“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 theWeekly 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 addedsotto 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.
