Page 84 of The Trouble with True Love

Lord Galbraith proposed, but only out of a sense of obligation. I lay with him last night, you see, so he feels he must do the gentlemanly thing and offer me marriage. I love him, but he doesn’t love me, so I refused him. My virtue is lost, I may be pregnant, and now that I have rejected him, what will become of me?

All of that sat like dead weight inside her, pressing on her heart and laying like a stone in her belly. Fear whispered in her ear, reminding her of what happened to unmarried women who did what she’d done, of what the children of such liaisons were called.

It will be my bastard.

Even now, Rex’s words made her flinch. Even now, she did not know what she would do if and when the worst happened. Now, in the cold light of day, she wondered what had possessed her last evening and how she could have forgotten all of Irene’s explanations and warnings. And she wondered, after everything she knew about him, after everything he had told her and everything she had told herself, how she could ever have let herself fall in love with him.

But love, she was beginning to see, was a choice of the heart. Common sense and reason played little part, or if they did, hers had both taken quite a holiday.

Looking back on everything that had happened these past two months, she realized that falling in love with him was something she’d feared all along.

From the beginning, she’d sensed he had the power to steal her heart, and that if he ever succeeded, her heart would be returned to her in pieces. Her reasoning mind had tried to protect her with disapproval of his profligate living, questions about his morality, and reminders of all his flaws, but from that first moment in the tea shop, her soul had not cared about any of that. Her soul had only known this man could make her feel beautiful and desirable, and unmoved by the cautions of her reasoning mind, her soul had insisted on turning toward him again and again, the way a plant in a window turned continually toward the sun.

That unknowing, unreasoning instinct, she appreciated now, was why she’d asked him to be Lady Truelove—she’d known somehow that he would teach her things about herself no one else could. It was why she’d agreed to his sham courtship—because she’d sensed it might be the only true romance she ever had, and her heart had not wanted it to pass her by. It was why she’d managed to ignore all her own high-minded principles about virtue and marriage and had lain with him, sacrificing all the dreams she’d ever had for her future. And it was why, though she might be ruined forever, she felt no shame and no regret. Deep down in the dark, secret recesses of her soul, she’d wanted this, every beautiful, shining, heartbreaking moment of it.

You’re lovely. Even more lovely than I’d imagined.

Shame and regret, she supposed with a newfound cynicism, might come later, when his awestruck voice and tender words and scorching caresses had receded from her memory. And if the worst did happen, an illegitimate baby would probably be quite effective at snuffing out any yearning for romance that might still be lingering within her.

The train slowed, coming into Victoria Station, and Clara shoved aside grim speculations about the future. If there was a baby, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

A smile touched her lips. In the midst of the worst crisis of her life, and yet, she was still such a procrastinator.

Carlotta must have telegraphed ahead to Upper Brook Street, because the duke’s carriage and a dogcart were waiting for them at Victoria. At Carlotta’s direction, porters separated Clara’s trunks from the others, strapped hers to the carriage boot, and piled all the remaining luggage on the dogcart. Twenty minutes later, the duke’s dogcart and its driver were halfway to the West End, and his other driver and footman were carrying Clara’s trunks into the house at Belford Row and she was bidding farewell to her sisters-in-law.

“We shall see you for dinner soon, I trust?” Angela’s arms wrapped her in a hug, then she pulled back and looked into Clara’s face. “I shan’t ask any questions, but I hope you feel you can confide in me—in any of us—if you need to.”

“Of course.” Clara smiled, gave her friend a reassuring pat on the back, and decided it was best to leave things like that for the present. A few minutes later, the duke’s carriage was off again, and Clara was taking off her traveling cloak, hat, and gloves in the foyer and handing them over to her maid.

“Have everything taken to my room, Forrester,” she instructed. “I’ll see Papa, inform him I’m home, and then—”

“Clara!”

That familiar voice brought a burst of happy surprise, lightening her heavy heart, and she turned to find her sister running up the corridor from the newspaper office, arms outstretched.

“Irene?” She laughed, stretching out her own arms and running to meet her beloved sister halfway. “You’re home again!”

“Just an hour ago.” Irene’s affectionate and comforting arms wrapped around her, and suddenly, the powerful emotions that Clara had been keeping at bay all day refused to remain wholly submerged. A sob surged up inside her, cracking her hard-won fortitude, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep it from escaping.

“Henry’s on his way to Upper Brook Street,” Irene said, still hugging her tight. “But I wanted to see you first, and Papa, so Henry dropped me here and took all our luggage on. But then I discovered you had gone to the country. I was about to leave you a note and depart.”

Clara worked to regain her composure. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere, if I’d known you were arriving home today,” she said and pulled back, pasting on an expression of mock censure. “You are terrible about writing, dear sister.”

“Me? What about you? Only two letters from you forwarded to me through Cooks’ these past two months.”

“I’m not the one who has things to write about,” she lied. “You’re the one gallivanting across the world.”

“Yes, and when I come home, I find you’ve gone gallivanting off to the country with people I’ve never even met. Speaking of which...” Irene paused, frowning. “Why are you here? Annie told me the house party you were attending was supposed to go on through the weekend, and today is only Saturday. Isn’t it?”

Irene laughed, shaking her head, her frown clearing as she brushed back a lock of golden-blond hair that had tumbled over her forehead. “One tends to lose track of what day it is after four months of traveling, and—”

She broke off, all the laughter dying out of her expression, and Clara knew something in her own face must have given her away.

“Clara?” Irene put a hand on her arm and cupped her cheek, her hazel eyes filled at once with protective, sisterly concern. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Heartbreak, fear, panic all welled up, blurring her sister’s beloved face, but she blinked back tears and tried to smile. “I’ve fallen in love.”

The rule that Irene and Clara had established not to partake of alcohol in their father’s house was broken that night, and Clara was able to add the drinking of brandy to her ever-growing list of life experiences.

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