No Mistress of Mine

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Why, yes,” he answered, looking at her far too closely for her peace of mind, and when he began to smile, Lola’s cheeks grew hot, and she felt as transparent as glass. Cursing this damnable inclination to jealousy, she worked to again force it away as he went on, “She enjoys seeing who’s with whom, what the ladies are wearing—that sort of thing. I thought all women enjoyed that. Don’t you?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t stroll about. I like to remain in my seat.”

  “I see.” He moved to open the door for her, and she breathed a sigh of relief that she was finally escaping. Her relief, however, proved premature, for he stopped, the door half-open. “You’re in a box, I hope? That way, you can have refreshments brought to you.”

  Lola had to bite back a sigh of exasperation. One harmless lie, and suddenly she was in a tangle of them. “Oh, no,” she answered. “A box is far too grand. We’re in stalls. You know,” she added, forcing a laugh, “where all the plebeians sit.”

  He didn’t laugh with her. Instead, his smile vanished, and he tilted his head to one side, studying her. “You always did have quite a chip on your shoulder about the difference in our position,” he murmured.

  “Did I?” Her own smile faltered a bit, despite her best efforts to prop it up. “Or did I just have a more realistic view of my place in the world than you did?”

  She didn’t wait for him to reply. “Thank you, Denys,” she said, and held out her hand. “I know you didn’t want this meeting or this arrangement.”

  “No,” he agreed, shook hands, and quite properly, let go of her at once. “But I’ll rub along. I appreciate the effort you’ve taken to demonstrate your abilities as a partner, and I shall be interested to read your proposal.”

  “You’re not just saying that to pacify me and get me out of your hair?”

  “On the contrary. As I said, you’ve brought up an idea I’ve sometimes considered myself. We can discuss it in depth at our next meeting. I hope to see you and your companions later this evening.” He bowed. “But if not, have an enjoyable evening, Miss Valentine.”

  With that rather formal farewell, he stepped aside to let her depart, and when she’d crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind her, leaving her baffled by his change of heart, bemused by his new spirit of friendly cooperation, and exasperated with herself for losing her wits so thoroughly.

  Why had she ever said she was going to the opera? Denys loved opera. She ought to have remembered that and chosen theater instead. Still, what was done was done.

  She’d have to follow through now. The lights were always lit during the performances at Covent Garden so the posh people could see and be seen. If he looked for her and found she wasn’t there, he might conclude jealousy had kept her away, and that notion was just too humiliating to contemplate. And besides, if both of them were seen publicly with other people, Kitty’s prediction about gossip surrounding them might be headed off at the pass.

  With that perhaps overly optimistic possibility in mind, Lola tucked her portfolio under her arm, slid on her gloves, and put her wits to work.

  If she was going, it was clear she’d need an escort, and if attending the opera was going to dampen gossip about her and Denys, her escort would have to be a man. But as Lola reckoned up the number of single men she knew well enough for such an invitation, she knew finding an escort wasn’t going to be easy. She knew so few people in London these days, although if she were still in New York, she’d probably have had the same problem. On both sides of the Atlantic, she’d been living like a nun.

  Lola stared at the panels of the closed door, her mind working frantically. What about James? He might be in town, he was single, and she certainly knew him well enough to invite him to attend an opera. But as she thought of him, she knew she couldn’t ask him. She could not gad about London with one of Denys’s friends even if he’d once been a friend of hers as well. That wouldn’t be right. But there was no one else, absolutely no one.

  She might be able to get by with insisting she’d been there, even if he mentioned looking for her and not finding her. Still, he’d no doubt ask how she and her companions had liked the performance. He might even ask her about them, which meant she’d have to invent more lies, and she really did not want to lie to Denys, even about something innocuous—

  “Miss Valentine?”

  The voice startled her out of her contemplations, and she turned to find Mr. Dawson standing behind his desk, watching her in some puzzlement, and she realized she must have been dithering here for quite some time.

  “Can I be of help?” he asked.

  Lola took a quick glance over the handsome, sandy-haired young secretary, and he suddenly seemed like the answer to a prayer.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Dawson, I believe you can. Tell me . . .” She paused, giving him her prettiest smile. “Do you like opera?”

  Chapter 12

  If bending like a reed in the wind was to be his strategy in weathering the storm that was Lola Valentine, Denys knew he’d have to be quite a flexible chap in the coming days.

  Their meeting had been a necessary first step, and thankfully, it hadn’t been as tortuous as he would have predicted. They’d had tea, discussed business, and made small talk for a full hour, and the notion of ravishing her on the settee had only crossed his mind three times. That wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

  Still, as flexible as he was willing to be in regard to Lola, there was one rule he knew he would have to adhere to at all times. He could not touch her.

  That particular maxim was one no gentleman ought to find difficult, he thought with chagrin as he sat in his seat at the Royal Opera House. But when he’d unthinkingly put his hand over hers this afternoon, the effect on his body had been immediate, nearly destroying his control before he could even begin to prove he had any. Touching an unmarried woman’s bare hand was one of those things a gentleman simply did not do, but with Lola, all the rules of propriety he’d been raised with never seemed to matter much.

  As if to prove that contention, Denys suddenly realized the view through his opera glasses was no longer the stage but the seats below. He’d begun looking for her without even realizing it.

  Does she, indeed?

  Her question and the prickly tone of her voice as she’d asked it came echoing back to him, and he couldn’t help a sense of satisfaction as he appreciated its cause.

  She was jealous.

  His smile widened into a grin as he savored this quite unexpected turnabout. In his infatuated youth, he’d paced outside her dressing room at the Théâtre-Latin countless times—along with all the other stage-door johnnies—and he’d nearly driven himself mad wondering if he would ever be allowed through her door. Every time he had returned to Paris, he’d observed the besotted faces of his friends as they’d watched her dance or listened to her talk. Hell, Henry had stolen her right from under his nose. So when it came to Lola, jealousy was an emotion he’d often had cause to feel. The notion that the tables might be turned was a sweet one to contemplate.

  There was no cause for Lola to be jealous, of course, not on this particular night. He lowered the pair of opera glasses, his gaze sliding to his companion for the evening. There was no doubt that Belinda, the Marchioness of Trubridge, was a beautiful woman, but she was also the wife of Denys’s best friend.

  Lola wouldn’t know that, however, having never seen Belinda, and he felt a hint of regret that she had declared an intention to remain in her seat. Still, it was probably for the best.

  He raised the opera glasses, but his view of the stage receded almost at once, replaced in his mind’s eye by Lola’s face, the proud lift of her chin and her burning cheeks. Lola, jealous? He still found it hard to believe. And yet . . .

  Irresistibly drawn, he once again tilted the opera glasses down and began studying the seats below. Sure enough, he’d only scanned two rows before his theory was proved right, and he saw her down in the stalls below.

  Not that there was much
to see from this angle, for he was high above and almost directly behind her. But one glance over the auburn hair piled high atop her head and the pale, creamy skin of her neck and back above the deep vee of her evening gown was enough to confirm her identity. His body, traitor that it was, responded at once, and arousal came over him—another test of his new resolve.

  He worked to hold fast against it. He didn’t try to deny its existence, for that was pointless. Instead, he strove to find equilibrium within it, knowing that was the only way he would ever conquer it.

  She was facing the stage, not looking at her surroundings, but even if she had been glancing around, she’d have to turn almost completely in her seat and crane her neck to catch sight of him up here, a less-than-subtle move that would surely draw attention to her. Denys, secure in that knowledge, was able to put his newfound resolutions to the test, but only a few moments made him appreciate what a pleasurable agony it was going to be.

  Her dark red hair gleamed with incandescent fire beneath the chandeliers, beckoning to the heat inside him. Against the deep rose pink fabric of her gown, her skin was like rich cream, evoking in his memory its velvety texture.

  “Looking for someone?”

  Belinda’s voice intruded, and Denys was forced to lower the glasses and give his attention to his companion. He did it slowly, giving himself plenty of time to paste an expression of bland indifference on his face, for Belinda had shrewd eyes and keen instincts. “No,” he said, glad the phrasing of her question enabled him to answer truthfully. He’d already found the person he’d been looking for.

  Belinda’s blue gaze was steady, her expression impassive. “Very wise of you,” she said. “So many people are inclined to stare at each other during the opera, aren’t they? I daresay you are the subject of much scrutiny and gossip.” She paused. “At the present time.”

  “True.” Deciding to take the delicate hint, he returned his attention to the stage, but only moments later, the performance broke for intermission, and his attention was drawn irresistibly back to the seats below.

  It was easy to find her again, for amid the gentlemen in black evening coats, matrons in dark-hued velvet, and debutantes in pastel chiffon, she was like an exotic tropical bird amid a flock of crows, pigeons, and sparrows. As for her escort—

  Denys swerved his gaze to the right just as the fair-haired man beside Lola turned his head to say something to her, a move that revealed a profile Denys knew well. He tensed in his seat, appalled, not quite able to believe his eyes.

  Dawson? Of all the men in London, Lola was gallivanting about with his own secretary?

  A myriad of emotions struck him one after another. Anger, jealousy, frustration, pain—each shot through him like a jolt of electricity, burning away reason, propriety, and restraint. He wasn’t a reed bending in the storm. Instead, he was an oak struck by lightning, cracking straight down the center.

  Of all the men in London she could have crooked her finger at, she’d chosen a man Denys knew, a man he worked with and liked. It was like Henry all over again. Damn her, couldn’t she at least have the decency to take up with someone he didn’t know?

  He watched as the couple rose to their feet and joined the throng streaming toward the exits, belying her declaration that she preferred to stay in her seat during intermissions.

  His gaze followed them out the doors, and the moment they had vanished from view, he lowered the opera glasses and stood up. “I think I shall stretch my legs a bit,” he said, setting the opera glasses with painstaking care on the little table between them.

  “Is that—” Belinda paused, tilting her head back to meet his gaze with a somber one of her own. “Is that wise?”

  He was in no frame of mind to be dissuaded. “No,” he answered, and with that terse concession, he left the box. It wasn’t wise at all, but he was going to do it anyway. Because it was too late to bend like a reed in the wind.

  Inviting Mr. Dawson might have been a stroke of pure desperation on her part, but as she watched him weave his way toward her through the crowd after purchasing her a champagne cup, she was glad things had turned out this way. Denys’s secretary was intelligent, considerate, and very pleasant company.

  He’d been a bit reluctant to accept her invitation, expressing concern that his employer wouldn’t like it, but Lola hoped Denys would be relieved she’d taken up with someone else. After all, if she was seen around town with a man much closer to her own class, society might dismiss any notion that she and Denys were rekindling their affair. It was a faint possibility, true, but Lola had always been an optimist. She chose to hope for the best.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Dawson said, halting in front of her and holding out the small goblet of cognac and champagne with a little bow.

  “Thank you,” she said as she accepted the glass. “You are a gallant man to brave that line of people on my behalf.”

  “Not at all. It was my pleasure.” He took a glance around. “It is quite crowded this evening, isn’t it?”

  Lola didn’t miss the anxiousness in that look. “You mustn’t worry. You won’t be in trouble for this, I promise you.”

  “Even if I lost my job,” he said, looking at her again, “this evening would make it worthwhile.”

  Oh, dear, she thought, noting the admiration in his gaze with dismay, and suddenly the secretary’s acceptance of her invitation seemed less like a stroke of good luck and more like a serious problem, and when she glanced past Mr. Dawson’s shoulder, the sight of Denys’s tall form at the other end of the room confirmed her theory, for he did not look the least bit relieved. He looked furious. Although he had no right to dictate where she went and with whom, as she watched him start toward them with a purposeful stride and a grim expression, she decided it might be best to avoid reminding him of that particular fact.

  “Would you like to go backstage?” she asked. Tucking her arm through the secretary’s, she turned her back on Denys and began propelling Mr. Dawson toward a nearby corridor.

  “I should adore it, Miss Valentine,” he answered, keeping up with her hurried steps as she strode down the corridor. “But will they allow us?”

  “Of course they will,” she said, crossing her fingers that she could spy some old acquaintance amid the stagehands flitting about who would let them through. “But we’ll have to be quick,” she added, hastening her steps even more, pulling him with her around a corner and into another corridor, but a few moments later, when she heard Denys’s voice behind her, she knew they hadn’t been quite quick enough.

  “Miss Valentine?” he called, and though Lola was inclined to want to ignore it, Denys’s incisive voice brought her companion to a halt, impelling her to stop as well.

  Still, she had no intention of allowing Denys to call Dawson on the carpet for her invitation, so she turned around and hastened into speech. “Why, it’s Lord Somerton,” she said brightly, trying to sound surprised. “Good evening, my lord. What are you doing wandering the corridors of Covent Garden?”

  “I have need to speak with you, Miss Valentine. It’s important. Dawson,” he added before she could come up with objections, “will you excuse us, please?”

  The young man hesitated and glanced at Lola, who gave a nod of assent. Denys’s implacable expression told her there was no escape, and at least this way, she’d keep Dawson out of trouble.

  “Good evening, sir,” the secretary said, bowing. “Miss Valentine.”

  Denys waited until the secretary had traversed the corridor and turned the corner before he returned his attention to her. “Just what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  Though his voice was calm, there was anger in his dark eyes, making it clear that any progress they’d made this afternoon toward a permanent truce had now been obliterated. But why? He’d known she would be coming this evening. Surely he’d known she wouldn’t come alone. And besides, he could have stayed in his seat. Instead, he had sought her out. Why?

  Whatever his reasons, Denys in a fury
was not something to take lightly. Like all good men, when he lost his temper, he lost it thoroughly.

  “You should not be talking to me,” she pointed out, hoping to dampen his anger with a reminder of propriety. “If someone of your set were to notice that you followed us back here, the story would be in all the scandal sheets quick as the wink of an eye.”

  His mouth tightened, showing that he appreciated the truth of that, but if she’d hoped it would impel him to depart, that hope was dashed. “You cannot go gadding about London with my secretary. It is highly inappropriate.”

  “He said you wouldn’t like it, and I can see he was right. But really, Denys, why should it matter to you?”

  “It’s understandable you would break the rules,” he went on without answering her question. “But Dawson has no such excuse.”

  “What rule have we broken? The one that says an unmarried woman can’t go about with a man unchaperoned? It’s so sweet of you to be concerned for my reputation,” she added, though she was pretty sure consideration for her was the last thing on his mind right now, “but it isn’t necessary. As for Mr. Dawson, you mustn’t censure him for any of this. I can’t go to the opera alone. Even I wouldn’t defy society to that extent. So I asked Mr. Dawson to come with me. As I said, he warned me that you wouldn’t like it, but I persuaded him to come anyway. Any blame for this lies with me.”

  Denys studied her face for a moment, then he gave a deep sigh. “I suppose I’m the last man on earth who should condemn another for succumbing to your charms,” he muttered. “God help any man who tries to hold out when you decide to be persuasive. Regardless of who invited whom,” he added before she could reply, “when we are finished here, you will bid him good evening and part from his company.”

  “Now, wait just a minute,” she said, infuriated by such high-handed arrogance. “You have no right to dictate with whom I spend my evenings.”