Page 80 of The Trouble with True Love

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, but she knew. She touched a hand to her hair, her blush deepening.

“You look delicious,” he said.

“Do I?” She gave him a wry, sideways smile. “Like shortbread, I suppose?”

“Yes, thank God.” He kissed her. “Because I adore shortbread.”

He turned away to find his clothes, and she tilted her head, studying his body, appreciating the view. He had such splendid shoulders. And also, she realized as he bent to reach for his discarded trousers, a very splendid bum.

He turned back around and caught her watching him. She tried to paste on an innocent, lamblike stare, but he grinned, not the least bit fooled.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked and pulled on his trousers.

She made a face at him. “I was, until you put on those trousers and ruined it.”

He laughed softly as he reached down to retrieve his smoking jacket from the floor. He started to put it on, but then, he stopped, and for no reason she could think of, he bundled it into his hand instead. He went still, staring at it for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and lifted his head to look at her. His face was so grave, it startled her.

“Rex? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He smiled a little. “Try to get some sleep tonight, all right?”

Sleep? She stared at him in disbelief as he turned away to open the door. She couldn’t possibly fall asleep now. She’d never felt more awake, more alive in her entire life. She felt as if she could conquer the world. Did people truly fall asleep after such an extraordinary experience?

But before she could ask him that question, he was already gone.

Chapter 18

Perhaps it was the amazing and strenuous adventures of the night, or perhaps the fact that she’d been working so many late hours at the paper, but whatever the reason and despite her predictions on the subject, Clara succumbed to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and the only reason she woke was the fact that someone was moving around in her room.

Eyes closed, her senses still groggy, she wondered what Rex was still doing here. Hadn’t he gone? A vague memory of him slipping out her door came into her sleep-dazed mind, but the moment it did, any speculations about what he was doing back again vanished as she remembered the amazing things he’d done earlier.

Never, until last night, had she ever felt truly pretty. But when he’d knelt in front of her and called her lovely, when she’d heard the hushed, awestruck quality of his voice, it had made her heart sing with a joy and a confidence in her own feminine power that she’d never possessed before. When he had kissed and caressed her, she’d felt every bit as lovely as he’d deemed her, and a lifetime of gawky awkwardness, of feeling overlooked and plain had melted away under the scorching heat of his eyes and his hands and his mouth. Even now, it was still with her, that feeling, and she smiled in her sleep.

A drawer opened and closed, intruding on blissful, dreamlike memories, and she decided Rex could not possibly still be in her room, for why would he be opening drawers? With an effort, she dragged her eyes open to find the gas jets lit, a bright crack of light coming through between the closed draperies, and her maid putting undergarments away in the chiffonier.

“Forrester?” she mumbled, blinking against the light. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Clara.” The maid turned, offering her an apologetic look. “You were sleeping ever so sound, I didn’t think putting away a few things would wake you.”

“It’s all right.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, trying to come awake. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eleven.”

“Eleven? What?” Astonished, Clara bolted upright, fully awake. “So late?”

The plump, middle-aged maid nodded. “Yes, miss. I’d have woken you, but you were sleeping ever so, and I thought it best to let you be. You’ve been working so hard and been so tired lately. I hope I haven’t done wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” she hastened to assure. “And I suppose you’re right that I must have needed the rest. Quarter past eleven? Goodness, I never sleep so late.”

Even as she spoke, she thought of what she’d spent her night doing, and she hastily turned away before Forrester could see any hint of her thoughts in her expression. Shoving aside sheets and counterpane, she got out of bed on the opposite side from where her maid was standing and walked to the window. Pulling back the drapery a fraction, she blinked a little at the bright sunlight. “What a lovely day. What are the carriages for?” she asked, noting several broughams and landaus in the drive.

“Miss Chapman has arranged a picnic luncheon to the White Cliffs for anyone who wants to go,” Forrester said. “There will be luncheon here, too, of course, for anyone who chooses to stay behind, and after the picnicking party returns, there’s to be croquet and tennis.”

“Tennis?” Clara thought of Rex, how splendid he had looked on the court in tennis whites. And how much more splendid he’d looked without them. She closed her eyes, picturing his naked body, his wide shoulders, the powerful muscles of his back and arms, the lean and luscious lines of his bum. She’d sensed the first time she’d ever seen him how athletic he was—more suited, she remembered, to some ancient Olympiad than to a sedate little London tea shop. Seeing his magnificent body had proved her instincts right.

What about her other instincts? she wondered suddenly. Which had been right, the ones that had deemed him a rake and a cad, or the ones that had allowed him to stay with her and lie with her? Maybe both, she realized, and she felt a sudden jolt of misgiving.

I’ve been trying to keep you safe... from me.

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