.”

  “And why are you?”

  He took a deep breath. “I give my mother money. Everyone believes I still spend whatever I get on rakish pursuits, but as I said, that’s tosh. Whatever I don’t spend on my own household has been going to my mother for quite some time. I’d ask you to keep this knowledge to yourself, for if my father found out, I’d never get my allowance back.”

  “Of course, I won’t tell anyone, but why should your father care?”

  “In the separation agreement, he stipulated an allowance for my mother. It’s enough to live on, but only just. Mama can’t afford a household, so she’s drifted all over the Continent, from friend to hotel, to friend, to hotel, but after a decade of this, she has pretty much used up all her friends’ goodwill, and hotels have stopped allowing her accommodation, for though she’s a countess, she’s a disgraced one, and she always ducks her bills. She tried to bolster her income with gambling, but of course, that didn’t work. She only got into more debt. Debt that my father, understandably, refused to pay.”

  “So, she began applying to you for money, and you give it to her?”

  “Yes. That’s the reason my father cut me off. I don’t know quite how, but he discovered what I was really doing with my income. Detectives, I’d guess. He’s employed enough of them to trail my mother in the past, God knows. He probably has a firm of those good gentlemen on permanent retainer.”

  “But keeping you continually short of funds only hurts him. If he wants you to marry—”

  “Even the ambition to see the estates secured to his own bloodline is not stronger than his need to try to control my mother. He can’t accept that he never could do that and he never will. And he can’t bear to think my allowance from the estate might be circumventing his control over her.”

  “He hates her that much?”

  “He hates her as much as he loves her.” Rex laughed, and even to his own ears, it had a bitter tinge. “I think if she ever expressed the desire to come back to him, he’d let her. But, of course, he’d also make her pay for it. Love, Clara, can be a terrible thing. Which is why I’ve so little use for it.”

  “I do see your point of view a little better now, I suppose. But, still, as terrible as it can be, love can also be beautiful, surely? If it’s true?”

  “Perhaps—that is, if true love exists at all, which my cynical heart is inclined to doubt. I think romantic love is a bit like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.”

  “A mirage, you mean?”

  “Yes. Sorry if that disappoints you.” He tilted his head, giving her a curious look. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I do it?”

  “Why you give your mother money? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? The family—both sides, mind you—think I ought to have told her to go to the devil. And that I was a fool for risking my father’s wrath for her.”

  “I don’t think you’re a fool. You obviously love your mother.”

  He smiled, raising his glass. “That’s what makes me a fool.”

  She shook her head. “No, Rex, it doesn’t. You are trying to help her as best you can. It’s . . .” She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “It’s quite noble of you.”

  He choked on his champagne. “Noble?”

  “Yes.” She frowned as he laughed. “Why are you lau
ghing?”

  “Clara, in over three decades of life, no one who knows me has ever deemed me noble.”

  Her frown cleared, and her smile came back. “Now who’s hiding their lights under a bushel?” she asked and swallowed the last of her champagne.

  His amusement vanished, for in her face, he saw something he’d never seen there before, something that shouldn’t be there. He saw a hint of admiration. “If you knew what I’ve been thinking about you ever since I walked through that door, my sweet lamb, you’d never call me noble.”

  She set aside her glass and slid off the edge of the desk. “And if you knew what I was thinking about you right now,” she said as she turned his chair toward her and leaned over him, “you’d never call me sweet.”

  She kissed him, and the moment her mouth touched his, Rex decided to rid her of any ridiculous notions of his nobility in the best way a rake could do. He broke the kiss long enough to stand up, and then, he wrapped his arms around her and took her mouth again, not with any tenderness or gentle regard for her inexperience, but with all the passion he’d been keeping under such tight, agonizing control.

  From the moment he’d first kissed her on that settee, he’d been able to think of little else but doing it again, of tasting her mouth and unleashing the sweet passion he’d so unexpectedly uncovered that afternoon. Yet now, as her arms came around his neck, he reached up to grasp her wrists, the vague notion in his head that he ought to stop this, that he ought to exercise at least a shred of the nobility she’d attributed to his character.

  But then, her lips parted, he tasted champagne on her mouth, and any thought of stopping crumbled into dust. He deepened the kiss instead, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

  Her response was immediate, her fingers raking through his hair as her mouth opened wider, her tongue meeting his with all the same sweet eagerness she’d displayed during their first kiss. She wasn’t thinking of boundaries or consequences, he knew. She was only drinking in all these sensations still so new to her, and he wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, to give her more.