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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Keeping one arm tight around her waist, he slid his free hand up along her ribs. Through her shirtwaist, he could feel the rigid whalebone stays of her corset, a barrier and a reminder, but he moved his hand higher, embracing her breast through her clothes.

  She gasped, turning her head away to break the kiss even as the rest of her body pressed closer. “It’s all right,” he murmured, his palm cupping her through the rigid corset, his other arm tight around her waist as he trailed kisses from her cheek to her ear. “It’s all right.”

  Her skin was like velvet, her hair held the sweet scent of orange blossoms, and her breathing was shallow and quick against his neck. When he pressed his lips to the side of her throat, he could feel tendons there quiver beneath the caress of his mouth. When he moved higher, pulling the lobe of her ear into his mouth, she moaned. Her hips stirred against him, sending fissures of pleasure through his body, pleasure so intense, it almost knocked him off his feet.

  He pulled back, sliding both hands to her waist. She was so slim, so delicate, that his hands encircled her waist completely as he lifted her on to the desk.

  He reached up to the thin bow of ribbon at her throat, yanking it free, then he began unbuttoning her shirtwaist.

  “Rex?” Her hand encircled his wrist, and he stopped. Hands at her collar, he made himself to look into her face. He couldn’t see into her eyes, worse luck, for her gaze was lowered, her lashes tilted down.

  Not yet, he thought, desperate. God, Clara, not yet.

  “Not yet, then,” she whispered, and only then did he realize he’d uttered his agonized plea out loud. But he wasn’t going to let a trivial thing like his pride get in the way now, and when her hand slid away, he worked his way down, unfastening buttons as fast as he could.

  When he reached the waistband of her skirt, he paused to take a deep breath and remind himself there would come a point soon when he would have to stop. Praying that when that moment came, it wouldn’t annihilate him completely, he pulled the edges of her shirtwaist apart. As it opened, revealing the muslin and lace of her sweet, white undergarments and the delicate pink flush of arousal on her pale skin, his own arousal deepened and spread.

  He leaned closer, and the soft, pristine scent of talc mingled with the orange-blossom scent of her hair, flaring arousal into lust, making him dizzy. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, and she stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath at the sensation.

  Her hands came up to cradle his head, pulling him closer as he trailed kisses along her collarbone to her shoulder, then he buried his face against the warm skin of her throat, and lifted his hand to once again embrace her small, round breast.

  He wished he could unlace her, but removing that barrier, he feared, would break his already shaky willpower utterly apart, so he was forced to be content with shaping her through the rigid confines of her corset. He pressed a kiss to the soft white crest of her breast above the edge of her undergarments, and she moaned in response, her body stirring in agitation.

  Gently, still kissing the talc-scented skin above her breasts, he grasped folds of her skirt in his free hand and began pulling the soft, thin wool upward, working to get his hand beneath the layers of skirt and petticoats.

  She made a faint, maidenly sound of what might have been protest, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Rex went still, waiting, expecting her to push him back, but when she didn’t, he resumed, shaping her thigh through her drawers as he slid his hand upward.

  He was rock-hard now, aching with weeks of pent-up lust, but oddly enough, he didn’t mind that now, for he was driven by a far greater need: the need to pleasure her. He wanted her to know just what the culmination of passion felt like, the release and the exquisite bliss that followed it.

  Kissing her all along the curve of her neck and shoulder, he shoved folds of her skirt upward, then slowly eased her backward onto the desk, moving to lay beside her as he slid his hand up a few more inches and eased it between her thighs.

  She stirred again, but he wanted to deprive her of any ability to call a halt, and he turned his hand, cupping her mound through her drawers. Her hips jerked sharply, and she gave a soft cry of surprise.

  He kissed her, hard, catching her cry in his mouth. His hand moved between her legs, using the friction of his caress against the damp fabric to arouse her further, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, and he eased his fingers inside the slit of her drawers.

  She was wet, ready, and as he caressed the crease of her sex, he relished the soft, desperate panting sounds of need she made. She was nearing climax, he knew, and he used his voice to inflame her further.

  “That’s it, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You’re close, so close. Let it happen.”

  As he spoke, her hips began pumping faster, moving against his hand in awkward, frantic jerks as she strove toward the peak, and when she came, he felt the sweetest pleasure he’d ever felt in his life.

  She collapsed back against the desk, panting. He waited until the last waves of her orgasm had subsided before he pulled away, easing his hand from under her skirts. He was aware of the painful, aching need in his own body, and he knew he had to leave now, while he still could, but when she opened her eyes and smiled at him, her eyes filled with wonder, he knew he couldn’t stay here one more minute without crossing the Rubicon.

  He moved at once, rolling away and sliding off the desk. “I’ve got to go.”

  Even as he said it, he was aware of all the times he’d said those exact same words to women before, of all the times he’d rushed to dress and raced for the door. This time, his reasons for dashing off were totally different—rather the opposite, in fact. The irony of that was not lost on him.

  “It’s terribly late,” he felt it necessary to point out as he reached for his jacket and slipped it on. “And you need sleep. Try to get some, all right?”

  “You, too.”

  He laughed, a caustic sound in the quiet room.

  “You always laugh at things I say when I’m not trying to be funny,” she accused, sitting up.

  “Sorry,” he said and bent to retrieve his hat from where it had been pushed off the desk, a move that exacerbated the pain of his unrequited lust. “But somehow, I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.”

  He turned away without looking at her. “Good night, Clara.”

  He could feel her gaze on his back as he departed, but he kept walking, vanishing from view into the corridor. As he traversed the short distance from her office to the outer one of the newspaper, he realized he hadn’t even kissed her good-night.

  He stopped. Any woman deserved at least that much, Clara especially.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back, not even to offer her such a simple consideration. Anarchy was inside him, and if he went back, her virtue would be utterly lost before any good-night kiss.

  “Lock the door after I’m gone,” he called back over his shoulder, “and from now on, if you’re going to work late, then keep it locked. If you don’t, any scoundrel could walk in. God knows, I’m living proof.”

  With that, he left the newspaper office, but even then, he did not depart. Instead, he crossed Belford Row, where he paused in the doorway of a darkened building, and waited in the shadows, watching the lit windows across the street. With his body in agony, it seemed an eternity before she came into view, but it was only after he had seen her lock the door, draw the blinds, and put out the lights that Rex turned away and started up the street to find a taxi.

  Chapter 16

  It must have been the champagne.

  Clara didn’t know how else to account for what had just happened. The passionate kiss she and Rex had shared in the drawing room upstairs had been sweet and exciting and so, so lovely, but that kiss was not anything like what he had had done to her tonight. His searing touch, her own rising tension and hungry, aching need, and then . . . waves of pleasure, shattering her again and again, like nothing she had ever felt before, or could ever have even imagined. It had all been
wickedly shameful, and yet, she’d felt no shame. Even her usual shyness had been burned away by his hot caresses, and long after he was gone, she couldn’t summon so much as a speck of maidenly modesty.

  No, the only thing she felt was a euphoric happiness that didn’t disperse even after she’d disposed of the empty champagne bottle in the rubbish bin out back and washed the glasses and returned them to the china cupboard. As she went upstairs, undressed, and got into bed, she felt gloriously wide awake, and she was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  In that, however, she was wrong, for she fell asleep almost at once, and when she woke the next morning, her theory about the champagne seemed the most logical explanation for her wanton behavior the night before. And whenever she thought of Rex’s scorching caress, euphoric joy rose inside her like champagne bubbles, a fact that made her meeting with Mr. Shaw even more difficult. Every time she presented one of Rex’s drawings, she was reminded of what had occurred, and though she did her best to present a brisk and businesslike demeanor, an occasional euphoric giggle did slip into her presentation.

  Still, old Mr. Shaw was favorably impressed by what she had to say, and by Hazel’s plan and Rex’s sketches, so much so that the old devil not only approved the entire advertising plan, but also commissioned an additional series of advertisements for the new cold remedy that would run throughout the winter. This happy conclusion filled Clara with a sense of triumph and satisfaction she’d never experienced before, For the first time, she truly appreciated just why Irene had been so passionately involved with the newspaper.

  Clara had no opportunity to tell Rex about today’s success, however, or thank him for the enormous part his drawing talents had played in achieving it, for that afternoon, she learned that he had left town, a piece of news that turned her bubbly euphoria as flat as day-old champagne.

  The bearers of this information were Hetty and Lady Petunia, who came to call on her at the newspaper office, and though Clara tried not to show any feelings about his departure one way or the other, she knew at once she hadn’t quite succeeded.

  “There, Auntie Pet,” Hetty said only seconds after imparting the news, “I told you she’d be as disappointed about this as we are.”

  “You are mistaken,” Clara rushed to reply, working to wipe any trace of emotion off her face, even as she wondered if last night’s episode had driven him away. “I’m not disappointed.”

  That was not only a flagrant lie, it was also a rude thing to say. “Forgive me,” she added at once, grimacing. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s only that I’ve been so hard at work, you see. We lost our editor, and then our advertising artist had to go to nurse a sick relative, and of course, with my sister away on honeymoon—” She stopped, appreciating that she was rambling. “It’s just that I shan’t have much time to see anyone for the time being, and it does no good to be disappointed about it.”

  “But Rex going away is a disappointment?” Hetty asked. “Oh, Clara, do say it is! You must like him, at least a little.”

  Thankfully, Lady Petunia intervened before Clara could reply. “Henrietta, that will be enough. You mustn’t press Clara and invade her privacy this way.”

  “Sorry,” Hetty said at once. “Forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” Clara replied, striving for something innocuous to say. “And yes, I do like your cousin. We have become friends, you see.” Even as she spoke, she thought of last night, of how she’d leaned down and kissed him, and of the sensations his caress had evoked in her, and she feared she was beginning to like Rex in a way that had nothing to do with friendship.

  “Friends, hmm?”

  Hetty’s amused, teasing voice lurched her out of her contemplations, and Clara realized something in her face must have given her away.

  “Henrietta, stop this at once,” Lady Petunia said, her voice a sharp rebuke. “Clara is not required to confide anything to us, and why should she, given your relentless teasing? If you keep on this way, she’ll never agree to come to our house party.”

  “House party?” The other woman frowned a little, turning to look at her great-aunt.

  “My dear girl, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our Friday-to-Monday six days hence?”

  There was a moment of silence, then Hetty gave an exclamation. “Right, of course! You mean the weekend party.”

  “It’s a Friday-to-Monday,” Petunia said with a sniff, “and that’s a house party, regardless of what you young people call such things nowadays.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” Hetty said. “I just hadn’t realized it was so close. My, how time flies in the season.”

  “That’s just why a Friday-to-Monday is so perfect for July.” Petunia turned to Clara. “I am chaperone to Henrietta, as you know, as well as to her younger sister, May, and because May is just out this year, it’s been an especially busy time. But I’m getting on in years, you know, and the season is becoming so frantic, I will soon need a rest, or I fear I won’t be able to continue. So, after May has been presented at court, we shall be having a little Friday-to-Monday at Lisle. That’s the home of my nephew, Sir Albert—Henrietta’s father, you know. We should dearly love to have you join us, my dear. And the duke’s family, of course.”

  “Lisle’s a lovely place,” Hetty put in, “even if I do say it myself. Do say you’ll come, for I should very much like to show it to you.”

  “I’d like to come,” Clara assured her. “But as I said, things are very busy here. I’m not sure I can afford to be away.”

  “It’s in Kent, down toward Dover,” Hetty said. “And that’s a very short journey, with trains running multiple times a day. If anything untoward were to arise, you could be home within a few hours. And if you’ve been working as hard as you say, you’ll surely need a good rest by then. Not that we’ll rest much if the weather’s fine, for there will be croquet, and tennis, and perhaps some punting on the stream. We may even go to Dover and picnic on the cliffs overlooking the sea.”

  “That would be lovely, for I’ve never been to Dover. But—”

  “There, then, it’s decided,” Hetty cried. “I don’t want to hear any buts, Clara. It’ll be great fun, I promise, and though there will be plenty of new people for you to meet, you needn’t fear you won’t know anyone. Rex is there already, along with my brother, Paul, who you met at the picnic.”

  As she remembered, Hetty’s brother Paul was very nice, and the idea of meeting new people didn’t intimidate her nearly as much now as it would have done just a couple of months ago, but it was the mention of Rex that caused Clara to capitulate. “Very well, then,” she said, and the moment those words were out of her mouth, all her earlier euphoria came rushing back. “If the duke’s sisters are free to accompany me, I should be delighted to come to Lisle.”

  There was nothing like the country if a man wanted to regain his sanity. A long, hard ride across the downs on horseback every morning, followed by a hike through the woods or along the cliffs after luncheon, and a few vigorous sets of tennis with his cousin Paul in the late afternoon all helped Rex put himself to rights. The tennis, he found, was especially effective, for not only was his cousin as fiercely competitive as he and almost as skilled a player, Paul was also a full decade younger, which meant that although sometimes Rex won and sometimes he lost, he never failed to be thoroughly done in afterward. And if thoughts of Clara fired his blood at night and prevented him from sleeping, a few dozen laps in the pond were sufficient to cool his blood.

  After half a dozen days of vigorous exercise, and nights of tumbling into bed exhausted, Clara Deverill at last stopped bedeviling his mind and body. The feel of her, so warm and sweet, became a memory rather than a torture. The sound of her soft cries of release stopped invading his dreams, meaning that he no longer woke up hard and aching in the middle of the night. By the afternoon of the house party, he felt he was at last himself again.

  He and Paul were on the court when Hetty, May, and Auntie Pet, the only members of the family not
already at Lisle, arrived from the station. Tea had been laid out on the south lawn near the tennis court, and some of the guests were already partaking as Uncle Albert’s carriage pulled into the drive, but it wasn’t until the vehicle stopped nearby and Hetty called a greeting to them that Rex noticed another vehicle coming around the south lawn. More guests, he supposed.

  “Everyone seems to be here at last,” Paul called to him, returning Rex’s attention to the game. “Do you want to stop for tea?”

  “Tea?” Rex shook his head, laughing. “Now, when I’m a hair’s breadth from winning this match? Not a chance.”

  “Hair’s breadth?” Paul echoed, making a sound of derision as he prepared to serve. “That’s rich.”

  The ball rose high in the air, then Paul’s serve sent it flying across the court to a tricky corner. Rex’s backhand, as deadly a weapon as his cousin’s wicked serve, sent the ball flying back across the net, but then, Rex thought he heard Hetty call Clara’s name.

  Startled, he glanced sideways and found all his worst fears confirmed by the sight of Clara’s slim figure alighting from the second carriage, and his concentration shattered to bits. He heard the thwack of Paul’s racquet against the tennis ball, but still looking at Clara, it took him a millisecond too long to respond, and by the time he dove for the ball, he was already too late. He missed it entirely, his body went stumbling forward, carried by sheer momentum.

  He landed hard, his shoulder and hip slamming down on the turf of the tennis court less than ten feet from the very woman he’d been trying for nearly a week to forget, his gaze riveted to a view of Clara’s dainty, leather-clad toes and lace petticoats peeking out from beneath the pleated hem of a blue traveling skirt.

  Christ, almighty.

  He turned away from that delectable vision at once, grimacing in pain and aggravation as he rolled onto his back, Paul’s merry laughter ringing in his ears.

  What the hell, he wondered, staring up at the sky, had he done to deserve this?