No Mistress of Mine

Chapter 13

There it was, the question she’d been dreading, thrown down like a gauntlet. She’d have to address it, of course, but not here, in a room so dark she couldn’t see his face, with him standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body.

“I am not going to explain myself to you when we’re standing in a storage closet at Covent Garden,” she said, and turned to reach for the door handle. She’d only managed to open the door a crack, however, before he flattened one palm against it and slammed it shut.

“Oh, yes, you are,” his voice murmured beside her ear, “because we are not leaving here until you do.”

“For heaven’s sake, Denys,” she mumbled, turning around carefully in the tight space. “It’s pitch-black in here.”

“I can remedy that.”

Thankfully, he took a step back from her, and she was able to take a breath. But any relief was short-lived, for a moment later, she heard the rasp of a match, light penetrated the dark, and he once again stepped closer to her, reaching up to turn the knob of the gas jet on the wall sconce beside the door. “Now then,” he said as he lit the jet and blew out the match. “Answer my question. Why did you really leave me?”

She wanted nothing more than to duck and run, but with that option unavailable, she lifted her chin and countered his question with one of her own. “Why did you never take me to the opera?”

He frowned, clearly not comprehending the parallel. “You know why. It would have caused a scandal. We had agreed to be discreet.”

“Yes. Because I’m not the sort of woman a man like you could ever be seen with in public, not amid your family and friends.”

“Is that what you meant a moment ago when you said you weren’t good enough?” He looked at her askance, as if this was somehow a surprising notion. “Don’t tell me you’ve got it into your head that I regarded you as inferior to me.”

“Well, you did say just the other day that I bring nothing worthwhile to our partnership. That I only seem to have one particular talent.”

He grimaced at the reminder of his own harsh words. “As I told you this afternoon, I was angry when I said that, and frustrated, and though my frame of mind is no excuse for what I said, I’d ask again that you forget it. In any case, I was speaking in reference to business matters. As to our private affairs, I have never thought of you as inferior to me, and I can’t believe you would think so.”

“It’s not a matter of what I think. It’s a fact of life.”

“You are referring, I suppose, to my title? Lola, you are the last person from whom I would have expected to hear about class distinctions.”

“Why should you be surprised? Class distinctions exist. That is a fact, and I never rail against facts, no matter how unfair they might be. In the eyes of the world, I am your inferior. No one, particularly in your precious British society, would argue the point.”

“I would argue it! For God’s sake, Lola, I intended to marry you. Do you think I would ever have contemplated such a course if I thought of you as my inferior?”

“Yes.” She paused a second. “If you couldn’t keep me any other way.”

He sucked in a deep breath, confirming he knew there was at least some truth in her words. Nonetheless, he chose to debate the point. “I wasn’t intending to ‘keep you,’ as you put it. I was intending to make you my wife.”

“And I couldn’t let you do it. I couldn’t let you ruin your future, so I—”

“Wait,” he interrupted, holding up a hand to stop her flow of words. “You left me for another man, you broke my heart, and wrecked my life, and now you are trying to tell me that you did it all for my sake?”

“Yes.” She watched the skeptical lift of his brow. “Mostly,” she amended.

He gave a short, harsh laugh and rubbed his hands over his face. “Forgive me if I’m not grateful for my part of the favor.”

“I don’t expect you to be. But tonight, you have a woman with you who is elegant, beautiful, obviously a lady. With her, you won’t ever have to worry anyone will turn against you for marrying her. Lady Georgiana Prescott is perfect for you.”

He blinked as if surprised. “Lady Georgiana?”

“I saw you two up there. Not that it was easy to find you, by the way,” she added, hoping to lighten the moment a little by confessing she’d been looking. “I had to practically turn all the way around in my seat before I spied you with her.”

“Actually—”

“She’s a lady. She’s part of your world. I’m not a lady of the ton, and I could never have become one. And why the hell are you smiling?” she demanded, as his lips curved upward. “I’m baring my soul here, and you’re smiling?”

“Sorry.” Despite the apology, he made no effort to wipe the smirk off his face. “It’s just that I’m not with Lady Georgiana this evening.”

That took her back a bit. “The woman sitting next to you isn’t Lady Georgiana Prescott? Black hair,” she added as he shook his head. “Strands of pearls round her neck, midnight blue evening gown. Well, who is she, then?” she demanded, as he continued to shake his head.

“Jealous?” His smile widened into a grin, and the only reason she didn’t find it insufferable was because it meant his anger had faded. “There’s no need to be.”

“Damn it, Denys, who is that woman?”

“Not Lady Georgiana. But the next time I see Nick,” he added before she could reply, “I’ll be sure to tell him you think his wife is perfect for me.”

“His wife?” She felt a surge of relief, followed at once by irritation because she knew she shouldn’t be feeling anything of the sort. “Well, how was I supposed to know? I’ve never met her. Either way, the point’s the same.”

“Point?” he scoffed, his grin vanishing. “What point? That you had some harebrained idea to be self-sacrificing? Not,” he added at once, “that I necessarily believe you. Self-sacrifice has never been your strong suit.”

“I didn’t just do it for you,” she reminded. “I did it for my own sake as well.”

“Because Henry made you a—what was it?—a better offer.”

She winced. Those words sounded every bit as brutal as she’d intended them to be when she’d spoken them.

“I’m sure I’m an idiot for asking,” he murmured, “but why was Henry’s offer to make you his mistress better than my honorable proposal of marriage?”

“Making me his mistress wasn’t Henry’s offer. He wasn’t the least bit interested in doing so, and neither was I. Henry already had a mistress, a very respectable woman. He wanted to protect her good name.”

Denys stared at her, looking understandably skeptical. “You mean it was all a charade? You allowed yourself to be used as a front to protect some other woman’s reputation?”

“Yes. Her name is Alice van Deusen. She’s the headmistress of New York City’s finest finishing school for girls. Henry met her when he was living here and she was on a tour of England with a group of her pupils. They fell in love, and that’s why he returned to New York. But because he was already married, they had to keep their affair a secret. If anyone found out she and Henry were lovers, Alice and her school would be ruined. I know I can trust you not to tell anyone about her.”

“Of course, but why would you agree to such an arrangement? Why would you allow Henry to use you in such a way?”

“It was convenient for me as well as for Henry. He protected Alice’s good name, and he made a lot of money by backing my show. But I was protected, too, for no man would dare make advances to me, or try to take advantage of me, not with Henry to deal with. And I made money, too, of course. And I learned acting the proper way. But the important thing to me at the time was that I got a fresh start, away from—”

“Away from me,” he finished when she fell silent.

She swallowed hard. “Yes. Going with him kept me in the world where I belong. Oh, Denys,” she added with a sigh as she watched his lips press tight, “you and I both know what your people thought of me. To them, I was a gold-digging tramp.”

“And you cared so much what my family thought.”

“I did care! I cared for your sake. I’d already put a wedge between you and your family, and I couldn’t bear to make it wider. And what if you started to blame me for it?”

“I wouldn’t have done.”

“That’s an easy thing to say, but with your family disparaging me at every opportunity, after months or years of being cold-shouldered by your friends—”

“My friends would never have done such a thing. Do you really think Nick, Jack, James, or Stuart cared tuppence about your background?”

“Their wives would have cared.”

He inhaled sharply, and his head went back, demonstrating she’d touched on another hard truth. “None of my friends had wives back then,” he muttered, but he didn’t look at her, making it clear he knew just what a feeble argument he was making.

“I knew they’d have wives at some point, and it’s women who rule society, Denys. You know that as well as I do. Do you think they would have accepted me? Me, a cabaret dancer, a woman most of their husbands had been infatuated with at one time or another? And even if they did swallow it down for your sake, they’d never do more than be civil. And no other women of your British ton would have even gone that far.”

He shook his head, looking at her again, fighting what she was saying. “You don’t know that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she cried. “I do know. I know far more than you realize. Did you ever stop to think about what our life would have been like? No dinner invitations, no one coming to tea, no house parties at Arcady, everyone you know giving you the cut, one by one—”

“I didn’t think things like that mattered to you.”

“They matter to you, Denys. And to your family. And your friends. Anyone who chose not to turn their backs on you would suffer guilt by association. I couldn’t do that to you.”

He didn’t seem impressed by the knowledge that she’d left him for his own sake. He plunked his hands on his hips and scowled at her. “I don’t suppose you could have told me any of this at the time?”

Guilt nudged her, and she swallowed hard. “No.”

“Why the hell not?”

Face the music, Lola.

“I was afraid if I started explaining why I was leaving, I’d lose my nerve.”

“Nerve? Nerve’s not something I’d say you lack. In fact, I’d say doing what you did took plenty of nerve.”

She heard the bitter edge of his voice, and it hurt deep down, like pressing a bruise. “If I had tried to explain, you wouldn’t have accepted it. You’d have found a way to persuade me to relent, so—” She broke off, took a deep breath, and forced herself to say the rest. “So I made you hate me. That way, I knew you wouldn’t try to come after me.”

“Well, you were right about that,” he muttered. “Is there a single reason I should believe any of this?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but it is the truth.”

His gaze raked over her, a long, hard, searching gaze, and she found herself holding her breath because she had no idea if he’d accept her explanations, but just when she thought this conversation had been a waste of breath, he gave a nod.

“All right, then,” he said abruptly. “I may be an utter fool to think you did any of this for my sake, but I’m choosing to believe you. But,” he added before she could feel any relief, “I still resent you like hell for not being honest with me. I didn’t deserve what you did to me or the way you did it.”

“No,” she agreed, “you didn’t. And though I realize it’s no excuse, I didn’t plan any of it. My only plan was returning to my old life in Paris so that I could consider my future without you around to muddle my thinking. Henry came and told me you intended to propose marriage, and he’d just offered to take me to New York when you showed up, and I knew I had to go. I was ruining your life. Sure as I was that it would be a mistake to marry you, I know that if I’d stayed, eventually you’d have persuaded me to change my mind.”

She bit her lip, looking at him. “You were never very good at taking no for an answer, and I was never very good at resisting you.”

His mouth curved a bit, a wry, one-sided smile. “As I recall, you spent the better part of two years resisting me. Hell, it took a year before you let me into your dressing room.”

She gave him a rueful smile in return. “I kept hoping you’d give up and go away, and yet, I was always hoping you wouldn’t. And you were so good to me, and that was always my weakness.”

His smile vanished. “And yet, as good as I was, you wouldn’t have considered marrying me.”

“No. The truth is . . .” She paused, and swallowed hard. “I didn’t deserve you. And,” she added, as he opened his mouth to make some sort of gentlemanly protest, “you certainly didn’t deserve to be saddled with me, for I’d have made a horrible peeress. I have no idea what society ladies do all day. Have tea, I suppose, and go to parties, and shop. And pay calls, though what they all find to talk about—” She stopped, took a breath, and cut to the chase. “Marriage doesn’t work for people like us, Denys. People who are as different as we. Like has to marry like.”

“You don’t think love could have overcome our differences?”

Longing twisted her heart, but she forced it ruthlessly away. There was no place here for self-deceit. “No, I don’t.”

“How cynical you are.”

“Why?” she shot back, defensive all of a sudden. “Because I don’t believe in fairy tales?”

“Sometimes fairy tales do come true.”

“And love conquers all?”

“Sometimes.”

She thought of her father hunched over the kitchen table, head in his hands and an empty bottle of whiskey by his elbow. “I don’t think so. Love can be . . . a terrible thing.”

“Or a wonderful thing.”

“Either way, love didn’t have much to do with it.”

“It had everything to do with it. I loved you, damn it all!”

This was the heart of the matter, and the part of this inevitable conversation she’d been dreading the most. “But that’s just it, Denys,” she said softly. “You didn’t love me. Not really.”

“What? My God, is that what you think? Didn’t I make my feelings plain enough at the time? I was head over ears—”

“You were infatuated with me, yes. You had a passion for me, yes. Had anyone asked, you’d have said of course you were in love with me. In the throes of passion, you often declared that love to me. But passion is all it was. It wasn’t love, not the kind that lasts. How could it have been?” She shook her head. “You didn’t even know me. You still don’t.”

He stared at her as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “Of course I know you. Lola, I’ve known you for nearly nine years.”

“The amount of time doesn’t matter. What do you know of me? Of my life? Of my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences, my . . . my past before you met me? Practically nothing. We spent so little time together.”

“It’s odd how differently we see the situation.” He paused, his gaze skimming over her, a long, slow perusal that seemed to burn right through her clothes and made her want to bolt for the door. “You might be right about when you were living in Paris, since I was in London and traveling back and forth to see you whenever I could, which wasn’t nearly often enough. But here in London, it was different. Here, you and I spent a great deal of time together. That was why I brought you here.”

“Yes, and there we were, meeting in secret in an illicit affair, with your having to sneak in and out of that little house in St. John’s Wood.” As she spoke of their arrangement, she tried to sound dismissive, but with his heated gaze roaming over her, her words came out in a breathless rush. Mortified, afraid he might guess what she was feeling, she forced a little laugh, hoping to make light of it all. “We were trying so hard to be discreet. I can’t think why we bothered since everyone in society already knew all about us.”

“And you say we’ve spent no time together? We spent nearly every afternoon in that house, Lola.” He stirred, moving a bit closer. “Alone, together.”

“Yes, but . . .” She paused, her face growing hot, but it wasn’t the close, stuffy confines of the storage room that made her feel as if she were melting into a puddle. It was his heated, knowing gaze. “If you’ll recall, we didn’t spend much of our time there engaged in conversation.”

He gave a caustic chuckle, acknowledging the truth of that. “No,” he murmured, his gaze pausing at her mouth, his amusement fading. “I suppose not.”

The gong sounded, indicating that intermission was nearly over, but neither of them moved.

Their gaze met, and locked, and suddenly, the past six years seemed to vanish as if they’d never existed, and the erotic summer afternoons they’d spent together were as vivid in her mind as they’d ever been.

He was standing a foot away, not touching her at all, and yet, in her imagination she could feel his hands on her, untying laces and unfastening buttons, gliding down her bare arms and over her hips, pulling her closer. She could feel his arms, wrapping around her and holding her fast. She could taste his mouth, opening over hers, arousing her.

Lola jerked back, flattening her back against the door, fighting desires that were supposed to be long gone, desires that had almost been the ruin of both of them.

But here, now, with him standing right in front of her and all the raw passion of the old days suddenly in his eyes, those desires seemed impossible to suppress. She did it, though, by using other, more ruthless memories, memories of what their affair had cost them both and the wreckage it had wrought. Her dreams and his finances in ruins, her heart and his pride in pieces, her self-respect shredded, and his, too. And all for what?

He eased closer. “Lola,” he began, but she interrupted, for she knew whatever he’d been about to say wouldn’t be good for either of them.

“We’d better go back, or our companions will think we’ve vanished off the face of the earth. And God knows what people will say if they notice we’ve both been missing during the entire intermission.”

Her words seemed like the fall of a stage curtain. The desire in his face vanished, and yet, she knew it was still there, concealed by the polite demeanor of a gentleman.

“It’s probably too late to worry about that,” he said, sounding resigned to the fact. “I have no doubt our mutual absence has already been noted, and stories about us are probably being invented as we speak. It’s my fault,” he added. “I cornered you back here. I wasn’t . . . thinking.”

“Don’t apologize, not on my account. My reputation’s long gone, so gossip about us wouldn’t affect me. It’s different for you.” She hesitated a moment, wavering, then she said, “You should tell Lady Georgiana about this conversation before she hears gossip about our mutual absence from others. If you care how she feels, and what she thinks of you, and if you . . . if you . . .” Her voice failed suddenly, but she took a breath and forced herself to say the rest. “If you intend to marry her, you don’t want her hearing malicious rumors about us and thinking the worst. Ours is a business partnership and nothing more. Make sure she understands that.”

As she spoke, Lola felt leaden. Doing the right thing was supposed to make one feel good, wasn’t it? So why did she feel so awful?

Desperate to leave and end this conversation, she turned her back. “As for Mr. Dawson,” she added over her shoulder as she reached for the door handle, “you’re quite right that it’s inappropriate. I won’t see him again.”

An easy promise to keep, she knew. With her body on fire because of Denys, any notions of another man’s easy, friendly companionship had already burned to dust and ashes.

She opened the door, but Denys’s voice stopped her before she could get away.

“You’re wrong, you know.”

She stilled, her fingers on the handle. “About what?”

“I did love you.”

Her heart twisted in her chest, joy and pain and overwhelming sorrow. She squeezed her eyes shut. A sob rose in her throat, but she caught it back before he could hear it, thinking of the girl who’d taken off her dresses and pranced around in a corset and netted stockings for the men in a Brooklyn saloon. In Paris, she’d actually worn a dress, and the men had been wealthier, and the drinks wine and absinthe instead of Irish whiskey and rye, and all the songs sung in French instead of English, but the woman had been the same: a bold-as-brass femme fatale with a kissable pout, a sultry voice, and great legs, who tucked money into her garter with a wink and a smile. Denys believed what he said, she knew, and yet, she also knew he believed in a lie. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder

“What you loved was the illusion of me, an illusion I invented years before I ever met you. The real me, however, is someone you don’t know at all. Hell, Denys,” she added with a brittle laugh as she opened the door and walked out, “you don’t even know my name.”