Page 43 of The Trouble with True Love

“‘But what, you are surely asking, do you say once you’ve succeeded in attracting some splendid young man and he is standing in front of you? If you can think of nothing to say about yourself, seek a topic that enables the other person to talk. Being a good listener is always appreciated and far more charming to others than being a skilled conversationalist. Whatever you say, strive to put the other person at ease, and you will soon find that skillful repartee is not necessary. If all else fails, there is nothing wrong with acknowledging your shy nature. The response you receive will often be relief and a similar confession, thus giving you and your new acquaintance something in common to talk about. And remember, if you say something silly or make a mistake, acknowledge it at once and laugh about it.’”

“That’s easy to advise,” she objected, causing him to look up. “But it’s not so easy to do.”

“It’s not easy at all,” he said. “But it’s useful.”

“Is that why you do it?”

He smiled and returned his attention to the pages in his hand. “‘Self-deprecation,’” he read, “‘is not only a disarming quality, dear Debutante, but if you learn to employ it, you will soon discover benefits to yourself. For the ability to laugh at ourselves and our mistakes is incredibly liberating. It frees us from any burden of worry over saying or doing the wrong thing. And that brings me back to my first point, one I cannot stress strongly enough to you. Shy people worry too much.’”

Clara grimaced, for that was a contention she could not refute, at least not about herself.

“‘Convinced every eye in the room is upon them and that everything they do is being judged unfavorably,’” he went on, “‘shy people find it impossible to relax. Their worries are usually unfounded, for other people are far too preoccupied with their own concerns to worry much about anyone else, but shy people, alas, never seem to believe this. Dire predictions of social failure fill their heads, preventing them from attaining the relaxed air so necessary to attract and hold the attention of others, and as a result, shy people spend most of their time at social functions wishing they were anywhere else. This demeanor, though not the true reasons for it, is painfully obvious to others, who react by seeking more ebullient companions. Thus, the shy person’s exaggerated fears become self-fulfilling prophecy, and the shy find little enjoyment in the pleasures and pastimes of society.’”

Clara bit her lip, appreciating that he had just given voice to the pattern of her entire social experience.

“‘Do not shortchange yourself this way, dear Debutante. The quality of your season does not depend on one dance, or one conversation, and the quality of your life does not depend on one season. Strive to set your fears aside. Cast away your expectations, forget the ambitions of your parents, and set aside the goal of seeking someone to marry. In all your engagements, strive only to enjoy yourself. Smile and laugh and savor every moment of your life, and one day, you may find someone at your side who longs to share that life with you.’”

He looked up, lowering the pages, and Clara suddenly felt it was of vital importance to tidy her desk. She straightened her blotter and moved her inkstand a bit more to the left, donning an air of businesslike nonchalance.

“Well?” he prompted when she didn’t speak. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Is my first attempt to be Lady Truelove satisfactory?”

Satisfactory? Her hand tightened around a sheaf of papers. What a tame word to describe the sort of insight she’d been looking to find ever since she turned thirteen, put up her hair, and went to a party where there were boys. She’d always been aware of her inhibited nature, yet she’d never appreciated just how much it could inhibit others. “It’s—” She broke off, set the papers aside with a cough, and looked at him. “It’s very good. Excellent, in fact.”

“Thank you, but...” He paused, giving her a grin. “You could at least smile when you say that.”

She laughed, and for no reason she could define, his grin vanished.

“Now, that’s a bit of all right,” he murmured. “Smile like that at the next ball, Clara, and you’ll have every man in the room eating out of your hand.”

She sobered, swallowing hard. He was exaggerating, of course, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she held out her hand for the pages.

“I’ll have Miss Huish type this,” she said forcing herself to sound briskly efficient as he gave her the column, “and deliver it to Mr. Beale with the instruction that he isn’t to edit a single word. Although...” She paused, tapping her index finger against one line of his handwriting as a thought struck her. “This bit about how a good listener has more charm than a good talker...”

“Yes? What about it?”

She looked up. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” As she asked the question, she thought of Elsie Clark, and she knew the answer. “You’re not a shy person, but you do that with people, don’t you? Listen, rather than talk. Is it to get people to like you or is it a natural talent for you?”

“Both, I suppose.” He made a face. “I fear you’ve uncovered my deepest secret, Clara. I have a compulsive desire to be liked. It’s something I’ve had all my life, but it stems—I have no doubt—from the fact that I have a pair of self-absorbed and completely impossible parents. They spent most of my youth so occupied with destroying each other that they often forgot I existed. It hurt, you see. It hurt like hell.” He paused and drew a breath. “Still does, if you want the truth.”

She studied his face, suddenly seeing past the flawless symmetry of his features, past the perfect aquiline nose and splendid square jaw and azure blue eyes, seeing the boy he’d once been and the parents he’d just described. Somehow, imagining it hurt her, too, and she couldn’t help wondering again if her first impression of him as a heartless cad might have been utterly wrong.

Before either of them could speak, a cough interrupted, and Clara looked past him to find Annie standing in the doorway.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Clara, but...” Annie paused, giving her a look of warning that put her instantly on guard. “Your father sent me down.”

“What a timely interruption,” Galbraith murmured, his voice light. “Another moment, Clara, and God only knows what further confessions you’d have gotten out of me.”

He turned toward the doorway, and Clara saw Annie’s eyes widen in pleasurable surprise. It was the sort of reaction he probably got from every housemaid who ever laid eyes on him, and one that brought Clara squarely back to reality.

“Yes, Annie?” she asked. “What does Papa want?”

The maid tore her gaze from the viscount with what seemed to be a great deal of effort. “He wants to know about tea, Miss Clara.”

“Tea?” She stared back at the maid in dismay.

“Yes, miss.” Annie’s pale gray eyes took on a hint of apology. “He wants to invite his lordship up to the drawing room for tea.”

At that unthinkable prospect, Clara’s dismay deepened into horror. She loved her father, but tea with him was always a difficult business, and with a stranger present, it would be unbearable. “For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled, rubbing her fingers over her forehead, “how does Papa even know Lord Galbraith is here?”

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