Page 47 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

The day before press time, there was always a great deal to do, but when Irene reached her offices and began work, she found it impossible to concentrate on any task for more than a few minutes at a time. At every turn, her mind insisted on going back to Torquil and what she’d witnessed at breakfast.

She’d already noted how good-looking he was, but that hadn’t served to elevate him much in her opinion, for she’d still found him hopelessly rigid, snobbish, and dictatorial, even ruthless. And yet . . .

Irene stared down at the pages in front of her, their typewritten lines fading, superseded by his face, lit by suppressed laughter. In that moment, his mask of stone-faced civility had slipped, showing the man underneath, and suddenly, he had become far more than the arrogant, good-looking duke. He had become human.

Even now, the image of him in her mind was enough to turn her topsy-turvy, and if anyone asked her opinion of his character at this moment, she wouldn’t know what to say.

He could be so infuriating, so damnably rigid. And yet, she could not deny his love for his family. It was, she now knew, absolute and all-encompassing—the center of his world. Until now, she hadn’t really appreciated how deeply ingrained in him that quality was, or how attractive it could be. In truth, she hadn’t known such men as that existed at all.

She loved her father, and her brother, too, but neither of them could be described as protective in any way. Jonathan, five years younger than she, was on the other side of the world, and who could blame him? He’d tried to warn their father that the business was headed for queer-street, but Papa had refused to listen and refused to change course, and after many lurid quarrels on the topic, Papa had tossed Jonathan out of the house. Her brother had gone off to make his way in the world as best he could, and though he inquired after them in his letters to her and Clara, neither she nor her sister had ever told him how dire things were. He could have done little about it but come home, which would only have made their father even more irritable and even less inclined to see reason.

As for her father, he was fixed on one idea for his daughters’ future, and no other. He was convinced—probably rightly—that elevating them into society was the only way he could help them. His wits addled by drink and pain, he had no other solutions to offer, no other abilities to draw upon, no other vision for their lives. And Irene had long ago resigned herself to the fact that, given her father’s love of brandy, she would have to be the one to protect him, not the other way around.

Torquil was an entirely different sort of man, a man with whom she felt wholly out of her depth. She was used to being the one holding everyone together. It was, as he had pointed out, a trait they shared. To not be the one in charge was a frustrating thing for her. She wasn’t used to it, she didn’t like it, and she resented like hell that Torquil had been able to maneuver her into a situation where she didn’t have it. And yet, now—

Her door opened, and Josie stuck her dark head into Irene’s office. “Can we run with it?”

“What?” Irene blinked, roused out of her reverie slowly, like coming out of a dream.

“My column. Can we run with it?”

“Oh, right.” Irene straightened in her chair, rustling the pages in front of her with a brisk air. “About that—”

She broke off, vexed with herself because she couldn’t even remember if she’d read Josie’s latest Delilah Dawlish column, and a glance at the first page told her that even if she had done so, she hadn’t bothered to do any editing. “Give me a few minutes more, Josie,” she mumbled, rubbing four fingers over her forehead. “I haven’t got to your piece yet.”

The other woman seemed to sense something amiss, and that, of course, sparked her excellent investigative instincts. “You’ve been in a fog all day. What’s wrong?” She gave Irene a knowing look over the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. “Headache from too much champagne? Too much high living and too many late nights without enough sleep?”

Irene gave her a look of reproof. “It’s only been one night,” she reminded. “And if I find that my stay in the duke’s house has been mentioned in your column, I shall edit it out and give you the sack.”

“No worries there. We’re all keeping mum, since you’ve ordered us to, though we can’t think why.”

“I like our paper to talk about other people. Not about me.”

“Well, it’ll be in all the other society papers by the end of the week. Society Snippets will be the only one not talking about it.”

That was a nauseating fact she preferred not to dwell on. “In this case, I am happy to have it so.”

“Very well, but I hope you come back from this sojourn with some juicy tidbits to share with our readers.”

Am I not entitled to some degree of disdain for a publication that prints gossip and innuendo about my family and friends and calls it news?

Irene tossed down her pencil in exasperation, and the unexpected gesture caused the other woman to raise an eyebrow.

“Sorry, sorry,” Josie said. “No need to be so touchy.”

“It’s not you,” she said, pushing Torquil’s words from the night before out of her mind. “But let’s get this clear. I’m not spying on these people. That’s not why I’m there.”

“I know it’s for Clara’s sake and family unity, and all that. Though how your father managed to gain any favor from the duke after our Lady Truelove column, I can’t imagine.”

Irene did not enlighten her.

“But still,” Josie went on when she didn’t speak, “this stay in the duke’s house would be a perfect opportunity, Irene. Very Robert Burns.” She nodded with a worldly-wise air. “‘A chield’s amang you takin’ notes.’”

“That will be enough, Josie. I shan’t be ‘takin’ notes,’ as you put it, so stop quoting Robert Burns and do me a favor. Read over Elsa and Hazel’s stories and ensure they are ready for tomorrow. I’ve been dithering so much today, I fear I won’t have time, since I have to be back at Upper Brook Street in time to change for dinner, and it’s nearly five o’clock.”

“Wait.” Josie’s dark eyes widened in shock. “You want me to edit Elsa and Hazel’s stories for you?”

“Yes, if you think you can do a proper job of it.”

---