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

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Do you really need to ask? Dina was not an innocent woman and Lionel did not ruin her. I, however, did ruin you, despite all my efforts not to. I tried to stay away from you. God knows, I tried.” Unexpectedly, he gave a laugh, and the harshness of it made her wince. “I failed, as the events of last night so aptly demonstrated.”

  She felt cold, suddenly, all her joy in their night together fading. “So, what you are saying is that you wanted me against your will, fought it as long as you could, but having failed and succumbed to your passion for me, you now feel honor bound to offer me marriage, even though you don’t really want to make a life with me, or any woman. Do I have it right?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned away. She’d heard enough.

  He wouldn’t let her go. “Let’s get this clear,” he said, stepping in front of her. “When I came to you last night, I knew just what I was doing, and what the consequence would be. It was a choice, Clara, one I did not make against my will. It was a free, conscious choice. I wanted you, and I accepted that marrying you was the price I would have to pay to have you.”

  “Price?” she echoed in disbelief. “There is no price, Rex. A life with me is not something that can be bought.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You made a choice for yourself.”

  He stirred, looking away. “You could have told me to go. You didn’t. You let me stay. You made a choice as well.”

  “I am not disputing that, but you assume that our choice was the same one. It was not. Do you remember,” she went on before he could reply, “what I said that afternoon in the drawing room of my father’s house? When I told you what I wanted for my life?”

  “I do, yes. Believe me when I say I have not failed to take that into consideration.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You want honorable marriage, which I am offering, though a bit late in the day, I grant you. You also want children.” His gaze lowered, then lifted. “A desire that might already be in the process of being fulfilled. Have you thought of that?”

  She hadn’t, heaven help her, not until this moment. And Irene had explained the facts of life to her so painstakingly when the vicar had come courting. A lot of good it had done her.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, seized by a sudden jolt of panic.

  Rex grasped her arms as if perceiving her suddenly wobbly knees. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice savage. “There’ll be no shame for you. No ruin. I swear it. We’ll be married straightaway, and no one will know. We’ll live at Braebourne, of course. Don’t worry,” he added, his voice gentling. “It’s a big house, enormous, wings sticking out every which way, plenty of room for a dozen children. It has dogs, horses, apple orchards. It’s in the Cotswolds—Gloucestershire, to be exact. Our village is Stow-on-the-Wold. Very picturesque. Lots of thatched cottages, rambling roses, and bilberries everywhere in summer.”

  She felt the appeal of what he described. How could she not? “It sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted,” she whispered and felt an absurd desire to burst into tears. “But it doesn’t have the one thing that matters, does it, Rex? You want me, you are willing to marry me, but—” She took a breath, looked into his stunning blue eyes, and made herself to say it. “But you are not in love with me. Are you?”

  His lips pressed together. He stared back at her, his face showing regret for what he did not feel and probably never would. The silence seemed endless. “No,” he said at last, a simple reply, brutal in its honesty.

  Again, she tried to turn away, but he would not release her. “Clara, I realize this is not the most romantic situation, and I’m sorry for that. You talk about love, but I honestly do not know what you mean by the word. Infatuation? Passion? Companionable friendship and affection? What sort of love is true and lasting, and what love is not? How does one know the difference? As I’ve said, I desire you. I think very highly of you—”

  “Very highly,” she echoed dismally. “Goodness. That’s almost as romantic as celestial marriage.”

  “Well, I’m not offering that, just so you know.”

  How absurd, she thought. For the second time in her life a man was proposing marriage to her, the first because he didn’t desire her at all, and the second because he desired her too much. But neither had offered marriage out of love for her. She had a penchant, it seemed, for men incapable of loving her.

  “Well, there we are, then,” she whispered, sagging in his hold. “You do not love me. And—” She stopped, unable to say she did not love him. She couldn’t say it, for it would be, she realized, a lie. She did love him. She’d been falling in love him all along, bit by bit, starting that very first moment she’d seen him in the tea shop.

  How mortifying to know she was such a fool.

  Pride came to her rescue, enabling her to say something. “And that means you will marry me, not out of that love, but out of obligation.” Pain pierced her chest at the word, her heart cracking wide open, breaking right there in front of him. “An obligation inevitably becomes a burden. I will be no man’s burden.”

  “And the child, Clara? What will the child be if you refuse me?”

  She flinched, drawing back as far as his hold would allow, desperate for space and time to think. “We don’t even know if there will be a baby.”

  His gaze was steady, impenetrable, and as cool as ocean waters. “And if there is, it will be my bastard, if you do not let me do right by you.”

  “I’ll decide what to do about that when it happens, if it happens, which it probably won’t.”

  He shook his head in adamant refusal. “The longer we wait, the more risk of scandal. I have no intention of compounding the wrong I’ve done you by risking your reputation.”

  “And I have no intention of making an irrevocable decision because you insist upon it. My answer is no. I will not marry you.”

  “And if there is a child? Will no still be your answer then?”

  She didn’t reply, and she could feel panic setting in again, not the panic of an illegitimate child, of giving it up or raising it alone, or of her own possible ruin. If she stood here much longer, she would waver in her decision. She might even relent, and then, she would be trapped. She could see her future with him, a future that was secure and safe and bleak. She could see herself years from now, still in love with a man who did not love her, a man who’d had more women than he could count and had never loved any of them, who could very well not be capable of love at all and who might not even manage to be faithful. She would want him to love her and only her, she would hope for it, yearn for it, and if he could not give his heart and be a true husband to her, it would destroy her.

  She looked at him, knowing he was still waiting for an answer to his question. “I refuse to worry about things that haven’t happened,” she said, and jerked hard, wrenching free of his hold. She ducked around him, fighting back tears as she walked away.

  “This isn’t over, Clara,” he called to her.

  Yes, it is.

  She did not say it out loud, and she did not look back, and as her heart broke into pieces, her only consolation was her absolute certainty that refusing him was the right thing to do. Whatever it cost her, giving him her heart was not worth the price of her soul.

  Chapter 19

  Clara sat in a compartment train carriage, staring out the window at the fields and hedgerows of Kent, watching as they gave way to the coal-dusted streets and sidewalks of London. Her companions all had books, but she feared they were only pretending to read, for whenever she chanced to glance at them, their gazes were on her. When caught watching, they always returned their attention to their reading, but not before Clara saw the bewilderment in their eyes.

  Carlotta, not usually the most understanding of women, had displayed a surprisingly tender regard for her well-being upon learning she had rejected Galbraith’s proposal. She had offered no lectures and asked no questions. Leaving Clara with her maid to pack, she had gone at once to inform their
hosts and her sisters-in-law that a matter of urgency had arisen for Clara that required them to return to London immediately, and she had made all the arrangements for their departure from Lisle.

  Carlotta must also have instructed Sarah and Angela to ask Clara no questions, for as the late afternoon train carried them back to London, no one spoke. Even the usually lively Angela was silent. None of them pressed for details, and Clara was relieved, for what could she say?

  Lord Galbraith proposed, but only out of a sense of obligation. I laid with him last night, you see, so he feels he must do the gentlemanly thing and offer me marriage. I love him, but he doesn’t love me, so I refused him. My virtue is lost, I may be pregnant, and now that I have rejected him, what will become of me?

  All of that sat like dead weight inside her, pressing on her heart and laying like a stone in her belly. Fear whispered in her ear, reminding her of what happened to unmarried women who did what she’d done, of what the children of such liaisons were called.

  It will be my bastard.

  Even now, Rex’s words made her flinch. Even now, she did not know what she would do if and when the worst happened. Now, in the cold light of day, she wondered what had possessed her last evening and how she could have forgotten all of Irene’s explanations and warnings. And she wondered, after everything she knew about him, after everything he had told her and everything she had told herself, how she could ever have let herself fall in love with him.

  But love, she was beginning to see, was a choice of the heart. Common sense and reason played little part, or if they did, hers had both taken quite a holiday.

  Looking back on everything that had happened these past two months, she realized that falling in love with him was something she’d feared all along.

  From the beginning, she’d sensed he had the power to steal her heart, and that if he ever succeeded, her heart would be returned to her in pieces. Her reasoning mind had tried to protect her with disapproval of his profligate living, questions about his morality, and reminders of all his flaws, but from that first moment in the tea shop, her soul had not cared about any of that. Her soul had only known this man could make her feel beautiful and desirable, and unmoved by the cautions of her reasoning mind, her soul had insisted on turning toward him again and again, the way a plant in a window turned continually toward the sun, heedless of fate and uncaring of consequences.

  That unknowing, unreasoning instinct, she appreciated now, was why she’d asked him to be Lady Truelove—she’d known somehow that he would teach her things about herself no one else could. It was why she’d agreed to his sham courtship—because she’d sensed it might be the only true romance she ever had, and her heart had not wanted it to pass her by. It was why she’d managed to ignore all her own high-minded principles about virtue and marriage and had lain with him, sacrificing all the dreams she’d ever had for her future. And it was why, though she might be ruined forever, she felt no shame and no regret. Deep down in the dark, secret recesses of her soul, she’d wanted this, every beautiful, shining, heartbreaking moment of it.

  You’re lovely. Even more lovely than I’d imagined.

  Shame and regret, she supposed with a newfound cynicism, might come later, when his awestruck voice and tender words and scorching caresses had receded from her memory. And if the worst did happen, an illegitimate baby would probably be quite effective at snuffing out any yearning for romance that might still be lingering within her.

  The train slowed, coming into Victoria Station, and Clara shoved aside grim speculations about the future. If there was a baby, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  A smile touched her lips. In the midst of the worst crisis of her life, and yet, she was still such a procrastinator.

  Carlotta must have telegraphed ahead to Upper Brook Street, because the duke’s carriage and a dog cart were waiting for them at Victoria. At Carlotta’s direction, porters separated Clara’s trunks from the others, strapped hers to the carriage boot, and piled all the remaining luggage on the dog cart. Twenty minutes later, the duke’s dog cart and its driver were halfway to the West End, and his other driver and footman were carrying Clara’s trunks into the house at Belford Row and she was bidding farewell to her sisters-in-law.

  “We shall see you for dinner soon, I trust?” Angela’s arms wrapped her in a hug, then she pulled back and looked into Clara’s face. “I shan’t ask any questions, but I hope you feel you can confide in me—in any of us—if you need to.”

  “Of course.” Clara smiled, gave her friend a reassuring pat on the back, and decided it was best to leave things like that for the present. A few minutes later, the duke’s carriage was off again, and Clara was taking off her traveling cloak, hat, and gloves in the foyer and handing them over to her maid.

  “Have everything taken to my room, Forrester,” she instructed. “I’ll see Papa, inform him I’m home, and then—”

  “Clara!”

  That familiar voice brought a burst of happy surprise, lightening her heavy heart, and she turned to find her sister running up the corridor from the newspaper office, arms outstretched.

  “Irene?” She laughed, stretching out her own arms and running to meet her beloved sister halfway. “You’re home again!”

  “Just an hour ago.” Irene’s affectionate and comforting arms wrapped around her, and suddenly, the powerful emotions that Clara had been keeping at bay all day refused to remain wholly submerged. A sob surged up inside her, cracking her hard-won fortitude, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep it from escaping.

  “Henry’s on his way to Upper Brook Street,” Irene said, still hugging her tight. “But I wanted to see you first, and Papa, so Henry dropped me here and took all our luggage on. But then I discovered you had gone to the country. I was about to leave you a note and depart.”

  Clara worked to regain her composure. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere, if I’d known you were arriving home today,” she said and pulled back, pasting on an expression of mock censure. “You are terrible about writing, dear sister.”

  “Me? What about you? Only two letters from you forwarded to me through Cooks’ these past two months.”

  “I’m not the one who has things to write about,” she lied. “You’re the one gallivanting across the world.”

  “Yes, and when I come home, I find you’ve gone gallivanting off to the country with people I’ve never even met. Speaking of which . . .” Irene paused, frowning. “Why are you here? Annie told me the house party you were attending was supposed to go on through the weekend, and today is only Saturday. Isn’t it?”

  Irene laughed, shaking her head, her frown clearing as she brushed back a lock of golden-blond hair that had tumbled over her forehead. “One tends to lose track of what day it is after four months of traveling, and—”

  She broke off, all the laughter dying out of her expression, and Clara knew something in her own face must have given her away.

  “Clara?” Irene put a hand on her arm and cupped her cheek, her hazel eyes filled at once with protective, sisterly concern. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Heartbreak, fear, panic all welled up, blurring her sister’s beloved face, but she blinked back tears and tried to smile. “I’ve fallen in love.”

  The rule that Irene and Clara had established not to partake of alcohol in their father’s house was broken that night, and Clara was able to add the drinking of brandy to her ever-growing list of life experiences.

  Across her desk in the privacy and quiet of the newspaper office, over a snifter of brandy, she told her sister everything about her transformation from wallflower to belle of the ball to fallen woman, and all things considered, Irene took the entire narrative rather well, at least after she calmed down and promised not to shoot Lord Galbraith with a pistol. There were no recriminations regarding Clara’s lost virtue, no lectures on why she ought to have accepted his marriage proposal, several faithful pledges not to tell the duke anything about it, only one sobering m
ention of the possible consequences and choices Clara might have to face, and then, at last, Irene asked the vital question.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Perhaps it was the steadying effects of a few sips of brandy, but Clara was able to give her sister a calm and reasoned response.

  “Carry on, of course. What else is there to do?”

  “Carry on with what, though?” Irene asked, her voice gentle. “If the worst happens . . .”

  Clara nodded as Irene’s voice trailed off. “I know. But if there is no baby, or if there is and I give it up, then I shall need an occupation, a distraction, a purpose, and even if I go back into society, I don’t think that alone would be enough to satisfy me now. I think . . .” She paused, took a deep breath and waved a hand to their surroundings. “I think, perhaps . . . the paper.”

  “The Weekly Gazette?” Irene stared at her as if she’d grown a second head, and no wonder, for in the past, Clara had never expressed a fraction of her sister’s passion for the family business. “You want to run the paper with me?”

  “Well, Jonathan’s not going to do it,” she reminded. “Not now.”

  “As long as there’s silver in that mine of his, I expect you’re right. But when did you become so interested in running the newspaper?”

  Clara began to laugh. “Well, I didn’t have much choice after I sacked your Mr. Beale.”

  “What? You sacked him? Why? Was he awful?”

  “You have no idea.” Clara explained how firing the editor had come about, and she didn’t mince words regarding her opinion of the man or how difficult it had been to work with him.

  “Heavens,” Irene said when she’d finished, shaking her head, looking even more confounded than before. “I had no idea when I interviewed him that he was anything like what you describe. He was so highly recommended, and seemed to radiate competence. And I certainly never would have hired him if I’d known his opinion about working for a woman! Although . . .” She broke off, frowning a little. “Now that I think about it, he did ask several times about Jonathan. He must have wanted to be absolutely sure he’d be reporting to our brother rather than to me, though I can’t believe I didn’t notice his reasons at the time.”