Page 12 of The Trouble with True Love

Cursing Auntie’s devilish matchmaking, he returned his attention to the girl, and the sight of her staring at him in mute agony was all the reminder Rex needed of just why he avoided high society parties.

Chapter 4

It was him. The god of the tea shop, the good-looking rake who charmed women as easily as he dispensed advice on how to deceive them, was standing right in front of her. And he now had a name other than the one she’d given him in her mind. Not Adonis, but Lord Galbraith.

In itself, the discovery of his true identity wasn’t particularly shocking. One didn’t have to be in the newspaper trade to know that Rex Pierpont, Viscount Galbraith, only son of the Earl of Leyland, was one of theton’s most notorious bachelors, well-known not only for his wild ways but also for his disdainful view of marriage. The fact that he would do all he could to assist another man in evading wedlock was not a surprise to Clara at all.

Nonetheless, it had never occurred to her that she might see the Adonis of the tea shop again. Only now, in hindsight, did she appreciate that his fine clothes and conversation should have warned her that an encounter such as this was possible. She could only guess that her own desperation and anger the other day had blinded her to other considerations.

Now, with their introduction hanging in the air, she felt transfixed, as if she’d been turned to a pillar of salt, or transformed into a tree stump, or debilitated by some other equally horrifying impediment. But though her body seemed frozen into immobility, her mind was racing.

Did he know who she was? Did he recognize her as the girl peeking at him between the palm fronds at Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium a few short days ago? She had been sure at the time that he hadn’t noticed her—because, after all, men almost never did—but what if she’d been mistaken?

She scanned his face, looking for any sign of recognition in his countenance. There was none, but that didn’t do much to alleviate her alarm, for she’d seen firsthand this man’s talent for duplicity. If he did recognize her, the fact would only matter if he also read Lady Truelove and if he’d read this afternoon’s edition. In that case, he would surely put two and two together. And that would be disastrous.

The fact that Lady Truelove’s identity was unknown provided a mystique that was a great part of her appeal. People were forever speculating about just which matron of high society was the real Lady Truelove. If Galbraith realized the truth and determined what she’d done, spite could motivate him to reveal her as the famous columnist. If that happened, theWeeklyGazette’s most successful feature would be compromised, perhaps ruined, and it would be her fault. Irene would be devastated by the loss of her most successful creation. She might even be disappointed in Clara for allowing it to happen.

That notion was unbearable, like a knife going into Clara’s chest.

“My aunt tells me your father is a man of business, Miss Deverill,” Galbraith said, forcing her out of these frantic contemplations and forcing her to gather her scattered wits. “Newspapers, I believe?”

Was he toying with her? “Yes,” she answered, a squeak of a word that made her grimace.

He didn’t seem to find such brevity satisfactory. He waited, watching her, his brows lifted as if he expected further elucidation.

“One newspaper,” she went on, striving not to sound like a panicked mouse this time. “TheWeekly Gazette. Do you...” She paused, and gave a cough. “Do you... umm... ever read it?”

His expression became apologetic. “I’m afraid not. I don’t read the papers much.”

“Oh,” she breathed, relief washing over her, easing her apprehensions a little. “That’s good.”

He frowned in puzzlement at this seemingly nonsensical reply, and she rushed on, “I mean, so many men seem to just lounge about in their clubs all day, reading the papers, don’t they? It can’t be healthy.”

Even as she spoke, she appreciated how inane she sounded, and his polite, perfunctory smile confirmed her conclusion even before he replied.

“Quite,” he said.

Silence fell between them. He shifted his weight and glanced around, looking trapped and a bit uncomfortable, a reaction from men with which she was, sadly, quite familiar. But given what she knew of this man, and what she wanted to keep secret from him about herself, she felt none of the awkwardness she usually experienced in such encounters. Now that she could be reasonably sure he had not recognized her, all she wanted was to make some excuse to depart and return to her friends. He spoke, however, before she had the chance.

“My aunt has asked me to open the ball, Miss Deverill.”

Horns sounded from the orchestra as if to herald this pronouncement, and he held out his hand to her. “Will you honor me?”

Clara stared at him, dumbfounded. He was asking her to dance?

Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of charming princes with tawny-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes, men so good-looking it took one’s breath away. As a young girl, she’d waltzed with imaginary partners like him in the privacy of her room, but those girlish imaginings had never materialized into reality, and on the rare occasions when she’d had the opportunity to dance, her partners had usually been young boys, old men, or the husbands of her friends. Now, with her first serious foray into good society, her silly girlhood dreams seemed to be coming true at last, but with an unexpected and ironic twist: her Prince Charming wasn’t a prince at all. He was a cad.

It was so ridiculous that a laugh came bubbling up out of her before she could stop it.

His smile stayed in place, though it may have faltered a bit around his eyes. “Did I say something amusing?”

“No,” she choked, smothering her laughter at once. “I mean, yes, y... you did, obviously... but no... that is, I wasn’t laughing at you. I m... mean... I just... it was only...” Her voice trailed off, and she gave it up. There was no way to explain. And it wasn’t as if he would suffer much from her amusement at his expense, except perhaps a sting to his conceit, which to her mind, was no more than he deserved.

“Was that a yes, or a no?”

His question reminded her she hadn’t yet responded to his invitation, and he seemed of no mind to withdraw it. Hand still outstretched toward her, he continued to wait for her to reply.

She couldn’t think of any man she had less desire to dance with, and she grasped desperately for an excuse. “Oh, I had not... that is, I don’t really—”

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