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 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 Idocare, 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—”
