Though Clara had lived in London her entire life, she had been inside the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden only once, and the view she’d had then from her inexpensive seat in the stalls could not compare to the view she had now.

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 the ton. 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 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?”

She waved aside the offered glass. “No, no, thank you. I had two glasses of wine with dinner. Champagne so soon afterward will make me tipsy.”

“I believe I’d like to see that,” he murmured, earning himself a look of reproof.

“Now that you are here, Galbraith, I shall leave Miss Deverill in your hands and mingle with some of our other guests. Try not to offend her again, if you please. And Miss Deverill?” She turned to Clara. “If he dares to be impertinent, you have my leave to turn your back on him and walk away, just as you did at my ball.”

With that, she departed for the other end of the room, and Galbraith moved between chairs to join Clara at the rail.

Clara turned toward him. “Lady Petunia doesn’t know about that, does she?” she asked in alarm, glancing back to be sure the other woman was out of earshot.

“About what?”

She faced him again, her gaze rising as far as his tie, but she knew from the heat in her cheeks that her face was about the same rose-pink shade as her evening gown. “What you said,” she whispered, oddly more embarrassed now about his suggestion of kissing her than she’d been at the time.

But he only laughed. “God, no. If she knew I’d made such a naughty proposition to a young lady, she’d not only have stopped giving me an income, she’d have flayed me alive. No, that secret stays between us, if you don’t mind.”

Relieved, she lifted her gaze to his, and at the sight of those brilliant eyes, she suddenly wanted to know why he’d made that wicked proposition in the first place. But she’d have died rather than ask.

“I’m glad you came,” he said in the wake of her silence. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Was my presence here really at your instigation?”

“You seem skeptical.”

“Should I not be? When you left my offices this afternoon, you seemed angry enough with me to spit nails.”

“That’s true enough,” he conceded, leaning one hip against the railing. “But if you knew me better, you’d know I don’t hold grudges. I . . .” He paused and looked down, frowning into the glass in his hand. “Holding onto anger, Miss Deverill, is an ugly thing, something I’ve watched people do through most of my life, and it never answers. Therefore, I strive never to do it.” He paused and looked at her again, lifting his glass. “Truce?”

“Truce,” she agreed, clinking her glass to his. “I’m not the sort to hold grudges either.”

His eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. “Good, because I’m afraid my effort to mend fences with you has an ulterior motive. I’m wondering if your offer of employment is still open?”

Clara froze, her champagne glass halfway to her lips, feeling a jolt of hope, for her attempts to compose an answer for the Devastated Debutante after his departure this afternoon had been dismally unsuccessful. “Why do you ask? Have you changed your mind about accepting it?”

“That depends,” he said, an ambiguous reply that reminded Clara getting one’s hopes up about a man like this was a foolish thing to do, even as she mentally crossed her fingers.

“Yes,” she answered, “my offer is still open.”

“Before you say that, I must warn you, I have a few conditions of my employment. For one thing, my fee would need to be one hundred and twenty-five pounds per column.”

“Done,” she said, too relieved to quibble about an additional two hundred pounds, especially since the paper could easily afford to pay it.

“And,” he went on, “I would require all the money in advance.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, all. That is a nonnegotiable point,” he added before she could reply.

“Wages are usually paid only after the work has been done,” she felt compelled to point out.

“True, but anything less than one thousand pounds paid immediately negates my sudden need for funds.” He did not explain further. Instead, in the wake of her silence, he raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid I won’t come up to snuff and you shall have to give me the sack before I’ve earned my pay?”

“Let’s just say I’m not sure I can trust you to take the responsibilities of the job seriously. Laughing,” she admonished as his smile widened, “only underscores my concern. Writing the Lady Truelove column is not a lark, Lord Galbraith. It is a task that requires serious thought and deliberation.”

“Inventing problems for fictitious correspondents and scribbling advice to solve those problems seems rather a lark to me, but I won’t debate the point.”

She could have told him that the people Lady Truelove advised were not fictitious, but she decided to save any explanations of what would be required of him for later. If he truly was serious about taking this on, she didn’t want to scare him off. “I will pay the funds in advance. Are we agreed?”

He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he turned toward the rail, staring out at the boxes across the way. “I have one other condition.”

Clara frowned, hating the feeling of being on tenterhooks. “You really do believe in pushing your luck, don’t you?”

He gave a little laugh at that. “You have no idea how true that is,” he muttered without looking at her.

“So,” she prompted when he did not elaborate, “what is this third condition?”

“It’s not so much a condition as it is a request. Or a warning, depending on how you choose to see it.”

“Warning?”

“Yes.” He turned again to face her. “I intend to begin paying you my addresses, Miss Deverill.”

“Paying . . .” Her voice failed, and Clara stared at him, too stunned to continue any sort of reply. His aunt had hinted something like this might be in the wind, but she’d dismissed that as a ridiculous notion. It seemed every bit as ridiculous now. “I don’t think I quite understand,” she said at last.

“I wish to court you. I should like you to allow me the privilege.”

“What?” She burst out laughing, her usual reaction when anyone caught her utterly by surprise. “But we don’t even like each other.”

A hint of a smile curved his mouth. “You mean, you don’t like me.”

Clara made a face, not the least bit fooled by the qualification. “If you have any liking for me, it’s only because you like women.”

“So I do.”

“And I happen to be a woman.”

His gaze lowered, skimming over her body in that slow way of his, a look that in this small room full of people seemed as intimate as a caress. “So you are.”

At that softly uttered acknowledgement, Clara’s heart leapt in her chest with such force, it almost hurt. Her toes curled in her satin slippers, and heat flooded not only her cheeks, but her entire body, a reaction she found aggravating beyond belief.

She took a fortifying swallow of champagne, working to contain these traitorous and most unwelcome responses of her physical body and think with clarity. “If you have any liking for me, you didn’t display it this afternoon.”

“No, but I was very angry with you. As we already discussed, I’ve gotten over it.”

“And what a relief it is, too. Now I can sleep at night.”

He laughed. “You see? That is one of the things I like about you: your unflinching ability to put me in my place. Most women don’t.”

That, she feared, was nothing less than the truth. “Either way,” she said, “the idea that you are inspired by any romantic notions about me is ludicrous. What is this really about?”

“Believe it or not, even I am capable of being romantic on occasion. But since you insist upon believing the worst about me anyway, I will lay my cards on the table and tell you the unvarnished truth. You will no doubt be relieved to know that in this case I am not being romantic.”

Having never had much in the way of romance, Clara wasn’t quite as relieved as she probably ought to have been, especially when she looked into his devastatingly handsome face. “I see.”

“As the Earl of Leyland’s only son and heir, I am entitled to an allowance from the estate, but that allowance is bestowed at my father’s sole discretion. Recently, in an attempt to control my behavior, he cut me off.”

“Yes, I had heard gossip to that effect. Something about too much high living,” she couldn’t help adding.

He gave a short laugh, though he didn’t really seem amused. “That is the gossip, certainly. And now, as you already know,” he added before she could ask if there was more to the story, “my aunt has withdrawn the income she was so kindly providing me.”

“But why should that prompt you to . . . to p . . . pay addresses to . . .” She paused in the midst of this stammering reiteration of his proposition, feeling as if a thousand butterflies were fluttering around in her stomach. Taking a breath, she tried to ask her question in a different way. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

He met her inquiring gaze with an unwavering one of his own. “If I begin courting a woman, my income will be reinstated.”

Despite her knowledge of his character, Clara felt a stab of disappointment. It was an emotion with which she was quite familiar—the disappointment of the wallflower when the handsome man walked right by her to ask her prettier friend to dance or when the man seated beside her at dinner kept talking to the girl on his other side. In this case, however, Clara knew feeling let down was not only irrational, it was stupid. But it hurt, damn it, salt in the wounds of all her insecurities.

Still, she couldn’t afford to show any of that, not with the future of Lady Truelove at stake. And it wasn’t as if she wanted him. She was far too clear-eyed about him to do so. Nonetheless, she couldn’t prevent an acerbic bite in her voice as she replied. “I’m flattered, Lord Galbraith. How could I not be, in the face of such overwhelming attentions?”

“Would you prefer it if my reason were the usual one?” His lashes lowered a fraction. “If my request were borne of a deep and passionate regard?”

“God, no!” she cried, alarmed by the prospect, though she wasn’t sure what, precisely, she found so unsettling.

He shrugged. “There we are then.”

His nonchalance was another prick to her pride, but Clara ignored it. “What makes you think courting a woman will soften your aunt’s position?”

“It’s not my aunt I’m concerned about, but to answer your question, no man can be expected to conduct a courtship if he hasn’t the income to support a wife. If I begin paying you my attentions, my great-aunt will inform my father, and if Leyland thinks I am at last intending to find a wife, he will resume my allowance from the estate.”

“Or he’ll suspect it’s all a hum.”

“He can’t afford to take the chance. Leyland needs me to marry to secure the succession of the earldom to his own son. His pride, you see, can’t bear the idea that the title and estates could pass to a distant cousin who earns a living making boots. On the other hand, he can hardly expect his ambition to be fulfilled if I have no income, for no woman would take a man’s courtship seriously if he has no money to support her. By courting you, I force my father’s hand.”

Clara took a deep breath and shoved down any silly notions of disappointment. “Why choose me? There are many women, I’m sure, who would welcome your suit. Why direct your attentions to me?”

“Despite what you may think of me, I have no wish to encourage an unknowing woman’s expectations.”

“And I wouldn’t have such expectations?”

“Of me?” His expression turned rueful. “Be honest, Miss Deverill. We both know you wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man on earth.”

Last man on earth, a little voice inside her head piped up to say, might be a bit of an exaggeration. Clara tore her gaze from his stunning face and told the little voice in her head to shut up.

She gazed out at the crowd and tried to consider with objective detachment the ramifications of what he was suggesting. From his point of view, she supposed it made a sort of sense. For her, however, it was untenable.

“You’re quite right that I wouldn’t ever dream of marrying you,” she said at last, returning her gaze to his. “But that fact brings up another fact, one that—even if I conceded all the things you are telling me as true—makes what you are asking impossible.”

“What’s that?”

“Unlike you, I want to marry. That is one of the main reasons I am participating in the events of the season, to meet eligible young men.”

“Ah.” That reply seemed to indicate that he appreciated her point, but his reply, when it came, demonstrated otherwise. “All the better, then, for both of us. What’s the problem?”

She frowned, bewildered by the question. “I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged. “If finding a man to marry is your goal, I can’t think of a better way to accomplish it than by agreeing to my plan.”

Clara began to wonder if he was touched in the head. “But if you are paying me your attentions openly, other men will see that.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Exactly.”

“They will assume that I am . . . that we . . . that I have regard f . . . for . . .”

She stopped and took another deep breath. “Other men will see us together,” she said after a moment, speaking with deliberate care so that she didn’t stammer. “They will conclude that my feelings are already engaged, that I have formed an attachment to you. They will steer clear of me altogether.”

“No, my sweet lamb, that’s exactly what they won’t do.”

“I don’t see how you make that out.”

“Men thrive on competition, and yet, we are also deathly afraid of rejection. If you are not dancing, for example, most men assume it’s because you don’t want to do so, and so they don’t ask you. But if you agree to my plan, other men will see you dancing with me, be encouraged, and start approaching you.”

“Will they?” She made a face. “They didn’t after we danced the other night. I spent the rest of the evening in my usual place, with the other wallflowers. Your attentions didn’t change a thing.”

“Only because you snubbed me by walking away after our dance was over, preventing me from doing the proper thing and escorting you back to your place. My aunt assumed your action was the result of something I said that must have offended you, but most men wouldn’t draw such a conclusion. Any men observing us no doubt concluded that you were the one who snubbed me.”

“And therefore, I would also be likely to snub them?”

“Just so. The opposite is also true. If you draw my attentions, you will draw theirs. Trust me on this.”

“Asking me to trust you,” she said, “is asking a lot.”

He grinned. “I’m sure. But look at it this way. You want me to take on the role of Lady Truelove, which is to give people advice. Why would you do that if you can’t even accept the advice I give you?”

“Somehow, it seems easier to unleash you on the rest of the world than upon myself,” she confessed. “If you’re wrong, you know, I spend the next two months with no male company but yours.”

“A fate worse than death,” he said gravely.

“You have no idea,” she muttered. “But even if you’re right, what you’re asking me to do is to deliberately mislead the members of your family.”

“No, I’m simply asking you to not to spurn me outright if I pay you my attentions. Dance with me at balls, accept invitations to dinner where I will also be invited, play an occasional duet with me at the piano, talk with me for more than two minutes at a party and seem pleased to see me—” He broke off, flashing her a smile. “Really Clara, you needn’t look as if I’ve just suggested you eat raw lemons.”

“Well,” she began, but he forestalled her before she could applaud the aptness of that comparison.

“You’ve already made your opinion of me clear as glass. No need to hammer my masculine pride into the ground, is there?”

“You could do with a bit more hammering of that sort, in my opinion. Just how long,” she hastened on before he could reply, “would you require this charade to go on?” Even as she asked the question, she couldn’t believe she was even considering his mad idea.

Mad ideas, her pesky little voice reminded, have become your special gift.

“The two months I am in your employ should suffice. By then, my father will undoubtedly have reinstated my allowance.”

“And then?”

“I propose marriage, you refuse me. Devastated, unable to even think about courting anyone else—at least until next year—I depart London for a cottage in the country, where I shall spend my time working to mend my broken heart. You, meanwhile, will enjoy the rest of your season surrounded by men who adore you madly and are heartily glad I’m now out of the running.”

“You seem to have given this plan a great deal of thought. What if during this supposed courtship your aunt asks me about my feelings for you? What then? Am I supposed to lie?”

“I’ve seen firsthand your ability to dissemble when the occasion calls for it,” he countered dryly. “But, no, you needn’t worry, for Auntie would never dream of inquiring into your feelings for me. That would be an unspeakable invasion of your privacy. She will merely observe my interest in you and cross her fingers in the hope that her matchmaking efforts on my behalf might be paying off at long last.”

“You can twist this any way you like, but you are still attempting to deceive her, and your father, too.”

“During the next two months, I shall fervently deny any romantic interest in you at every possible opportunity.”

“An action which will only serve to reinforce the opposite notion in their minds!”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if people don’t believe what I say.”

She laughed, shaking her head, amazed anew at how skillfully he could paint a picture for people that was completely different from reality without actually lying. “You really are a scoundrel.”

“I know it seems that way.”

“I don’t see how any other interpretation is possible.”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment before he replied. “It must be lovely to have the luxury of such strong, unshakable ideals,” he murmured. “To be able to distinguish so clearly what is right and what is wrong.”

She stirred, those words making her feel oddly defensive. “Some rights and wrongs are plain enough.”

“Are they? Honesty, most would say, is a virtue. Yet honesty has done little to help me, for I have always been scrupulously honest about my determination never to wed, yet certain members of my family refuse to accept it. Absolute honesty, Miss Deverill, has gotten me nowhere.”

“They don’t believe your resolve sincere?”

“They don’t want to believe it. My father’s motivation stems from the need to preserve the earldom with a secure succession. My aunt’s reasons stem from her deep love and affection for me, and she has conveniently convinced herself that marriage would be a good thing for me, that it would settle me down and make me a responsible chap.”

“And it wouldn’t?”

His lips twisted in a crooked, sideways smile. “You seem to understand me enough to judge. What do you think?”

Clara thought of Elsie Clark tripping over herself to please him, and she appreciated that only a woman with a heart of stone or one with no sense of self-preservation would ever agree to marry him. “Let’s just say that I long ago stopped confusing wishes with realities.”

He laughed. “As I said, you have a very clear-cut view of the world. My relations, alas, are not inclined to share such a view, at least not when it comes to me.”

“You could simply tell them all to go hang. Your reluctance to do so tells me that you want the money your family provides you, and you also want the freedom to do just as you please.”

“Well, I do like having my cake, I confess,” he said, the very blandness of his voice making her certain he was teasing her.

“Why is money so important?” she asked, refusing to be diverted.

“For one thing, it’s deuced hard to pay rent and buy food without it.”

“It’s also hard to enjoy life’s more frivolous pursuits, such as—how did you put it in the tea shop?—’wine, women, and song.’”

Her reply bothered him, she could tell, though whether that was due to her reminder of his lifestyle or the consequences of his conversation with his friend, she couldn’t be certain. When he spoke, however, his voice was light and careless.

“It’s the women that take the lion’s share, I’m afraid.” He smiled, but it was one that didn’t reach his eyes. Defiance seethed in their blue depths like the turbulence of a stormy sea, telling her any disapproval she might feel could go straight to perdition. “Women, experience has taught me, are deuced expensive.”

Those words seemed to confirm everything she knew of him, and everything she’d heard, and yet, they rang strangely hollow. As she studied his face, Clara felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of doubt about her own judgement. Was he really as great a rake as she thought him to be?

The moment the question crossed her mind, she wondered how many other women before her had asked themselves the very same thing. How many had longed, however much they knew it was futile, to believe he was a better man than his reputation and his actions painted him? How many had confused wishes with reality? Dozens, she’d wager.

Clara decided it was best to return to the topic at hand. “Do you really expect me to agree to help you manipulate your family?”

He shrugged. “Certain members of my family wish to manipulate me into something I have already made clear I do not want. Is it so wrong of me to exercise a little manipulation of my own? Besides,” he added before she could think of how to answer, “if any manipulation is required, I shall be the one doing it. You, my lamb, are only required to do one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Be nice to me.” He stirred, leaning a fraction closer to her. His gaze lowered to her mouth, and his smile faded away. “Would that be so hard, Clara?”

At the soft murmur of her name, her throat went dry. Her lips parted, but no words came out of her mouth. Under his heated gaze, the alarm she felt whenever shyness tied her tongue seemed ten times worse than usual, pressing against her chest like a weight.

“No harder than having teeth drawn,” she managed at last, but the tartness of her words was utterly spoiled by the breathlessness of her voice.

He laughed softly. “Fair enough,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “I’ll settle for having your polite tolerance. Will you allow me that?”

“I s . . . s . . . suppose I can manage that much,” she said. “I sh . . . shouldn’t like to b . . . be rude to anyone, not even you.”

“Do we have a bargain?”

She glanced away, her gaze skimming over the people gathered around the table of refreshments nearby. She did not like the idea of helping him encourage an impression for his family that wasn’t authentic, and she wasn’t at all sure that other men would find his attentions to her a spur of encouragement rather than a deterrent. But what other choice did she have? Irene was counting on her, and as Lady Truelove, she was a painfully inadequate substitute for her sister. She could not bear the idea of failing in her assignment and letting Irene down. And though this afternoon Galbraith had told her his threat to reveal Lady Truelove’s identity had been a bluff, she wasn’t altogether sure she could trust him on that score.

“Very well,” she said before she could talk herself out of this. “We have a bargain. I’ll have a footman deliver the latest batch of Lady Truelove’s letters to you first thing in the morning, along with a bank draft of one thousand pounds.”

“Letters?” He gave a laugh, staring at her in disbelief. “You mean real letters from real people?”

“Of course. What?” she added, savoring his surprise. “Did you think we invent them?”

“Something like that, yes,” he confessed, sobering, and she could tell he was appreciating the reality of what he’d just taken on.

“Sorry if you were hoping to spend the next two months writing fiction,” she said, rather relishing his chagrin. “But being Lady Truelove requires you to help actual people resolve genuine problems. As I said, I’ll have the latest correspondence delivered to you in the morning. From those letters, you must choose one, write a response suitable for publication, and deliver it to me by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Two o’clock? That’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t it?”

“I regret the short deadline, but it can’t be helped. You’ll have more time for your future efforts, but the upcoming edition goes to press Saturday night.”

“Today is only Thursday.”

“I require time to contact your chosen correspondent and acquire formal permission to publish their letter. I will also need to make sure your answer is appropriate.”

“I daresay even I can manage to be appropriate when the occasion calls for it,” he said, his voice suspiciously grave.

She frowned. “Don’t be glib about this. The people who write to Lady Truelove will be counting upon you for genuine guidance. I intend to make sure you don’t disappoint them or guide them in a morally improper direction. And I expect you to take this job seriously.”

“I shall do my best to come up to snuff. Just remember, this sort of thing works both ways.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ve told me what you expect of me, but I haven’t yet told you what I expect of you.”

Clara’s heart gave a hard thump against her ribs, and it was several seconds before she could respond.

“But you did tell me, remember?” she said at last, managing to inject a deceptive sweetness into her voice. “You intend to court me.” She gave him a wide, bright smile. “I merely have to tolerate you.”

He laughed, but before he could reply, the bells sounded, indicating that the performance was about to begin. Clara turned away and took her seat, but when Galbraith moved behind her chair and bent down close to her ear, she discovered their conversation was not quite over.

“I realize I’ll be doing all the work,” he murmured, his voice low so the others moving to take their seats would not overhear. “Nonetheless . . .” He paused, his warm breath against her ear making her shiver. “I think I got the better bargain, Clara.”

Suddenly, every cell in her body was tingling with awareness. She could smell the sandalwood fragrance of his shaving lotion. She could feel the tickle of one unruly lock of his hair against her temple. She could almost hear the hard thud of her own heartbeat.

Thankfully, the lights dimmed. He straightened to take his own seat somewhere behind her, but though he was unable to see the evidence of how his closeness and his words affected her, she feared he was fully aware of the feelings he had evoked. He was, she acknowledged in chagrin, that sort of man.

The orchestra began to play the overture to Verdi’s Aida, but even over the music, she could still hear his words from that afternoon echoing in her mind.

I know women.

He certainly did. And though he might be right that he was the one required to do all the work in this mock courtship, it wasn’t as if her part was going to be a stroll in the park. Quite the contrary, for only a few suggestive words on his part, and she could barely draw breath.

Clara pressed a hand to her tightly corseted ribs and grimaced. This mock courtship hadn’t even begun, but she feared she might already be in over her head.