Page 37 of The Trouble with True Love

“You could simply tell them all to go hang. Your reluctance to do so tells me that you want the money your family provides you, and you also want the freedom to do just as you please.”

“Well, I do like having my cake, I confess,” he said, the very blandness of his voice making her certain he was teasing her.

“Why is money so important?” she asked, refusing to be diverted.

“For one thing, it’s deuced hard to pay rent and buy food without it.”

“It’s also hard to enjoy life’s more frivolous pursuits, such as—how did you put it in the tea shop?—‘wine, women, and song.’”

Her reply bothered him, she could tell, though whether that was due to her reminder of his lifestyle or the consequences of his conversation with his friend, she couldn’t be certain. When he spoke, however, his voice was light and careless.

“It’s the women that take the lion’s share, I’m afraid.” He smiled, but it was one that didn’t reach his eyes. Defiance seethed in their blue depths like the turbulence of a stormy sea, telling her any disapproval she might feel could go straight to perdition. “Women, experience has taught me, are deuced expensive.”

Those words seemed to confirm everything she knew of him, and everything she’d heard, and yet, they rang strangely hollow. As she studied his face, Clara felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of doubt about her own judgement. Was he really as great a rake as she thought him to be?

The moment the question crossed her mind, she wondered how many other women before her had asked themselves the very same thing. How many had longed, however much they knew it was futile, to believe he was a better man than his reputation and his actions painted him? How many had confused wishes with reality? Dozens, she’d wager.

Clara decided it was best to return to the topic at hand. “Do you really expect me to agree to help you manipulate your family?”

He shrugged. “Certain members of my family wish to manipulate me into something I have already made clear I do not want. Is it so wrong of me to exercise a little manipulation of my own? Besides,” he added before she could think of how to answer, “if any manipulation is required, I shall be the one doing it. You, my lamb, are only required to do one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Be nice to me.” He stirred, leaning a fraction closer to her. His gaze lowered to her mouth, and his smile faded away. “Would that be so hard, Clara?”

At the soft murmur of her name, her throat went dry. Her lips parted, but no words came out of her mouth. Under his heated gaze, the alarm she felt whenever shyness tied her tongue seemed ten times worse than usual, pressing against her chest like a weight.

“No harder than having teeth drawn,” she managed at last, but the tartness of her words was utterly spoiled by the breathlessness of her voice.

He laughed softly. “Fair enough,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “I’ll settle for having your polite tolerance. Will you allow me that?”

“I s... s... suppose I can manage that much,” she said. “I sh... shouldn’t like to b... be rude to anyone, not even you.”

“Do we have a bargain?”

She glanced away, her gaze skimming over the people gathered around the table of refreshments nearby. She did not like the idea of helping him encourage an impression for his family that wasn’t authentic, and she wasn’t at all sure that other men would find his attentions to her a spur of encouragement rather than a deterrent. But what other choice did she have? Irene was counting on her, and as Lady Truelove, she was a painfully inadequate substitute for her sister. She could not bear the idea of failing in her assignment and letting Irene down. And though this afternoon Galbraith had told her his threat to reveal Lady Truelove’s identity had been a bluff, she wasn’t altogether sure she could trust him on that score.

“Very well,” she said before she could talk herself out of this. “We have a bargain. I’ll have a footman deliver the latest batch of Lady Truelove’s letters to you first thing in the morning, along with a bank draft of one thousand pounds.”

“Letters?” He gave a laugh, staring at her in disbelief. “You mean real letters from real people?”

“Of course. What?” she added, savoring his surprise. “Did you think we invent them?”

“Something like that, yes,” he confessed, sobering, and she could tell he was appreciating the reality of what he’d just taken on.

“Sorry if you were hoping to spend the next two months writing fiction,” she said, rather relishing his chagrin. “But being Lady Truelove requires you to help actual people resolve genuine problems. As I said, I’ll have the latest correspondence delivered to you in the morning. From those letters, you must choose one, write a response suitable for publication, and deliver it to me by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Two o’clock? That’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t it?”

“I regret the short deadline, but it can’t be helped. You’ll have more time for your future efforts, but the upcoming edition goes to press Saturday night.”

“Today is only Thursday.”

“I require time to contact your chosen correspondent and acquire formal permission to publish their letter. I will also need to make sure your answer is appropriate.”

“I daresay even I can manage to be appropriate when the occasion calls for it,” he said, his voice suspiciously grave.

She frowned. “Don’t be glib about this. The people who write to Lady Truelove will be counting upon you for genuine guidance. I intend to make sure you don’t disappoint them or guide them in a morally improper direction. And I expect you to take this job seriously.”

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