Page 60 of The Trouble with True Love

“Not to you.” She sobered. “Be careful, Rex. Don’t... hurt her.”

He stirred, already quite aware of the damage a man like him could inflict upon a girl like Clara if the desire he felt for her was allowed free rein. “I told you, Miss Deverill has no romantic aspirations about me whatsoever. She knows me for just what I am.”

“That’s rather what I’m afraid of.” With that enigmatic comment, Hetty rose and walked away, leaving Rex to watch Clara and battle the dragons of his lust.

Chapter 13

During the remainder of the picnic and the fortnight that followed it, Clara played the role she’d agreed upon. At every social function to which she and Rex were both invited, she greeted his attentions with the polite tolerance she’d promised, but nothing more.

As for Rex, he became the quintessential gentlemanly suitor, interested but not too interested. He sent his next two columns to her office through the post, for as he explained on one of the rare occasions when they could manage a private word, if he came to her office every Thursday on Lady Truelove’s behalf, the members of her staff were sure to suspect the truth. And though he occasionally called on her at the duke’s house, with Carlotta hovering as a proper chaperone should, slipping her a letter of any sort would have been impossible.

His interest in her was duly noted by society, as was her indifference to him, and not only did it give the gossip columnists a great deal of amusement at his expense, it also succeeded in drawing the notice of other men, just as he’d predicted it would.

Clara, who hadn’t really believed him on that score, was rather taken aback when several young men, as well as the members of their families, began calling on her. Unprepared, she found it hard to manage the newfound attention, but she resisted the urge to withdraw back into her shy shell.

She did her best to apply the advice Rex had given the Devastated Debutante to her own situation, and she was amazed to discover that though she might not be as beautiful as her sister, she did have certain powers of attraction. And though she stammered her way awkwardly through quite a few conversations, she soon learned the art of making fun of her own stammering tongue. In every conversation, she strove to set aside her self-consciousness, and she worked hard to make every person she spoke with feel at ease in her company. Slowly, gradually, she grew more comfortable with attention, began to relax, and gained a measure of confidence that she’d never possessed before. For the first time since she entered society, she began to truly enjoy herself.

But it was in early June, at her second ball of the season, when Clara realized just how much society’s view of her had changed. She’d barely greeted her hosts and entered the ballroom before one of the many young men she’d met during the past two weeks approached her and asked for his name to be placed on her dance card. He’d barely departed before there was another, and then another, and within fifteen minutes her dance card was nearly full.

“Heavens, Clara,” Sarah said, laughing. “You are the belle of the ball this evening.”

Astonished, pleased, and more than a little bemused, Clara glanced over the names on the card attached to her wrist. “It must be the dress,” she said, making her friends laugh even though she’d only been half joking.

“If it is the dress,” Angela put in, “then I definitely deserve some credit.”

“You?” Sarah made a sound of derision. “I’m the one who advised her to pick the rose-pink silk atViviennebecause pink’s her best color.”

“Yes,” Angela responded at once, “but I’m the one who advised her to lower the neckline.”

“Only because we read it in Lady Truelove.”

As her sisters-in-law debated the issue, Clara glanced down, dubious. Low neckline or no, she doubted her less-than-impressive bust was the reason for her recent social success, and when she looked up again, she knew it for a fact, because standing only a few feet away was the real reason.

He was watching her, his face grave, hands in the trouser pockets of his evening suit and one shoulder propped against a marble column. Windblown, rakish, a modern Adonis come to earth, and her breath caught in her throat.

Perceiving her gaze on him, Rex straightened away from the column and came toward her. “Good evening, ladies,” he greeted with a bow. “I’d have stepped forward sooner, but I was waiting for the crowd to clear. I thought I might be trampled.”

Stifled giggles from her companions greeted this declaration, and then, somehow, Angela and Sarah were gone, and she and Galbraith were alone.

“I hope I didn’t wait too long to ask to be added to your dance card?” he said. “You’ve been surrounded ever since you arrived, penciling in name after name.”

“I have, haven’t I?” She laughed. “Heavens. How astonishing.”

“Very,” he agreed, his mouth curving at one corner. “Who’d ever have predicted such a thing?”

She made a face at him. “You were right,” she conceded. “Is that why you came over here? To gloat?”

“Not at all. I told you why I came.” He nodded to the card dangling from her wrist. “Unless I’m too late?”

“I have a few places left.” She caught up her dance card and glanced over it. “I still have the Roger de Coverley, two quadrilles, a mazurka—”

“Not a mazurka,” he cut in. “Those are dangerous.”

The memory of their conversation the first time they’d danced together made her smile, and when she looked up, she found that he was smiling, too. “And do you have nefarious intentions?” she asked, putting on a frown of mock disapproval.

“Always.” It was a rake’s answer, careless and glib, and for some reason, it hurt.

She returned her attention to her dance card. “I have one waltz left, too, if...” She paused, her voice suddenly failing as she thought of being in his arms again. It was only a dance, in full view of everyone, not an intimate embrace on a settee, but that distinction didn’t seem to matter, for at the thought of it, heat flooded her body and all her newfound poise started dissolving. Her gloved fingers tightened around the card as that old familiar shyness pressed her chest, but she made herself finish what she’d intended to say. “I have one w... waltz left... if... if you w... want it.”

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