Page 87 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“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-deep 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.”

“I know.” He caught her wrists. “And I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. In my defense, all I can say is that from the moment our affair began, protecting you became my primary responsibility, and the more it went on, the more unbearable it became to have you as a shameful secret.”

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