Page 14 of The Trouble with True Love

“Then what have I done to earn your low opinion?”

The best thing was to deny any such view of his character, but something in Clara resisted giving him a lie that would spare his feelings, even if it was the safest thing to do. “You have quite a scandalous reputation.”

“Yes, so my aunt often reminds me. And people do seem quite inclined to gossip.”

“Gossip?” She raised an eyebrow at his attempt to brush off his wild manner of living. “The newspapers talk about you all the time, Lord Galbraith. And I should know, since my family is in that trade.”

“So, it is your family’s livelihood that has inspired your low opinion of me? Well, I have a low opinion of newspapers, so we’re rather even there.”

That flicked her on the raw, due to his aspersion of her family’s means of earning a living, or his disregard for his own notorious reputation, she couldn’t have said. “Many seem to share my view.”

“I refuse to worry about what other people think of me.”

“You don’t even try to earn their good opinion?”

He grinned, demonstrating the truth of her accusation. “Why try to be good, when being bad has so many rewards? Besides,” he added with a shrug, “most women love a rake.”

That was more true than she liked to imagine. “Clearly, then, I’m not like most women,” she muttered.

“No,” he agreed, and unexpectedly, he pulled her close—closer than decorum allowed—as he lifted their joined hands overhead. “I’m beginning to believe you’re not.”

The implications in that soft reply sent her stomach plummeting, but Clara forced herself to hold his gaze. “You don’t deny what is said of you, then?”

“I am hardly in a position to deny it. I enjoy life, Miss Deverill, and I fail to see why I should be condemned for that.”

“In other words, you want people to think well of you whilst you do whatever you please?”

She rather hoped her words would sting, but he only laughed, shaking back his unruly hair and causing the tawny strands to glint in the light of the chandeliers overhead. “I suppose I do, yes.”

She thought of him in the tea shop, conspiring to help his friend do that very thing at an unknowing woman’s expense, and she couldn’t suppress a sound of derision. “Men and their cake,” she muttered.

The steps again separated them, and Clara decided that since he seemed determined to have conversation for the entire dance, the best thing was to turn to innocuous topics, but when they came together again, he gave her no opportunity.

“I take it,” he said, picking up her hand and the thread of their earlier conversation, “you believe all men just want to have our cake and eat it, too?”

“Notallmen.”

He laughed softly as he lifted their joined hands overhead. “Well, well,” he murmured, “with every look and every word, the little lamb with the big brown eyes proves she’s not as defenseless as she first appears.”

Clara felt a spark of frustration. She might be plain, with a shy and quiet disposition, but she was not some sort of helpless, dependent creature.

“Is that what I am?” she asked as they turned in a circle, moving in the steps of the dance. “A little lamb?” She opened her eyes deliberately wide. “And I’m lost in the woods, I suppose, and you’ll come save me?”

“Save you? I doubt it.” His gaze lowered, pausing at her lips. “Ravish you would be a sight more likely.”

Clara’s heart gave a panicked thud, slamming into her ribs with such force that it broke her concentration. She trod on his foot, lost her balance, and would have stumbled, but he caught her, letting go of her hand to wrap his arm around her back. Above their heads, his fingers tightened over hers to keep them both in the pose as she found her feet again.

“Careful,” he cautioned. “Dance with me much longer and I fear you’ll be in danger.” With that, his arm slid away, his hand freed hers, and he was gone.

The change to other partners was a welcome respite, but as she moved through the steps, the imprint of his arm was like a steel band against her back, and his words were echoing in her ears more loudly than the music.

Ravish you would be a sight more likely.

Heavens, no man had ever expressed the desire toravishher before. What a pity, she thought, aggrieved, that the first one who did was a man she didn’t even like.

But was it such a pity? He was so good-looking that it almost hurt to look at him, and had she liked him, had she cared about earning his good opinion, she’d probably have been too tongue-tied to ever hold a word of conversation with him. With this man, however, it was different. Despite his looks, his true character was clear, and since she didn’t care a jot what he thought of her, she had a certain degree of power over the situation that she otherwise wouldn’t have possessed. No wonder she was being so uncharacteristically forthright this evening. Why shouldn’t she be? With him, she could say anything, and what did it matter?

“You warn me, Lord Galbraith,” she said as they came together again and clasped hands. “But I cannot help wondering why. Is it the steps of the dance I should fear?” she asked, emboldened in a way she’d never been before. “Or you?”

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