Page 56 of No Mistress Of Mine

She was hardly in a position to argue it. “What if we discuss my proposal instead?” she countered lightly. It was clear she hoped to evade any inconvenient questions by changing the subject, but he had no intention of letting her do so.

He studied her for a moment, considering his options. A gentleman should not probe into a woman’s private affairs, especially when she so clearly did not want to discuss them. On the other hand, after her rather shattering announcement at Covent Garden, she could hardly expect him to leave it there. He’d been trying to do that for three days, without success, and when he’d looked out the window earlier this evening and seen the lights still on over here, he’d seized the opportunity to find out more without a moment of hesitation. “Before we discuss your proposal,” he said at last, “something else needs to be done first.”

“What is that?”

“We have to introduce ourselves. After all, we can’t dine together if we don’t know each other, can we? The more you evade this,” he added, smiling as she made a sound of exasperation, “the more curious you make me.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, “I don’t see why it matters. There aren’t any legal considerations, if that’s what’s worrying you. I had my name changed by deed poll over ten years ago.”

He didn’t reply. He merely reached into the basket and pulled out her business proposal, which he’d instructed Dawson bring over with the sandwiches. He held it up, giving her an inquiring look across the table.

She scowled back at him, and for a moment, he thought she was going to refuse to answer, but after a moment, she surprised him. “Charlotte,” she said with a sigh. “My name is—was—Charlotte Valinsky.”

Lola, of course, was a shortening of Charlotte, and the first syllable of her surname echoed that of her stage name, but any similarities ended there. The impressions conveyed by the two names were as different as chalk and cheese.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, MissValinsky,” he said, and bowed to her across the table. “Viscount Somerton, at your service.”

That made her smile a little. “I’m not sure it’s done this way,” she murmured as she began unwrapping her sandwich. “Isn’t someone else always required to make a social introduction?”

“In this case, I think we can bend the rules a little.”

“To what end?”

“To give ourselves a fresh start.”

“A fresh start,” she murmured, and her smile faltered. “I seem to need a great many of those.”

“Two’s not that many, Lola.”

“I’ve had more than two, I’m afraid.” She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she gestured to the basket. “Is there something to drink with these sandwiches? I’m thirsty.”

Another diversion, he noted. “So, MissValinsky,” he said as he opened the basket and pulled out a bottle of beer, “now that we’ve introduced ourselves, why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

She licked her lips, looking a bit desperate. “Why do you want to know things about me? I don’t see why it matters now.”

“It always mattered, at least to me.” Holding the bottle in one hand, he rummaged in the basket for a corkscrew. “But after our conversation the other night, I’ve come to appreciate that you were right. In many ways, I don’t really know you. And when I think back to our time together, I realize that though you were always very good about listening to me talk about my life, my family, my friends, you somehow always managed to avoid telling me anything about yourself. You shared almost nothing with me about what your life was like before we met.”

“Perhaps because I didn’t want to do so,” she suggested, and though her voice was light, he wasn’t fooled.

“I daresay.” He paused, one hand in the basket, watching her, waiting.

The silent scrutiny seemed to goad her. “For a man with such good manners, you’re being terribly nosy,” she grumbled. “Don’t the British consider it bad form to pry into someone’s private life this way?”

“Very bad form,” he agreed, and pulled the corkscrew from the basket. “But in this case,” he went on as he began to open the beer, “I think it’s necessary. Trust is important to any partnership.”

She laughed, but he didn’t think she was amused. “If you think knowing my past is going to help you trust me, you couldn’t be more wrong. The opposite is probably closer to the truth.”

“I disagree. It’s not what you tell me that signifies. It’s the act of doing so.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I think you do,” he said, “but I’m happy to explain. I want you to—what is the American expression?—go out on a limb. Take a risk. Show some vulnerability. If you want this to be a true partnership, you’ll have to earn back my trust.” He paused, watching her as he pulled the cork from the bottle. “Which means you’ll have to offer yours.”

“You want me to tell you something about myself? All right, I will.” She lifted her chin, bristling, rebellious, her gaze meeting his across the table. “I used to take off my clothes in front of men when I danced, for money. Is that far enough out on the limb for you?

“Sailors, mostly,” she went on when he didn’t speak. “In the taverns by the docks in Brooklyn before I moved to Paris. I sang and danced and took off my clothes, and the sailors would toss money at me.” She paused, looking steadily at him across the table. “The more clothes I took off, the more money I made.”

Denys managed to hold her gaze, for he saw the defiance in her eyes, daring him to be repulsed, but repulsion for her was not at all what he felt. Instead, he felt anger, anger at those sailors, at the tavern keeper, at her relations. God, she couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. Where had her family been, and how could they have allowed her to come to such a pass? Why hadn’t they taken better care of her?

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