She doubted she would ever see him again. Even if he might, perhaps, want to see her, there was probably some stupid rule against it in the ducal book of ethics.
Her throat closed up, and a tear plopped on her sheet of paper, blurring the lines of her stick man.
It wasn’t as if she regretted her decision, or the things she’d said. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be a duchess. She didn’t. The problem was that she’d fallen in love with a duke. One couldn’t, it was evident, have one without the other.
And the duke, worse luck, did not seem to be falling in love with her. He probably still wanted to bed her. He might still be prepared to marry her so that agreeable situation could continue. What girl wouldn’t swoon at such an offer?
Just thinking about it made her angry all over again. And more convinced than ever that she’d done the right thing. Refusing him, in fact, had been the only thing in this crazy three weeks she was absolutely sure of.
She nodded, decisively, and felt no better. Instead, she felt even more dissatisfied, not only with him, but also with the world and everything in it, including her own life. She’d been perfectly content with her life just as it was, happy even. Until Henry had come along.
As a result, she’d lost her virginity and gotten her heart broken. Just as catastrophic, she’d lost all interest in her work. Now, it seemed pointless and trivial. Why should anyone care how many silly ghosts were supposedly floating around Berry Pomeroy Castle? Did it matter if Lord Bransford was attending Sir John Falk’s house party? Lady Mary Bartholomew’s engagement had been called off? No matter. Irene scowled. There was a duke, eligible, wealthy, and impossible, who was available at present. Perhaps Lady Mary could throw in her lot with him. Lady Mary was the daughter of a marquess, after all. A perfect duchess in the making.
Irene paused in her doodling and wondered if maybe she ought to take a real holiday. Give up the paper altogether. Go to America and see Jonathan, or defy Papa’s wrath and bring Jonathan here. He could run the paper, and she could go off to Paris and regain her zest for life. She could sketch, or something.
Irene looked at her stick men and flowers with doubt. No, she supposed, a life of sketching wasn’t the best idea. And if Jonathan entered their house, Papa would probably call the police. Besides, she doubted going off anywhere in a fit of heartbreak would solve anything. She wanted to go back to being the person she had been before, someone who’d been happy and fulfilled and perfectly content here, in her own sphere. But one could not go back.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the moment she did, she had to open them again, for thinking of secret nights in hotel rooms with Henry was not going to make her feel better. He was ashamed of those nights, torn by self-recrimination and guilt, and she’d had only the vaguest idea of it. How could she marry a man when most of the time she had no idea what he really thought and felt?
Why, she wondered for perhaps the hundredth time in the past week, couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone comfortable? Someone easy and amiable. Someone who loved her? Henry was impossibly stuffy and arrogant as the devil, and in his entire marriage proposal, there had not been even the barest mention of love. The closest he’d come had been one short reference to his heart. And any man who could not even see his way to allowing a daughter of his to go to university, even if it was the dream of her life, didn’t have a heart.
Another tear plopped onto the page, turning her painstaking sketch of a daisy into a gray cloud, bringing a pair of gray eyes to mind. With an abrupt move, she shoved her pencil behind her ear and put the sheet of doodling aside.
This had to stop. For heaven’s sake, she had work to do. She had to stop being this unholy mess of a girl. She had a life to live, and it did not, it could not, include him. His life did not include her. It was as simple and awful as that.
She reached for the list of companies that had advertising contracts up for renewal, but before she could peruse it, there was a knock on her open door, and she looked up to find Josie in the doorway.
“You wanted to see me?”
Irene straightened in her chair. “Yes, Josie. Come in, and close the door behind you.”
The gossip columnist’s dark brows lifted in surprise at her request about the door, but she complied, shutting it and coming to sit on the other side of the desk. “What’s all this?” she asked, peering at Irene over the rims of her spectacles, no doubt noting her puffy face and despondent air. “Missing high society, are we? Or perhaps,” she added, her shrewd gaze meeting Irene’s, “just one particular member of it?”
“Not at all,” she lied, working to put Henry out of her mind and don the brisk demeanor a newspaper publisher ought to have. “I wanted to see you because I’m going to be making a change to the content of the paper. A change that will profoundly affect you.”
“That sounds ominous.” Josie took a deep breath. “Just tell me straight out . . . am I getting the sack?”
“No, no,” she hastened to say. “Although after this conversation, it would be perfectly understandable if you wanted to leave, and if that’s the case, rest assured you’ll receive the most gushing, praiseworthy letter of character you can imagine.”
“Thanks, but now you’re really alarming me. What’s in the wind?”
“I’m changing the editorial content a bit.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she knew she had to do. “I’m getting rid of all the gossip. No more Delilah Dawlish, I’m afraid.”
“My column?” Josie stared at her, understandably stunned. “But outside of Lady Truelove, it’s the most popular column you’ve got. Everyone loves it.”
“I know.”
“And the gossip is all true. Irene, I never bring you anything that isn’t absolutely on the up-and-up.”
“I know that, too. This decision has nothing to do with you or the quality of your work. I just . . .” She paused, working to find a way to explain that wouldn’t give her away. “I just don’t want the paper to gossip about the ton anymore.”
“The ton, my foot.” Josie wagged a finger at her. “What you really mean is that you don’t want to print any gossip about the Duke of Torquil and his family.”
So much for not giving herself away. “It’s isn’t just Torquil’s family I’m thinking of.”
“Tell it to the marines! You’ve been mooning over that man ever since you moved back from the West End.”
“I have not been mooning over him,” she denied, but that was such a blatant lie, she gave up and veered away from the topic of Henry. “This isn’t just because of Torquil, Josie,” she said instead, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “I have to think of Clara. Ellesmere’s come up to snuff, I’m happy to say. He seems willing to pay a bit of attention to her, bring her out, that sort of thing, so she’ll only continue working for me until I can hire a new secretary, then she’ll become quite the social butterfly.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” She shook her head with a laugh. “Ellesmere won’t be launching me into society, not when he learns I won’t give up the paper. But it’s different for Clara. He’ll be able to do great things for her, and the duke’s family is willing to help. I can’t jeopardize her chances by printing gossip about Ellesmere, and Torquil, and their set. I can’t. Delilah has to go.”
“I see.” Josie chewed on her lower lip, considering for a moment before she spoke again. “So where does that leave me?”
“We’ll be keeping everything else pretty much the same, so you can write the same sorts of stories Elsa and Hazel do.”
Josie took a deep breath and met her gaze steadily. “Or I could take Delilah to a competitor. The Social Gazette or Talk of the Town would love to have her.”
“I’m sure they would. And if that’s your choice, then I would completely understand. And as I said, I would give you an excellent letter of character. Not,” she added with a smile, “that the notorious Delilah Dawlish needs a good character to find work.”
J
osie smiled back at her. “No, it’s probably better if she has a bad character, in fact. But . . .” She paused, her grin fading. “But I believe I shall want the letter just the same.”
“So you intend to go?”
“I have to, Irene. I can’t let Delilah go. She’s my creation, my invention. She’s something of me—oh, how can I explain?”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand just what you mean, Josie. I truly do.”
The other woman nodded. “Delilah’s latest thrilling installment of life among the nobs is sitting on Clara’s desk awaiting your edits. Are you going to print it tomorrow, or can I take it with me?”
“I won’t be printing it, and you’re free to take it with you. But you don’t have to leave straightaway, Josie. You’re welcome to stay on the customary fortnight, with wages, of course.”
“Thanks, but I don’t like long good-byes. And with that dramatic line,” she added, rising to her feet, “I make my exit. Send the letter to my flat, will you?”
“Of course.” Irene stood up and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Josie. I wish you nothing but good luck and literary success. Just try not to write anything catty about Clara.”
“I won’t.” She grinned. “I’m never catty about people I like.”
With that, Josie gave her an impudent salute and departed, closing the door behind her, but Irene had barely resumed her seat before another knock sounded on her door and Clara came in.
“Here’s everyone’s work this week, all typed and ready to edit,” Clara said, dropping sheaf after sheaf of clipped pages in front of her. “Elsa’s column, Doings in Devon, and her piece, England’s Most Haunted Places. Fran’s News from the North, and her article on a day in the life of a lady’s maid. Which was a brilliant idea, Irene, I must say.”
Any other time, Irene might have been gratified to hear it. “Thanks,” she mumbled, trying not to sigh.
“And here’s Josie’s News of St. James Square,” Clara went on, dropping another sheaf of papers on Irene’s desk. “And her Delilah Dawlish column—”
“We won’t be needing that,” Irene cut in. “Josie’s leaving, so you can give it back to her on your way out.”
“Leaving?” Clara paused, but only for a moment. “Never mind. You’ll have to tell me about that later. I’m too busy to stop and hear about it now.” Retaining Josie’s infamous column in one hand as she dropped the last remaining article on Irene’s desk. “And lastly, that’s Hazel’s interview with Lord Pomeroy about the workings of Parliament. She asked him if they’ll be taking up the issue of women’s suffrage in the next session, but the old curmudgeon told her they weren’t inclined to it at this time. Sorry, Irene.”
“No surprise there,” she mumbled, gathering all the articles Clara had just dropped on her desk, unable to summon a speck of interest in any of them, and she wondered how long her life was going to seem dry as dust and dull as paint. And how long her heart was going to feel as if it was rattling around inside her in razor-sharp pieces.
“That’s the lot,” Clara said with a sigh of relief. “I know we’re terribly busy today, but would you mind if I take a few minutes and have tea with Papa?”
“Of course not.” She waved a hand toward the door. “He’ll be delighted.”
Clara turned away, but paused by the door. “Oh, one other thing.”
Irene looked up. “Yes?”
“I forgot to mention your Lady Truelove column. It’s in there, too. I typed it up this morning.”
Just the mention of Lady Truelove was enough to make Irene’s chest feel as if it had just been sliced open, but she tried not to show it. “Thank you, Clara. Go have your tea.”
“You might want to look it over first thing. I’m not sure about it at all.”
Irene frowned. “You didn’t like the letter from ‘A Knight in Knightsbridge’?”
“I’m concerned about it, I’ll say that much. And I think upon reflection, you might want to reconsider using it at all.”
Irene was astonished enough to be pulled a bit out of her lethargy. Clara seldom criticized, but when she did, her instincts were always sound. “But I can’t change it now,” she said, dismayed, flipping through pages in search of the relevant ones. “We go to press tomorrow.”
“Which is why you should edit it straightaway. I’ll return in a short while, and you can tell me what you want to do?”
Irene waved an absentminded hand toward the door as she pulled her pencil from behind her ear and continued to flip through sheaves of pages, scanning the top of each one for the famous salutation that always opened her advice column.
But when she found what she was looking for, it was not what she expected. Clara had said she’d typed it, but the words, ‘Dear Lady Truelove’ at the top of the page and all the words below them were handwritten, and it wasn’t her own handwriting.
Baffled, she pulled the letter out of the stack and began to read it, but she had only got to the third line of perfect copperplate script before shock hit her like electricity and her pencil dropped from her fingers.
The pencil hit the desk, rolled off the edge, and bounced across the floor, but Irene scarcely noticed, for she was staring at the page in her hand, transfixed. Her heart must have put itself back together, because it began to pound in her chest like the piston of a steam engine. A roar was in her ears, and she couldn’t seem to quite take in what she was reading. She felt dizzy—from a lack of oxygen, probably, because on top of everything else, she couldn’t seem to breathe.
At the end of the first paragraph, she had to stop long enough for a deep gasp of air, but she could not resume her task. As she stared down at the page, the beautifully curving letters seemed to blur before her eyes, and she blinked several times, trying to clear her vision, but she had no chance to continue reading this astonishing epistle.
“‘Dear Lady Truelove,’” an unmistakable male voice said, and she looked up to find Henry standing in the doorway, hat in his hand, his face so gravely handsome that her poor heart nearly broke all over again. And when he spoke, the pleasure and pain of his voice and his words were so acute, she feared it would stop beating altogether.
“‘I have fallen in love,’” he continued to quote from the letter before her, watching her, “‘truly and completely in love, for the very first time.’”
At this narration of what she’d just read, Irene gave a shuddering sob.
He didn’t seem to notice. “‘The woman whom I hold in such passionate regard, however,’” he continued as he entered her office and began walking toward her, “‘is not of my station. She is a publisher, a brilliant businesswoman, and a staunch suffragist. Needless to say, society would not approve.’”
He stopped in front of her desk. “‘But my passion will not be suppressed. With each passing day, the deeper it becomes. I have offered her honorable marriage, but she has refused me.’” He paused, swallowing hard, and looked down at his hat. “‘She does not wish to be my wife or the mother of my children.’”
Irene opened her mouth, but she could make no words came out. She was mute, and before she could master the emotions overwhelming her, he resumed his narrative.
“‘Nor can I blame her, for I have been improper in my courtship, arrogant in my manner, and oblivious to her concerns about what a marriage to me might mean for her future and that of any children which might bless our union,’” he went on, still staring down at his hat. “‘I fear she thinks I would be a tyrannical husband and an even more tyrannical father, and when confronted with these understandable concerns, I failed to adequately address them. Given her refusal, the proper course would be that I withdraw completely from her life, and no longer impose my attentions upon her. But that I cannot do.’”
He looked up. “‘For I love her. And it is a love unlike anything I have ever felt. It is deeper than any mere physical passion. It is stronger than my pride, and deeper than a lifetime of convictions, and wider than the world in which I live. It is soul-de
ep and life-long, and I have come to understand that all the other aspects of my life—my wealth, my position, what others think of me, and even my duty to my title and my estates—mean nothing without her by my side. I shall do what duties of my position I can fulfill, but if I cannot, by some miracle, convince her to change her mind, marriage shall not be one of them, and I shall go on alone all my remaining days.’”
Irene gave another sob. “Henry—”
He leaned across the desk, and cupped her face, caressing her mouth with his thumb. “‘I have never been one to give my heart, nor even to acknowledge the existence of it, and I fear that as a result, the woman I love is wholly unaware of my true feelings for her, for I have not been eloquent in expressing them.’”
His hand slid away, and she bit her lip as he went on, “‘You see, I am sometimes inclined—so I have been told—to speak when I should not, and in my speech to be quite aggravating, and in consequence, I have been known to spoil a romantic moment with my oratory. As a result, I fear I may say the wrong thing yet again and further harden her resolve against me. I am writing this letter, Lady Truelove, in the hope that you will print it, for I do not know any other way but this to make her aware of what I feel. If she sees this letter, she may soften enough to allow me time to court her properly, and therefore, enable me to convince her of the depth of my affections and the sincerity of my suit. To that end, I would be most grateful for any insight or advice you can offer me. Signed, A Duke in Distress.’”
“Henry, I swear,” she cried as she began circling her desk, trying to wipe away the tears on her cheeks only to have fresh ones take their place, “if you don’t shut up and let me get a word in, I shall fall into a weeping, muddled mess right here on the floor!”
He complied, saying nothing more as he turned to face her, and Irene’s heart ached with such powerful longing that she couldn’t think of what to say to him in reply. After such a speech, what could any girl say? But as beautiful as it was, it was still just words.
“You broke my heart, Henry.” Her voice cracked on the admission, all the pain of that moment flooding back. She clenched her hands into fists and struck them against his chest. “You broke my heart, damn you, just at the moment I realized it was in your hands.”
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 29
