Page 43 of No Mistress Of Mine

Two days later, thanks to another session with the accounting clerk and the hiring of a typist at Houghton’s Secretarial Service, Lola came to her meeting with Denys loaded for bear. She had a fully-fleshed-out business plan in her portfolio, and she felt confident, prepared, and ready to defend her idea and fight for her rights. She wasn’t even nervous.

Until she saw him.

He wasn’t behind his desk when she entered his office. Instead, he was seated on the horsehair settee at the opposite end of the room having tea, and as he set aside his cup and rose to greet her, she noted in surprise that he was in his shirtsleeves, his jacket off and his cuffs rolled back. This casual state of dress made him seem less like the ruthless man of business she’d come to expect and much more like the Denys she used to know. Caught off guard, she came to an abrupt halt just inside the door, her hand tightening around the handle of her leather portfolio.

“Good afternoon,” he said, and glanced past her. “Thank you, Dawson. You may go.”

The secretary departed, and Lola felt an absurd jolt of nervousness when she heard the door click shut behind her.

Denys gestured to the tray beside him. “Would you care for tea?”

She’d come for a battle. She hadn’t expected tea. Lola took a deep breath and started forward, but with each step, her uneasiness increased, and she stopped again, still several feet away.

Denys tilted his head, giving her a quizzical look. “Is something wrong?”

“Tea, Denys?”

“Well, we are in England, Lola. Tea’s not particularly extraordinary.”

“No, but it’s...” She paused, considering. “Unexpected.”

“I daresay.” He gestured to the settee behind him. “Shall we sit down?”

She glanced at the comfortable leather furnishings and the tea tray laden with sandwiches and cakes, and a poem she’d learned in childhood flashed through her mind. “ ‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ ” she quoted wryly, returning her gaze to his face as she started forward again. “Is that it?”

He smiled a little. “You did ask to walk into this particular parlor,” he reminded. “But you needn’t worry. I don’t bite.”

“No? You could have fooled me.” Lola made a rueful face as she sat down on the settee and placed her portfolio by her feet. “You’ve been baring your teeth at me ever since I got to town.”

“Yes, about that...” He paused and sat down beside her. “I have always prided myself on being a gentleman, but my behavior since your arrival has been anything but gentlemanly. And my remark the other day and my conduct...” He paused, grimacing. “Both were beyond the pale. I must apologize.”

His words ought to have been reassuring, and yet, they had the curious effect of making her even more apprehensive. Lola tried to shake it off, telling herself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Apology accepted. So, we have a truce, then?”

“I hope so. That is the reason I requested we meet at five o’clock.”

She frowned, uncomprehending. “What does the time of day have to do with it?”

“Your American Indians smoke a pipe with their former enemies, don’t they, to symbolize a peace accord? We British do that with tea. Speaking of which...” He turned toward the tray beside his seat. “You take plenty of sugar in yours, if I recall. And you prefer lemon to milk.”

Astonished, she stared at his back as he added the requisite ingredients to her cup. “I can’t believe you remember how I prefer my tea.”

He turned, holding out her cup and saucer, along with a napkin. “Of course I remember.”

Those words, the low intensity of his voice as he said them, froze her in place, and when she looked up, she could see in his dark eyes a hint of the tender, passionate man who had slipped past all her defenses all those years ago. Her throat went dry.

“Would you like a sandwich?” he asked, and his voice broke the spell, for it was once again properly polite. “Or would you prefer the walnut cake?”

She took the tea things, striving to recover her poise as she laid the napkin across her lap. “Cake, please. What?” she added as he chuckled.

“I don’t know why I even asked,” he said, cutting a hefty wedge from the iced cake on the tray. He placed the cake on a plate and faced her as he offered it. “You always did have a sweet tooth.”

She took the plate, and the moment she did, another memory from early childhood flashed through her mind—sitting at the kitchen table in her Sunday dress, the tulle underskirt scratchy against her legs, and her mother across from her with the blue willow china spread out between them.

No, no, Charlotte. You’ve forgotten to remove your gloves again. Oh heavens, I fear you shall never learn to do it properly.

Heat flooded her cheeks at her mistake, and she glanced around, but there was no table near her on which to put her tea things.

Denys perceived her difficulty at once. “Let me help,” he said, taking back the tea and cake.

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