Rex had no illusions about his own character. He liked women, he’d discovered just what delights they could offer about the time he turned fifteen, and he had never suffered any pangs of conscience about the fact that most of the delights he preferred were carnal in nature.

And though he did have certain strict rules when it came to his conduct with women, he’d never been one for suppressing naughty thoughts about them, particularly nowadays when thoughts were all he could afford. By the time he sat down behind Clara, the image of her laughing face and the orange-blossom scent of her hair had already lit the erotic fires of his imagination.

Unfortunately, the view he had of her now afforded that fire little in the way of fuel. Her back, sheathed completely in deep pink silk, her hair, swept up in its usual severe braided crown, the back of her long, slender neck—he stopped there, his gaze caught at her nape just above the edge of her evening gown.

In the dimness of the theater, her pale skin seemed to gleam like alabaster, but he’d wager it was as soft as velvet. If he leaned forward and kissed her there, he could find out for sure.

He closed his eyes, savoring the imagined texture of her skin against his mouth, and the desire in his body deepened and spread. His breathing quickened at the imagined scent of orange blossoms. A picture of her formed in his mind, an image of all that brown hair unbraided and falling loose around her small, round breasts and pale pink nipples.

Fully aroused, he shifted in his seat and grimaced, appreciating that this sort of thinking did have its drawbacks. Unrelieved, it would soon make him deuced uncomfortable. And since with her it could never be relieved, going down this road was probably unwise.

Clara Deverill was not a dancer at the Gaiety, or a woman on the town. She was innocent, pure, and definitely marriage-minded. Her opinion of his character put him just a little above—or perhaps even below—the slimy muck that lined the bottom of ponds. She might look as soft as a lamb, but she had a surprisingly steely core and a staunch sense of morality. And though she had a bit of a stammer when she was nervous, her tongue could sting him quite well when the need arose.

If he hoped any of that would put paid to his erotic imaginings, however, he was mistaken, for he immediately began contemplating various ways Clara could employ her tongue for purposes more pleasurable than stinging him, and he shifted in his seat again.

“For heaven’s sake, Rex,” his cousin Henrietta whispered beside him, “what is wrong with you? You’re wriggling like a boy at Sunday service.”

Rex gave a caustic chuckle. “You have no idea how inappropriate that analogy is right now, Hetty,” he muttered and opened his eyes.

“Indeed?” purred his cousin. “Dare I wonder who is the subject of these irreverent thoughts? Do tell.”

Rex cast a sideways glance at her, noting her amused expression. “Nothing to tell,” he said and looked away, pretending a sudden interest in the performance going on below. “And even if there were,” he added, striving to sound carelessly blasé, “it wouldn’t matter. As a gentleman, I am obligated to keep mum.”

“Such discretion does you credit, of course, though I shouldn’t think it necessary. But then . . .” She paused, her gaze glancing sideways to the seat directly in front of his. “Perhaps we’re not talking about a Gaiety Girl.”

There was a question in those words, giving him the perfect opportunity to begin playing the part he’d created for himself, but before he could affirm the direction of her speculations, Clara’s words of a short time ago came back to him.

What you’re asking me to do is deliberately mislead the members of your family.

He stirred in his chair again, frustrated by something beyond mere physical discomfort. Guilt was an emotion he did not care for and could certainly not afford to indulge.

He did not respond to Hetty’s inquiry, however. He simply smiled, and his cousin, thankfully, returned her attention to the stage.

Rex tried to do the same, but it wasn’t long before his gaze strayed again to the woman in front of him, and his imagination once again set to work. As he contemplated undoing the silk-covered buttons down her back and kissing the soft skin of her neck, he succeeded in banishing from his mind any notions of guilt about his chosen course, but these delightful contemplations also caused his lust to flare up even more hotly than before, and he appreciated he had another problem, one far more inconvenient than the whispers of his conscience, one with implications he’d hadn’t really considered until this moment.

Clara was a woman he could not bed, and though a few lusty thoughts about her made for a damned fine diversion, if he allowed them to become a habit, his life would become damnably frustrating. Unrequited lust was a devilish thing.

The first act came to an end, and Rex knew he had about three quarters of an hour before the intermission to bring his body and mind back under stern regulation. In most cases, that would be more than enough time to distract his thoughts from a particular woman, but as he studied Clara’s slim, straight back and the long, delicate line of her neck, he suspected he would need every one of those forty-five minutes.

Attending the opera provided few opportunities to converse with others, and Clara could only be grateful for the fact, for Galbraith’s extraordinary proposition had left her rather at sixes and sevens. Looking back on it the following morning, the entire episode felt like something out of a dream.

Reminding herself that its dreamlike quality stemmed from the fact that it was a sham courtship, Clara strove to remember her priorities. As promised, she sent him Lady Truelove’s correspondence first thing in the morning, and on impulse, she enclosed a personal note as well, suggesting he consider the Devastated Debutante’s letter for his first column. She strove to give her recommendation an appearance of professional interest by stressing the wide appeal of the Debutante’s problem, and she hoped he wouldn’t realize her action was motivated by a deeper purpose.

After dispatching the bundle of letters to his residence in Half Moon Street, she turned her attention to the articles Mr. Beale had selected for that week’s edition and the layouts he had designed for them, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate longer than five minutes at a time. Despite her best efforts, Galbraith and his outrageous proposal insisted on invading her mind.

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

Some girls, of course, had men lined up around the block who were eager to express such sentiments, but for Clara, that sort of thing was rare indeed. Even now, eighteen hours later, his words still evoked the same undeniable thrill they had the night before. Her lips still tingled at the memory of his heated gaze.

He’d been thinking about kissing her last night. Clara had no experience with kissing at all, but she’d recognized the look in his eyes as he’d stared at her mouth. It was the same look he’d given her on the dance floor at his aunt’s ball.

A kiss would break quite a few rules, wouldn’t it?

The thrill within her grew stronger, and Clara scowled down at the layouts on her desk, aggravated with herself. For a man like him, a kiss was probably nothing—as easy as winking and just as easily forgotten. As for this courtship, it was a charade for the morally-questionable purpose of misleading his family, and when she thought of them—Lady Petunia, Sir Albert, and the various cousins she’d met last night, Clara couldn’t help doubting herself for agreeing to such an outrageous proposition.

Still, the deed was done, the agreement made, so she tried to look on the bright side. Perhaps he was right that his notice of her would draw her to the attention of other possible suitors, suitors who might also wish to pay her romantic attentions, who might want to kiss her.

Somehow, that didn’t seem quite as thrilling a prospect, and Clara tossed down her pencil with a sigh of exasperation. Damn the man, what was it about him—

A knock on her door interrupted, and Clara hastily seized her pencil. “Come in,” she called, bending over the layouts and striving to seem hard at work as the door opened.

“Miss Deverill.”

She looked up and felt again the inclination to sigh, but for a completely different reason. “Mr. Beale,” she greeted the editor without enthusiasm. “What can I do for you? If you’ve come for the layouts, I’ve not quite finished with them, but I’ll bring them to you the minute I’ve finished—”

“Lady Truelove’s column has not yet arrived,” he cut in with his usual impatience. “At least, that is what Miss Huish told me just now before she departed for lunch. Is that true?”

“Miss Huish is only going to lunch now?” Clara glanced down at the brooch watch pinned to her lapel. “But it’s nearly two o’clock.”

“I instructed her to wait until after she’d sorted the afternoon post, and it was late in arriving today.”

Clara frowned. “It is not right to keep someone this long without a break for lunch.”

“I haven’t had my lunch either, Miss Deverill,” he answered sourly, “not that I expect you to care about that.”

Deciding she must prove him wrong on that score, Clara wiped any hint of disapproval off her face and assumed a manner of concern, hoping to get the wretched man out of her hair as expeditiously as possible. “Oh, but I do care, Mr. Beale. It’s abominable that you should have to go this long without your lunch! Why, you might faint away from malnourishment,” she added, trying to sound appalled rather than delighted by that notion, “and then where would we be? You must go for your lunch at once.”

She waved him toward the door, but to her dismay, he didn’t move. “Lady Truelove’s column,” he reminded. “Where is it?”

“The deadline isn’t until five o’clock, and since it is now only just two, I hardly think we need feel any anxiety—”

“Her column has always arrived in the Thursday afternoon post, but for the second week in a row, it has not come as expected. So, where is the blasted thing? Don’t tell me the woman is late again this week?”

“I’m told the column is being delivered by hand,” she replied, crossing her fingers beneath the edge of her desk where he couldn’t see them, and hoping to heaven Galbraith wasn’t going to let her down. “A . . . ahem . . . friend is bringing it. Any moment now—”

“A friend of hers, or yours? Either way,” he added before she could answer, “I am hardly reassured, Miss Deverill.”

Clara was tempted to reply that reassuring him was not one of her highest priorities, but she refrained, knowing she had to preserve at least a semblance of harmony with the man until Irene returned. At that point, Mr. Beale would become the thorn in her sister’s side, thank heaven, and cease to be hers.

“That is a shame,” she murmured politely and sat back down. “But for my own part, I am confident the column will be here well before the deadline, so—”

“See that it is,” he interrupted again, glaring at her. “You oversee the woman, and if her column is late, I shall know who to blame.”

“No need for blame,” a male voice intervened, and recognizing it, Clara gave a sigh of relief. She looked past Mr. Beale to the doorway where Galbraith was standing, an envelope in his upraised fingertips and a smile curving his lips. “Lady Truelove’s words of wisdom have arrived, ready to be shared with all her avid readers.”

Despite this welcome news and the breezy tone of his voice, there was a curious tenseness in his wide shoulders and a strangely brittle quality to his smile, and Clara watched him in puzzlement as Mr. Beale turned and started toward the door.

“About damned time,” the editor said, pausing beside Galbraith and holding out his hand.

The viscount, however, ignored him. Instead, he removed his hat and offered Clara a bow, then moved to one side of the door so that the editor might pass through.

With a sound of impatience, Mr. Beale reached out as if to take the envelope, but Galbraith evaded the move, lowering his arm and tucking the missive behind his back, still smiling, his semblance of careless ease still in place.

“You may give Lady Truelove’s column to me,” the editor said, his hand outstretched as if still expecting the viscount to hand it over.

Clara opened her mouth to belay that order and ask that the column be brought to her, but as she looked at Galbraith, she saw Galbraith’s smile vanish, and she knew her intervention would not even be needed.

He glanced over the other man, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow, a tiny gesture that somehow managed to convey polite disinterest and utter contempt at the same time.

From her position, Clara could only see a fraction of the editor’s face, but it was enough to reveal the red flush that flooded his cheeks, and she found the picture of a discomfited Mr. Beale so delightful that she almost laughed out loud.

Despite his obvious awareness of the snub he’d just received, Mr. Beale did not take the hint and depart with good grace. “I am the editor of the Weekly Gazette,” he said, his hand still outstretched.

“How edifying.” With that, Galbraith stepped around him and started toward Clara’s desk. It was a clear dismissal, and though Mr. Beale turned to scowl at the viscount’s back, he did not attempt any further discussion of the subject. Instead, he stalked out of the office without another word, but he made his displeasure quite clear by slamming the door behind him.

“I believe I’ve given offense,” Galbraith said, grinning a little as he paused in front of her, not seeming the least bit bothered by Mr. Beale’s offended sensibilities.

“With that man, it’s not a difficult thing to do,” she assured him. “Would you mind opening the door again? The last thing I need is for any members of the staff to start gossiping about me because I’m alone with you behind closed doors.”

“I don’t know why you’re worried about that,” he said as he set aside his hat, retraced his steps, and opened the door. “It would further our purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“It would not,” she replied primly as he returned to her desk. “The only reason,” she added, lowering her voice as she glanced past him to the open doorway, “an unmarried couple should be in such an intimate situation is if the man intends to propose. And we are hardly at that stage. You have quite a few more columns to write first.”

“Quite right,” he agreed. Leaning closer, he added sotto voce, “And we’ve no need to talk in whispers about Lady Truelove, Clara. There’s not a soul out there.”

“Everyone must be at lunch, then, even Mr. Beale. Thank heaven he’s gone. We don’t get on very well, I’m afraid.”

“Why don’t you sack him?”

Clara sighed, giving him a rueful look across the desk as she waved a hand to the chair opposite her own seat. “It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t see why not.” He settled into the offered chair. “You’re in charge, aren’t you?”

“Only temporarily. The paper belongs to my sister, and I am managing it only while she is away on her honeymoon. She hired Mr. Beale. Firing him is not my decision to make.”

“You shouldn’t have to tolerate working with horrid people.”

Clara couldn’t help a laugh. “Says the man who’s never held a job.”

He grimaced. “Sorry. That did sound terribly privileged, didn’t it? Still, he was abominably rude to you.”

“I’m used to it.” Clara made a dismissive gesture that banished Mr. Beale. “It doesn’t matter.”

She stretched out her hand for the envelope, but Galbraith didn’t give it to her. Instead, he frowned, tilting his head to one side and giving her a thoughtful look across the desk. “You don’t really believe that, surely?”

She stared back at him, uncertain what he was referring to. “Believe what?”

“That the way you are treated by others doesn’t matter.”

She watched his frown deepen as he spoke until it was almost a scowl. “You’re angry,” she murmured, taken aback.

“Should I not be? To see you undeservedly berated and then to hear you confess you are accustomed to such treatment and that it doesn’t matter . . . should I not be angry?”

She stared at him, noting the glint in his brilliant eyes and the rigid set of his perfect jaw. She’d seen him angry before, but this time, she realized, it was different. This time, his anger was on her behalf.

Tightness squeezed her chest, making it hard to breathe, or even think. Her lips parted, but any sort of reply proved beyond her, and before she knew it, her lips were curving into a smile instead.

That smile seemed to make him self-conscious, for he stirred in his chair and looked away. “Any man would be angry, I daresay,” he muttered. “I could hardly restrain myself from seizing him by the collar and hurling him into the street.”

The pleasure she felt widened, opening inside her like a flower in the sun, because despite what he seemed to believe, men willing to toss other men into the street on her behalf had until now been a nonexistent species.

He looked at her again, and Clara pressed the smile from her lips, for he seemed embarrassed, and she didn’t want to exacerbate it. “As much as I appreciate your offer to dispatch Mr. Beale into the street, I’d rather you didn’t. It would be momentarily satisfying, I admit, but it would also make my life more difficult. As for the rest,” she added as he opened his mouth to argue the point, “when I said I’m used to it and it doesn’t matter, all I meant was that he makes it plain what he thinks of me at every opportunity, but I don’t set enough store by his opinion to care.”

“And what is his opinion?”

“That I am just a silly girl, too immature and foolish to be involved in business matters.”

“Then he’s the foolish one.”

“Perhaps, but to be wholly fair, it’s true that I have no experience being in charge. I was Irene’s secretary for a time, but that’s all. And Mr. Beale’s understanding was that he’d be working under my brother Jonathan’s supervision. Upon my sister’s marriage, my brother was supposed to come home from America, go into partnership with her and take over managing things. Mr. Beale took the position as editor under those terms. But Jonathan kept putting off his return, and now, he has decided to stay in America for the foreseeable future, so Mr. Beale and I are stuck with each other until Irene returns.”

“None of that is your fault. The man ought to accept the situation as it stands with good grace.”

Clara made a face. “He doesn’t yet know about my brother’s decision to stay in America. I keep putting off telling him about Jonathan, because when I do tell him, I’m sure he’ll resign. Still, I suppose it’s unfair of me to keep the knowledge from him—”

Galbraith’s sound of derision interrupted her. “I shouldn’t worry about that, not with a man like him. What’s unfair is that your brother and sister have left you here to deal with their problem.”

“About my brother, you may have a point, but as for my sister, it’s not like that at all. Irene has always looked after me and our father. When we had no money and we were about to lose our home, she was the one who saved us. She started this paper and earned enough of an income from it to provide for us, and I am glad of the chance to do something for her. That said, when she returns, I shall happily hand the paper back over to her, and Mr. Beale along with it.”

“At which point, he’ll learn he’ll still be working for a woman, and he’ll probably quit anyway.”

“Possibly, but Irene can hire someone else at that point. As for Mr. Beale, I don’t know that his resentment stems from working for a woman per se, or if it’s that he just doesn’t like working for me. I’m afraid my sister does a far better job of being a publisher than I do.”

“Stuff. I’ve no doubt you’re doing an excellent job in your sister’s stead. You’ve enough sense to hire excellent staff,” he added with a grin, pointing at himself, “and that’s probably the greatest talent one needs when one’s in charge of a business enterprise.”

She gave him a wry smile in return. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I can’t imagine I’m a better judge of who to hire than my sister. Irene is usually an excellent judge of character. She’s also a suffragist, and if Beale held any resentment against women with careers, I can’t imagine that she wouldn’t have sensed it when she interviewed him.”

He shrugged. “Not everyone proves to be as worthy at their job as they might seem in interviews. Any butler or housekeeper could tell you that. And your sister was about to be married, wasn’t she? She might have been too preoccupied with wedding plans to notice his defects.”

“Perhaps.” Clara was doubtful. “Distracted or not, it’s not like Irene to make a mistake.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not my sister.” Clara laughed at his frown of skepticism. “It’s obvious you’ve never met her.”

“I shall look forward to the privilege of doing so,” he murmured, a frown etching between his brows. “I’ve never met a paragon.”

“Not a paragon, but close to it,” Clara assured him, happy to boast of Irene’s many talents. “She succeeds at everything she does. She’s brilliant, confident, accomplished, clever, and if all that’s not enough, she’s beautiful, too. And she has excellent business instincts.”

“Does she?” His frown deepened, and a muscle moved at the corner of his jaw. “Does she, indeed?”

His voice was tense, the question terse, and Clara looked at him in bewilderment. “What’s wrong? You seem quite vexed.”

“Do I?” His frown vanished at once. “I daresay it’s watching you pull your punches with Mr. Beale that’s put me out of sorts.”

Clara blinked in surprise. “But why should you care? It’s not as if—”

She broke off as that hot tightness squeezed her chest again. It felt like one of her bouts of shyness, only more acute, and yet . . . sweeter, too. He spoke as if he were genuinely concerned about her well-being, and yet, they barely knew each other.

She swallowed hard, reminding herself that making any woman, even one he didn’t know, feel singled out and extraordinary was as natural to him as breathing. It didn’t mean anything to him, not really. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke, she worked to put an indifferent note into her voice that she was far from feeling. “I don’t see why it matters to you.”

“Well, for one thing, you never pull your punches with me,” he grumbled. “How is it that man gets more polite accommodation out of you than I do? It hurts, Clara, really.”

She smiled, recognizing that he was teasing now. “The reason’s plain enough, isn’t it? Beale might quit on me. You can’t.”

“Thank you for the reminder. I feel so much better about it all now.”

“In all seriousness, despite his antipathy for me, Mr. Beale is an excellent editor.” Even as she spoke, she felt a sudden whisper of doubt. “He must be,” she added at once, squelching that traitorous feeling before it could take hold.

“Of course,” Galbraith agreed at once, his voice so agreeably bland that she felt compelled to explain.

“I don’t have any stake in the paper and never will, so it’s not really my place to judge the editor’s qualifications. Besides, editor is the most crucial person on the staff, and if Beale quit, I’d be lost. I feel obliged to muddle through with him as best I can, don’t you see?”

“I do see. And that’s why it’s aggravating as hell.” Despite his words, his voice was gentle. “What you really mean is that you have doubts about his abilities, but because he was your sister’s choice and your sister seemingly never makes mistakes, you tell yourself over and over that the man must be worthy of the post and that your own instincts, not your sister’s, must be at fault. In other words, Clara, you lack confidence in yourself, and because of that, you trust your sister’s judgement more than you trust your own.”

She inhaled sharply, surprised by the accuracy of his conclusions, though she knew she shouldn’t be. His understanding of people was what caused them to seek his advice and the entire reason she’d thought him qualified to write Lady Truelove in the first place. “You’re very perceptive. But you’re not here to talk about me,” she added at once. “You’re supposed to be solving someone else’s problem, not mine, remember?”

“In this case,” he said gently, “it’s rather the same thing, isn’t it?”

At once, she knew what he meant, and she looked away, her face growing hot. In recommending the Devastated Debutante’s letter, she ought to have known he’d perceive her true motives. How could he not? She looked at him again, forcing a laugh. “And I thought I was being so subtle.”

He held up the envelope, smiling a little. “Would you like to know what advice I gave the Devastated Debutante?”

She was dying to know, but she shrugged, pride impelling her to assume a diffident air. “I shall know at some point, since I have to approve what you wrote.”

He chuckled. “Quite right,” he agreed, but when she held out her hand for the envelope, he didn’t give it to her. Instead, still smiling, he propped his elbows on her desk, broke the seal, and pulled out the folded sheets within.

“‘Dear Debutante,’” he began, casing aside the envelope, “‘navigating the social season can seem a daunting task, particularly for the shy, but take heart. There is a secret to attracting others, even those of the opposite sex, and if you can successfully implement it, I promise that a more enjoyable season and life await you. That secret, my dear, is simply to relax.’”

“Relax?” Bemused, Clara made a face. “That’s your advice?”

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “And if you’ll allow me, I am happy to elucidate further.”

She sat back, lifting her hands in a gesture of capitulation. “Carry on, then.”

“‘To accomplish this, to achieve the ease of manner that will draw others to you, I advise beginning with the simplest changes first: those regarding your appearance—’”

“I don’t see what one’s appearance has to do with anything,” she interrupted again, a bit nettled.

He looked up again with a sigh, giving her a look of mock sternness over the top of the pages. “And you never will see if you keep interrupting.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Go on.”

“‘Gentlemen, it must be said, are visual creatures, but this does not mean they care about fashion. Leave tight corseting and high-heeled slippers behind, for they do little to help any young lady feel comfortable and relaxed. If you have fine eyes, avoid wide-brimmed hats unless you are in the sun, for though such hats may be fashionable, they prevent young men from looking into your eyes, and eyes are the windows to the soul. If you have a nice smile, bestow it as often as you can comfortably do, for it will not only draw others to you, but more importantly, the act of smiling itself will help you feel more at ease, attractive, and confident. Find a modiste whose gowns will enhance the favorable aspects of your figure, and trust me when I say that if a young lady has marital ambitions, displaying a bit of décolleté in her ball gown is not a bad thing.’”

Clara made a sound of derision, causing him to pause again, though not, she soon discovered, to chide her for interrupting.

“I take it you don’t agree?” he asked.

“I doubt a girl’s odds of fulfilling her marital ambitions would be all that enhanced by lowering her neckline. Seems terribly superficial, if you ask me.”

“Indeed?” His gaze swept down, making her blush all over and giving her cause to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. After a moment, he looked up again. “As a man, Clara, I have to say that you underestimate the power of a well-cut ball gown.”

She wriggled in her chair, acutely self-conscious. “Isn’t it at least as important to suggest ways the poor girl can make conversation?”

He laughed. “In a word, no.”

Unamused, she folded her arms, giving him a pointed look across the desk.

“Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh. “Since you’re so insistent . . .” With that, he lifted the pages and resumed reading.

“‘But what, you are surely asking, do you say once you’ve succeeded in attracting some splendid young man and he is standing in front of you? If you can think of nothing to say about yourself, seek a topic that enables the other person to talk. Being a good listener is always appreciated and far more charming to others than being a skilled conversationalist. Whatever you say, strive to put the other person at ease, and you will soon find that skillful repartee is not necessary. If all else fails, there is nothing wrong with acknowledging your shy nature. The response you receive will often be relief and a similar confession, thus giving you and your new acquaintance something in common to talk about. And remember, if you say something silly or make a mistake, acknowledge it at once and laugh about it.’”

“That’s easy to advise,” she objected, causing him to look up. “But it’s not so easy to do.”

“It’s not easy at all,” he said. “But it’s useful.”

“Is that why you do it?”

He smiled and returned his attention to the pages in his hand. “‘Self-deprecation,’” he read, “‘is not only a disarming quality, dear Debutante, but if you learn to employ it, you will soon discover benefits to yourself. For the ability to laugh at ourselves and our mistakes is incredibly liberating. It frees us from any burden of worry over saying or doing the wrong thing. And that brings me back to my first point, one I cannot stress strongly enough to you. Shy people worry too much.’”

Clara grimaced, for that was a contention she could not refute, at least not about herself.

“‘Convinced every eye in the room is upon them and that everything they do is being judged unfavorably,’” he went on, “‘shy people find it impossible to relax. Their worries are usually unfounded, for other people are far too preoccupied with their own concerns to worry much about anyone else, but shy people, alas, never seem to believe this. Dire predictions of social failure fill their heads, preventing them from attaining the relaxed air so necessary to attract and hold the attention of others, and as a result, shy people spend most of their time at social functions wishing they were anywhere else. This demeanor, though not the true reasons for it, are painfully obvious to others, who react by seeking more ebullient companions. Thus, the shy person’s exaggerated fears become self-fulfilling prophecy, and the shy find little enjoyment in the pleasures and pastimes of society.’”

Clara bit her lip, appreciating that he had just given voice to the pattern of her entire social experience.

“‘Do not shortchange yourself this way, dear Debutante. The quality of your season does not depend on one dance, or one conversation, and the quality of your life does not depend on one season. Strive to banish your fears and worries. Cast away your expectations, forget the ambitions of your parents, and set aside the goal of seeking someone to marry. In all your engagements, strive only to enjoy yourself. Smile and laugh and savor every moment of your life, and one day, you may find someone at your side who longs to share that life with you.’”

He looked up, lowering the pages, and Clara suddenly felt it was of vital importance to tidy her desk. She straightened her blotter and moved her inkstand a bit more to the left, donning an air of businesslike nonchalance.

“Well?” he prompted when she didn’t speak. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Is my first attempt to be Lady Truelove satisfactory?”

Satisfactory? Her hand tightened around a sheaf of papers. What a tame word to describe the sort of insight she’d been looking to find ever since she turned thirteen, put up her hair, and went to a party where there were boys. She’d always been aware of her inhibited nature, yet she’d never appreciated just how much it could inhibit others. “It’s—” She broke off, set the papers aside with a cough, and looked at him. “It’s very good. Excellent, in fact.”

“Thank you, but . . .” He paused, giving her a grin. “You could at least smile when you say that.”

She laughed, and for no reason she could define, his grin vanished.

“Now, that’s a bit of all right,” he murmured. “Smile like that at the next ball, Clara, and you’ll have every man in the room eating out of your hand.”

She sobered, swallowing hard. He was exaggerating, of course, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she held out her hand for the pages.

“I’ll have Miss Huish type this,” she said forcing herself to sound briskly efficient as he gave her the column, “and deliver it to Mr. Beale with the instruction that he isn’t to edit a single word. Although . . .” She paused, tapping her index finger against one line of his handwriting as a thought struck her. “This bit about how a good listener has more charm than a good talker . . .”

“Yes? What about it?”

She looked up. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” As she asked the question, she thought of Elsie Clark, and she knew the answer. “You’re not a shy person, but you do that with people, don’t you? Listen, rather than talk. Is it to get people to like you or is it a natural talent for you?”

“Both, I suppose.” He made a face. “I fear you’ve uncovered my deepest secret, Clara. I have a compulsive desire to be liked. It’s something I’ve had all my life, but it stems—I have no doubt—from the fact that I have a pair of self-absorbed and completely impossible parents. They spent most of my youth so occupied with destroying each other that they often forgot I existed. It hurt, you see. It hurt like hell.” He paused and drew a breath. “Still does, if you want the truth.”

She studied his face, suddenly seeing past the flawless symmetry of his features, past the perfect aquiline nose and splendid square jaw and azure blue eyes, seeing the boy he’d once been and the parents he’d just described. Somehow, imagining it hurt her, too, and she couldn’t help wondering again if her first impression of him as a heartless cad might have been utterly wrong.

Before either of them could speak, a cough interrupted, and Clara looked past him to find Annie standing in the doorway.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Clara, but . . .” Annie paused, giving her a look of warning that put her instantly on guard. “Your father sent me down.”

“What a timely interruption,” Galbraith murmured, his voice light. “Another moment, Clara, and God only knows what further confessions you’d have gotten out of me.”

He turned toward the doorway, and Clara saw Annie’s eyes widen in pleasurable surprise. It was the sort of reaction he probably got from every housemaid who ever laid eyes on him, and one that brought Clara squarely back to reality.

“Yes, Annie?” she asked. “What does Papa want?”

The maid tore her gaze from the viscount with what seemed to be a great deal of effort. “He wants to know about tea, Miss Clara.”

“Tea?” She stared back at the maid in dismay.

“Yes, miss.” Annie’s pale gray eyes took on a hint of apology. “He wants to invite his lordship up to the drawing room for tea.”

At that unthinkable prospect, Clara’s dismay deepened into horror. She loved her father, but tea with him was always a difficult business, and with a stranger present, it would be unbearable. “For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled, rubbing her fingers over her forehead, “how does Papa even know Lord Galbraith is here?”

“I believe I can explain that,” the viscount put in. “I came to your front door, not perceiving there was an entrance to the newspaper office beside it. The woman who opened the door to me offered to bring me through the house and around, but I told her not to bother and I would use the street entrance. But I did leave my card with her, of course.”

“Mrs. Brandt, that would be, my lord,” the maid volunteered. “She’s the housekeeper. If you do decide to come up, she’ll be wanting to know if you prefer India or China tea?”

“It’s only half past two,” Clara put in before the viscount could answer, and the sharpness of her own voice made her wince. But she couldn’t help it, for she was desperate to prevent this calamity. “It’s far too early for—”

“Tea would be lovely,” Galbraith said cutting the ground right from beneath her feet, and Clara nearly groaned aloud. “Tell Mr. Deverill I would be delighted to accept his invitation, Annie, thank you. And please inform Mrs. Brandt that I would prefer whichever tea is Miss Clara’s particular favorite.”

The maid giggled at that, but then she caught sight of Clara’s face and sobered at once, giving a cough. “That be India tea, my lord,” she murmured. “Darjeeling.”

“Excellent.” With a nod to the girl, he turned back around, returning his attention to Clara, and Annie departed, giving Clara a glance of sympathetic understanding just before she vanished from view.

The maid’s sympathy only deepened her dismay, and Clara frowned at Galbraith. “That was rather high-handed.”

“Was it?” he asked in surprise. “The invitation was directed to me, and I accepted it. Speaking of invitations, I have one to give you.” He started to reach into his breast pocket, but stopped as he caught sight of her expression. “My apologies,” he said quietly, his hand falling to his side. “I didn’t realize you would mind if I came to tea.”

“It’s not that,” she cried. “I don’t mind . . . exactly. It’s just—”

She broke off, for the truth was too humiliating to utter, and her mind couldn’t seem to fashion a believable reason for her reluctance.

“I’m supposed to be courting you, remember?” he said, a gentle reminder that only seemed to make everything worse. “Meeting your father is something I would be required to do at some point, Clara.”

He was right, of course. “Very well,” she muttered and stood up, chin high, trying to ignore the shame that was already flooding through her. “Let’s have tea. Just don’t expect a party.”