Page 22 of The Trouble with True Love

“Oh?” Clara swallowed hard, stalling for time as her mind raced to find a way out of this mess. “What theory is that?”

“That I had been played for a fool.” He looked up, his eyes glittering like aquamarines. “He concluded that you and I were acquainted—so well acquainted, in fact, that I had betrayed his confidences to you. And that you, in your role as the publisher of Lady Truelove, had passed on these confidences to your columnist, who then used them as inspiration.”

Clara seized on that contention at once, feeling a faint hint of relief. If he could be persuaded that his friend was right, that she had merely overheard and passed on the information, perhaps it could all end here and Lady Truelove’s identity could remain a secret.

“Lionel,” he went on before she could speak, “did not take kindly to what he perceived as my betrayal of his confidence.” His free hand lifted, gesturing to his own face. “As you can see from the state of my appearance.”

Despite the awful situation, Clara’s lips twitched a little. “Your friend is the one who hit you in the face?”

“He did.” Galbraith shoved the cutting back into his breast pocket. “I’m gratified you find that fact amusing.”

She pressed any hint of a smile from her lips at once. Laughing at his expense would hardly help her cause. “Lord Galbraith,” she began, but he cut her off.

“I knew Lionel was a bit out in his assumptions, of course, for I hadn’t told you anything, and that’s when I realized why your face was familiar. You were in the tea shop that day in Holborn. You were the girl at the next table. You eavesdropped on our conversation, ourprivateconversation, and used it as newspaper fodder. Do you deny it?” he asked when she did not reply.

“Would there be any point?” she asked, spreading her hands in a gesture of capitulation. “I doubt you would be convinced of any denial I might make.”

“I don’t often read the papers, it’s true. God knows, I’ve no use for them, but in making inquiries of friends today, I have learned that Lady Truelove’s identity is a closely guarded secret. It is also, from what I gather, a matter of intense speculation, and one of the main reasons the column is so popular. What would happen, do you suppose, if people discovered who Lady Truelove really is?”

Clara’s heart sank, but she tried to rally. “You don’t know who Lady Truelove is. You don’t know to whom I may have passed on the information I overheard.”

“On the contrary, I know exactly. It wasn’t necessary for you to pass on the information to Lady Truelove, because youareLady Truelove.”

She forced a laugh. “And what is the basis for this absurd conclusion?”

He smiled grimly. “Your eyes, Miss Deverill. Your big, expressive brown eyes.”

Clara didn’t know what she’d been expecting him to say, but that wasn’t it. She stared, unable to fathom what he was talking about. “What do my eyes have to do with anything?”

“You noted the other night that I have a notorious reputation. How do you suppose I acquired it?” He leaned over the desk, coming close enough that she could see the gilded tips of his lashes and the dark blue ring around each of his irises, close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood shaving lotion. “I acquired it because I know a great deal about women.”

“Obviously,” she snapped, her tension fraying. “But I don’t see—”

“When we danced, I discovered that my reputation had preceded me, and in a most unfavorable way, for you made it quite clear I cut no ice with you. It was not only in your words, it was in your eyes, narrowed on me so disapprovingly when I shrugged off the things that have been said about me. I didn’t take your disapproval of me seriously—in fact, I found it rather refreshing. Most women are quite happy to overlook my peccadilloes and forgive me for them.”

“What a nauseating fact about my sex,” she ground out. “But I’m gratified you found me such a novelty.”

He ignored the biting sarcasm of her latter remark. “When I was with Lionel, and he was expounding his theory about how my exact words had managed to appear in your paper, a picture formed in my mind. I saw the same narrowed eyes, the same disapproving look, of the girl I’d just been dancing with, only the setting was different. In my mind, I saw an image of those eyes peeking at me from the other side of some potted palm trees, and I realized just why you seemed so familiar.”

“I still don’t see how you can possibly conclude—”

“You were feeling more on that day than disapproval, weren’t you, Miss Deverill? You were angry. The conversation you overheard had outraged your maidenly sensibilities.”

“All right, yes, I was angry. Upon discovering how cavalierly your friend—and you—treat women, anyone would be angry. For a gentleman, you seem to have a quite a flexible moral code.”

For some reason, that description made him smile, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You might be surprised if you knew the vast number of people who find morality a flexible concept.”

She didn’t want to think about how true that might be. “Well, I don’t.”

“Quite so. And your moral outrage spurred you to write what you did?”

“I already told you—”

“You did it purely out of spite,” he interrupted. “You wanted to pay us out. You wanted to get revenge for what you perceived as a slight upon your sex—”

“I didn’t write it for spite or revenge!” she shot back, exasperated beyond bearing, beyond caution. “I wrote it to warn an innocent woman that she was being taken advantage of in the worst possible way by a deceiving scoundrel!”

The admission made her want to bite her tongue off, especially when she saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, her frustration deepening into outrage, at him for trapping her, and even more at herself for falling into that trap. “You are a devil.”

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