“She probably will, but I’m willing to bet any farewell on her part will be halfhearted. Parting from you isn’t what she really wants, you see. She wants a sweeping, romantic gesture on your part to reassure her that you care, even if you’re not prepared to marry her.”
Clara bit down hard on her lip, fearing this man knew far too much about women.
“What sort of gesture?” Lionel asked, sounding bewildered.
“If you want her, you’ll have to throw your pride to the winds and plead with her not to leave you. Even if it’s only another night, another week—whatever crumbs she offers you, you’re willing to take. That’s what she wants to hear.”
“I suppose, but it sounds like utter rubbish to me.”
“It won’t if you do it properly. I’ll show you.”
Too curious for caution, Clara slid another sideways glance at him, watching as he lifted his hand to beckon to the waitress who was passing their table with a laden tray that looked to be Clara’s tea and scones.
The waitress stopped at once, so quickly in fact, that the contents of the tray almost slid to the floor. “Oh,” she gasped as Adonis stood up and faced her. Clara, meanwhile, readjusted her position, ducking her chin even as she slanted her gaze up so that she could continue to watch out of the corner of her eye.
“May I help you, sir?” the girl asked, her voice betraying an eagerness to please that went a bit beyond the polite civility usually provided by the employees of a tea shop.
“Indeed, you may, Miss . . . ?”
“Clark, sir. Elsie Clark.”
“Miss Clark.” He smiled, and though Clara was now immune to the potency of that smile, the waitress was not. When he pulled the tray from her hands, poor Elsie Clark scarcely seemed to notice.
“I do need your help,” he went on, turning to set the tray on the table beside him. “You see, my friend here has been most injudicious with his feminine companion.”
That seemed too much for the poor girl to take in, for she frowned in bafflement. “Sir?”
“Honor demands he break with a girl,” he explained. “She’s far too good for him, and he knows it. He also knows the right thing to do is abandon his courtship, for he’s a considerate, gentlemanly chap.”
Clara gave a snort, but fortunately, the other three didn’t seem to notice.
“But he can’t bear to let her go,” Adonis went on. “He’s quite shattered about the whole thing, really, and he has asked my advice on the subject. I should like to demonstrate for him how he can postpone the inevitable end as long as possible, and that is where you shall be of invaluable assistance to me, Miss Clark.”
To Clara’s way of thinking, a man who bedded a woman, declared love, refused to offer honorable marriage, and saw nothing wrong with continuing to bed her with no intention of ever doing right by her was not in any way a gentlemanly chap. She glanced between the palms at the man seated beside her, and though his appearance seemed that of a benignant and amiable fellow, Clara knew he was nothing of the sort. He was a contemptible deceiver, and so was his friend.
Her gaze slid up, and she watched as Adonis lifted the waitress’s hand in his own. “So, Miss Clark, are you willing to assist?”
If Miss Clark’s beatific expression was anything to go by, she’d have been willing to do anything this man asked of her. When she nodded, he pulled her hand bringing her closer.
“My darling girl,” he began, “you talk of marriage, but how can that be possible between us? I am no one. I have nothing. You are a lady of breeding and quality, so lovely, so fine.” He paused, cradling her hand in both of his, then he said, “You deserve so much more than I could ever offer you. You may think right now that the vast difference in our station doesn’t matter, but it does, and I know that one day, you will realize it. And when you do, it will come between us and cast an unresolvable pall over our happiness.”
Damn, Clara thought, a hint of reluctant admiration breaking through her anger, this man might be a rake, but he’s a talented one.
She dared another peek at him, and found that he was still gazing at the waitress, his attention fully fixed on her. As for Elsie, her upturned profile and enraptured expression only served to confirm Clara’s opinion of this man’s rakish character and talent for duplicity.
“Marriage,” he went on, “brings harsh realities that, little by little, turn love to dust. I couldn’t bear for what we have, the mad passion we feel, to be eroded and destroyed by the mundane tedium that marriage inevitably brings. What would become of us then?”
Elsie didn’t answer. She probably couldn’t, poor girl.
“No, my dear. Marriage isn’t possible for the likes of us. You deserve it, of course, but we must be honest about our circumstances. I don’t have the blunt to support you, and I certainly don’t have the breeding to be worthy of you. And what of your family? They would surely turn against you if you married a lowborn chap like me. How could I ever cause such a breach between you and your relations? Do you really think me such a cad?”
“I think you’re lovely,” Elsie whispered, a declaration that further outraged Clara’s feminine sensibilities, partly because of the worshipful tone in which the words had been uttered, and partly because she’d had the very same mistaken opinion of him not a quarter of an hour ago.
“It tears me apart, for I’m wild about you, but I cannot bear the torment that would come with knowing I’ve ruined your life with matrimony. If a husband is truly what you want, I shall have to step aside, for I am not worthy of the role. Thus, I fear we must part forever.”
He moved to pull his hand free, but the girl clutched it tight, obviously unwilling to end what was perhaps the most romantic moment of masculine attention she’d ever had. “Is there no place for us?” she asked, sounding nauseatingly desperate as she clung to his hand.
There was a pause. “I can think of only one, and that is where we are now. One day, you will end things between us, I know, and it will break my heart. But I beg of you,” he added, pressing a fervent kiss to her hand, “do not let that day be today.”
Elsie sighed again, the fact that he had just reversed his entire position on ending things seeming to go right over her head. She stared up at him in dazed and silent wonder, but she was given little time to savor the romance of the moment. With a dexterity Clara couldn’t help but admire, he slipped free of Elsie’s grasp, leaving the girl’s hand still hovering in midair.
“You see, Lionel?” he said in a conversational tone as he resumed his seat and forced Clara to again look away. “It can be done.”
“I suppose so, if one does it the way you just did,” his friend agreed, laughing.
“What do you think, Elsie?” Adonis asked the waitress, obviously so confident of his powers of attraction that he felt free to call her by her Christian name, the cheeky devil. “If you were the lady, would you go? Or would you stay?”
“I believe . . .” Elsie paused and gave a little cough as if working to recover her poise. “I believe I’d stay,” she managed at last. “Not forever, mind you,” she added, as if to emphasize that she still possessed a scrap of pride. “A girl’s got to look out for her future, you know.”
“Quite right.” Teacups rattled, and Clara’s gaze slid sideways to watch as he lifted the tray and held it up to her. “Thank you for all your help.”
However amiable his voice, his words were clearly a dismissal, and the girl realized it. “You’re very welcome, sir,” she mumbled. Taking the offered tray, she dipped a curtsy and departed.
“Well?” Adonis asked, returning his attention to his friend as Clara turned hers to the waitress coming around the palms with her order. “What do you think?”
“I think you should be on the stage,” Lionel said as Elsie set Clara’s tray on her table and began placing tea things before her. “And I believe you have resolved my dilemma.”
“Doing this buys you time, Lionel. That’s all. Put that time to good use.”
The tw
o men stood up. Clara’s pot of jam hit her table with a thud, and then Elsie was off like a shot, bustling toward the front to assist the gentlemen with their departure.
As the two men came around the palms and followed the waitress toward the front of the tea shop, Clara snatched up one of the letters she’d previously opened and ducked her head, pretending to take no notice of them whatsoever. Adonis turned toward the door and Lionel came around her table to follow him, and Clara lifted her gaze to watch their backs as they settled their bill, and all she could think about was the nefarious trick about to be employed on an unknowing woman.
Someone ought to warn her what was afoot, Clara thought, her gaze narrowing on the architect of this scheme as he followed his friend out of the tea shop. Someone ought to tell her just how despicably her affections were about to be abused. But how, Clara wondered, could such a feat be accomplished?
She frowned, pondering the question.
This Dina was, she knew, part of the ton, a fact which did present certain opportunities. Clara was, after all, the granddaughter of a viscount and was now also the sister-in-law of a duke, so she possessed the proper entrée into this woman’s circle, but did that matter? She hadn’t really begun moving in society, hadn’t yet met many ladies outside the duke’s family, and among the few she had met she’d encountered no young widow named Dina.
Clara sighed and sat back. The girl’s surname would have been much more useful to know than her Christian name. Still, she could at least inquire of the duke’s sisters. They might know who the woman was.
But even if Clara could identify her, what then? She could hardly walk up to a young lady she didn’t know and blurt out that the woman’s secret lover was a deceiving scoundrel. Her good deed would probably earn her a slap across the face.
And besides, she thought, casting a gloomy glance over the pile of correspondence before her, she had her own troubles.
Suddenly, an idea flashed into Clara’s mind, a crazy, incredible idea that could not only solve her most pressing problem, but also save a fellow woman from future heartbreak and ruin.
Clara straightened in her chair, pulled a sheet of notepaper closer, and took up her fountain pen. She considered a moment, then she began to write. Only a few minutes later, she set down her fountain pen and placed her composition on top of the letters before her, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction.
Her first Lady Truelove column was now complete. She could only hope Dina Whoever-She-Was read the Weekly Gazette.
Chapter 3
Rex wasn’t the sort for high society parties. Given his rather wicked sense of humor, he found low society far more entertaining. Nonetheless, he was Viscount Galbraith, the only son of the Earl of Leyland, and with that position came certain social obligations, most of which involved his great-aunt Petunia. Auntie held not only Rex’s sole source of income at present, but also his deepest affections, and when she decided to open the season by holding a ball, he knew his presence was de rigeur.
Which was why Rex allowed his valet to put him into a white tie and tails, capped his head with one of those ridiculous top hats, and trundled off from his own modest town house in Half Moon Street to his great-aunt Petunia’s lavish and fashionable home in Park Lane, and braced himself for at least two hours of having his toes smashed and his ear talked off by nervous debutantes.
His aunt’s ballroom was only somewhat crowded, for his familial obligation demanded a punctual, rather than fashionably late arrival. But he wasn’t, he soon discovered, punctual enough to suit Auntie.
“Well past eleven before you finally decide to make your appearance, I see,” she said as he paused where she stood just outside the ballroom doors. “I feared I’d die of old age waiting for you to arrive.”
Anyone else might have thought such a greeting denoted a coldness of feeling, but Rex wasn’t fooled, and he leaned close to buss her wrinkled cheek with an affectionate kiss. “Past eleven, is it? A most uncivilized hour for you to still be awake, Auntie Pet.” Pulling back, he pasted on a look of concern. “Perhaps you ought to have a dose of cod liver oil and go to bed? At your age, you can’t be too careful, you know.”
“Impudent cub.” With a toss of her head, she gestured to the opened doors of the ballroom behind them, where people were milling about in anticipation of the dancing soon to begin. “Your reward for your saucy tongue shall be to open the ball.”
He groaned. “Must I? Can’t Uncle Bertie do it? Where is the old boy, by the way?” he added, glancing around for his uncle.
“My nephew caught a bit of a chill this afternoon and he’s gone to bed. He’ll be all right in a day or two. My dear Lady Seaforth,” she added, looking past Rex to the next arrival and giving him a pointed nudge with her foot.
Appreciating what would be required of him in Uncle Bertie’s absence, Rex moved to stand beside his great-aunt and offer his share of the required greetings to Lady Seaforth and her daughters, both of whom—thankfully—had husbands, and were, therefore, unavailable as fodder for Petunia’s favorite hobby.
Auntie, being unmarried with no children of her own, had a very romantic nature and had made it her main ambition in life to arrange matches for all six of her as-yet-unwed grand-nephews and nieces before she departed this earth. Because he was heir to the earldom, Rex was of particular interest to her in that regard, and she proceeded to underscore that fact the moment the Seaforth contingent had passed into the ballroom.
“You needn’t worry about finding a partner for the opening dance,” she said. “I’ve chosen one for you.”
That bit of news was no great surprise, but he decided to pretend obtuseness. “Is it Hetty?” he asked, turning to glance over the crowd as if searching for his favorite cousin. “How marvelous. I shan’t mind opening the ball if it’s with Hetty.”
“It is not Henrietta,” Auntie informed him in a dampening tone. “You are free to seek a partner for life amidst a much wider circle than your own cousins.”
He’d already made it clear many times that he wouldn’t be seeking a partner for life anywhere, ever, but such assurances never seemed to put the slightest dent in Petunia’s resolve.
“Really, Auntie, I don’t see why you should be so against Hetty marrying me,” he said instead, keeping his expression earnest and sincere even though his tongue was firmly in his cheek. “You’d get two of our lot married off at once. And marrying one’s cousin was good enough for the Queen, wasn’t it?”
Her answering look was wry, showing she knew quite well he was teasing. “Victoria, being royalty, was forced to matrimonial considerations that do not bind the rest of us.”
“That’s one way of calling a goose a swan,” he said with a grin. “But you needn’t worry about Hetty ever making a match with me. She’d scream with laughter at the very idea.”
“And yet, I fear you are the one who refuses to take matrimony seriously.”
“On the contrary,” he replied at once, “I take it very seriously—the avoidance of it in particular.”
“Really, Galbraith, you make me so annoyed. You’ll be thirty-two this autumn. How much longer do you intend to circumvent the most important responsibility of your position?”
“Until I’m in the ground. Even longer, if possible.”
“With no consideration of what happens to the title and the estates. Your father expects you to wed, and rightly so. You’ve no brothers, and your uncle Albert, being my late sister’s son, can’t inherit. If you don’t marry and have sons of your own, everything goes to your father’s third cousin once removed.”
As if he didn’t already know all this. Rex repressed a sigh as Auntie went on, “Thomas Galbraith is a man neither of us has ever met in the whole of our lives. He’s older than you and yet he has no heir. In fact, he’s not even married, so—”
“Then perhaps you should have invited him to your ball, eh?”
She ignored that bit of raillery. “He owns a boot-making establishment in Petticoat Lane. Boot-making, I
ask you—is that any sort of preparation to be the next earl?”
“A boot maker as the Earl of Leyland?” He pretended horror. “Heavens, what an idea.”
“I’m not referring to his profession. It’s his lack of knowledge and preparation that are of concern. Thomas Galbraith knows nothing of running a great estate like Braebourne.”
“What’s to know? Dane’s a capable steward. And since Papa’s moved to London and leased the house—”
“Only until you marry.”
This time, his sigh would not be suppressed, but when he spoke, he worked to keep his voice as gentle as possible. “That isn’t going to happen, Auntie Pet, as I’ve already said many times. And if we intend to quarrel about it again,” he added before she could reply, “I shall need a drink.”
With a glance down the main corridor to verify that the next guests were still removing their wraps in the foyer, he excused himself and walked into the ballroom. He made for the nearest footman with a tray of silver mugs, keeping his eye on the door as he pretended vast indecision over whether to choose a claret cup or rum punch.
He loved Petunia dearly, and he knew she was equally fond of him, but there was a steely glint in her eyes tonight that told him the evening ahead—and the entire season, for that matter—might be especially trying for both of them.
Any other time, he could have avoided any possibility of a row by going off to mingle, but with his uncle unable to act as host, duty required him to stand by and help his great-aunt greet arriving guests until the dancing began. So, when the newest arrivals started down the corridor toward the ballroom, he plucked a mug of rum punch from the tray and returned to Petunia’s side. Once those guests had moved on, however, his aunt returned to their previous discussion, seeming not to care if a row resulted.
“Both your parents are quite disappointed, I daresay, by the utter disregard for duty that you display.”
He gave a bark of laughter at that declaration and took a hefty swallow of his drink. “Mentioning my parents is hardly likely to spur me to the altar, Auntie Pet.”
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 3
