Page 32 of The Trouble with True Love

The theater’s domed gold-and-white ceiling, its crimson velvet seats and draperies, and the dazzling light from its hundreds of gas jets made an even more breathtaking display when one was seated in a box three floors above the stalls.

“Let me say again how glad I was that you were able to accept my invitation this evening, Miss Deverill.”

Clara turned her gaze from the dazzling vista below to the elderly woman standing beside her. “I was happy to receive it, Lady Petunia.”

“Surprised, too, I daresay.” The older woman smiled, a gesture that deepened the good-humored creases at the edges of her pale green eyes. “It was such a last-minute business.”

Clara had been surprised, but the spontaneity of the invitation had not been the reason. She hardly knew Lady Petunia Pierpont. To be singled out by someone of her rank not once but twice was a circumstance for which she could find no explanation, especially since the duke’s family, having so recently been rocked by scandal, were receiving a decidedly cool reception from most of society this season.

If all that wasn’t enough to make Lady Petunia’s invitation to the opera surprising, there was also what had happened this afternoon. No doubt Lady Petunia’s great-nephew would prefer Clara at the bottom of the sea right now than anywhere near the members of his family. Granted, Galbraith and his aunt were not on the best of terms at present, but still, one’s own family was always more important than any outsider, particularly among theton. And the viscount would surely have called upon his aunt after leaving Clara’s offices with the intent of mending their quarrel and restoring his income. But given the fact that she was here tonight, Clara could only conclude that either he didn’t know Lady Petunia had included her in their party, or he had not yet succeeded in regaining any influence with his elderly relation.

“I had no plans this evening but to have dinner at home with my sisters-in-law and retire to bed early,” she replied. “Your invitation may have been spur-of-the-moment, but as I said, I was happy to accept, and I thank you for thinking of me.”

“You are quite welcome, my dear, although as much as I should like to have the credit for inviting you this evening, I don’t deserve it. No, the idea came from my great-nephew, Lord Galbraith.”

Clara stared at Lady Petunia, astonished. “Lord Galbraith suggested that you invite me?”

“He did, and I was delighted to oblige him.”

Galbraith’s anger this afternoon had been plain, his refusal of her proposition quite clear. When he had departed from her office a few hours ago, they had seemed—to her mind, at least—at a stalemate. “I can’t imagine what would inspire him to do such a thing,” she said truthfully.

“Can you not, my dear?”

The implication in that softly uttered question was not only erroneous, it was also absurd, and the idea that Lady Petunia might be harboring the notion that Galbraith had any attraction to her filled Clara with dismay. Still, there was no way to explain the reality, nor was there any point, so Clara looked away, pretending vast interest in the boxes on the opposite side of the theater.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Lady Petunia said, breaking the silence. “But whatever it was that Galbraith said to offend you so grievously the other night, I do hope you can forgive him.”

She had no idea which of that outrageous man’s words the other woman was alluding to, or how she even knew Clara had been offended by anything, but before she could inquire further on the subject, they were interrupted by the very topic of their conversation.

“I can mend my own fences, Auntie Pet. No need for you to do it for me.”

Clara turned to find Galbraith standing behind her chair. Despite his evening clothes and the flutes of champagne he was carrying, he looked every inch the golden, windblown Adonis of ancient Greece to whom she’d first likened him, so much so that Clara’s pulses quickened in response, a reaction that filled her with chagrin.

“And in that spirit of fence-mending,” he went on, lifting the filled glasses in his hands, “I’ve brought Miss Deverill a peace offering.”

This certainly was proving to be an evening of surprises, and champagne was quite a delightful one, for she’d never tasted the stuff in her life before. But she held back from taking it, unwilling to seem too impressed and show how easily she could be disarmed, especially after the set-to they’d had earlier. “Champagne is a rather unorthodox peace offering, isn’t it?”

He grinned. “They didn’t have olive branches on the refreshments menu.”

The laugh was out of her mouth before she could even think to check it, and she appreciated that though Galbraith might be an utter scapegrace, he also had charm. When considered in combination with his breathtaking good looks, it seemed terribly unfair, a cruel trick of Fate played on unsuspecting females, and Clara was heartily glad of the conversation she’d overheard in the tea shop that prevented her from being one of those females.

“I suppose not,” she said, accepting the flute from his hand. She lifted it to her mouth, and took a tentative sip.

It was glorious, utterly glorious, and she smiled, feeling as if she’d just swallowed a mouthful of liquid joy. But when she lifted the glass again for a second, more eager taste, she caught him watching her, his head to one side and a slight smile on his lips, and somehow, the idea of him seeing just how unsophisticated she truly was seemed unbearable. She lowered the glass again, working to school her features to a neutral expression. “As peace offerings go, champagne is probably more successful than a fusty old olive branch. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re here at last, Galbraith,” his aunt put in before he could reply. “I was just telling Miss Deverill how inviting her was your suggestion, and then I wondered if I ought to have admitted the fact, given the time. Being late isn’t the way to make a favorable impression on new acquaintances, my dear.”

“I’m not late though, am I?” he countered, leaning down to press a kiss to his aunt’s cheek.

She sniffed. “Arriving only thirty minutes before the performance isn’t what I’d call punctual, either, especially when we have guests in our box. My great-nephew,” she added, turning to Clara, “is always the last member of the family to arrive for any event. I can never decide if it’s because he possesses an inferior pocket watch, or if he just likes making an entrance.”

Despite this rebuke and their recent quarrel, her affection for him was obvious, and Clara wasn’t the least bit fooled by her disapproving tone. Neither, she noticed, was Galbraith.

“I’m usually the last only because the rest of my family believes arriving half an hour early is the height of punctuality. But,” he added before Lady Petunia could offer a retort, “in this case, Auntie, you’ll be happy to know I was not the last one here. I was, in fact, the first.”

“But where have you been, then? We arrived ages ago.”

“When I got here, you and the rest of our party were nowhere to be found, so I occupied my time by going back down and ordering refreshments.” He held out the second glass to her. “Champagne?”

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