Page 63 of No Mistress Of Mine

What you loved was the illusion ofme,an illusion I invented years before I ever met you.The real me, however,issomeone you don’t know at all.

Was that true? Denys stared down into his breakfast plate, pushing around eggs and bacon with his fork as he considered her declaration in light of what he now knew about her. But as he contemplated the things she’d told him about herself, he feared the knowledge didn’t help him much, for the more he knew her, the more he wanted to know. The more deeply he explored, the deeper he wanted to delve. And if he went too deep, he feared it would sink him for good and all.

The voices of his family flowed past him, but lost in thought, he didn’t hear a word, for he was thinking of a play six years ago and a callow chap who’d mortgaged his estate in order to seduce a girl.

He closed his eyes, sinking into memories of their afternoons together—the scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her skin. All as vivid, and as erotic, as they’d ever been.

“Denys?”

The prompting voice of his mother broke into his reverie, and Denys looked up, appalled that he was now having passionate thoughts about Lola at the breakfast table. “I beg your pardon, Mama,” he said after a moment, “but I was woolgathering. What did you say?”

“I asked if you would be joining us in the brougham tomorrow, or taking your own carriage.”

He stared back at her blankly, for he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Tomorrow?”

His mother’s gaze slid sideways, toward her husband, and the uneasy glance the two exchanged wasn’t lost on him. He’d forgotten something important, he realized, some social obligation, but for the moment, he couldn’t remember what it was.

“Oh, Denys won’t ride with us, Mama,” Susan put in before their mother could answer his question. “He’s always working in that office of his, even on Saturdays. Surely he’ll take his own carriage from Bedford Street to Regent’s Park.”

“I suppose.” Lady Conyers gave a sigh and turned to him. “You work much too hard, dear. And during the season, why, it’s absolutely uncivilized for a gentleman to slave away in an office.”

Denys looked from his mother to his sister, utterly at sea. “Regent’s Park?”

Susan laughed. “Oh, my, you have been working too hard, dear brother, if Mama’s flower show has slipped your mind. And with Georgiana helping her make all the arrangements, too.”

Good God. Georgiana. He’d forgotten all about her.

Aware that the other members of his family were staring at him, he felt impelled to fashion a reply. “I didn’t forget,” he lied, careful to keep any hint of his dismay off his face. “I just couldn’t remember for the moment where they’d decided to hold it. After all,” he added hastily, “Georgiana was suggesting so many possible locations for you to consider before she left for Kent, that it was impossible to keep track. Now, the various venues are all a jumble in my mind.”

It was a poor excuse, and he knew it, for he saw his parents exchange another meaningful glance, but thankfully, they seemed inclined to accept it at face value.

“It was all very confusing, I know,” his mother remarked. “We had quite despaired of finding somewhere suitable.” She picked up her tea and took a sip, looking at him over the rim of her cup. “I believe they returned from Kent on Wednesday, did they not?”

He had no idea. But his mother’s limpid, inquiring gaze suggested it would be wise to dissemble about this as well. “I believe so, yes. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to call, however.”

“Of course.” There was a hint of reproof in her voice he chose to ignore. “As I said,” she added, setting down her teacup, “you’ve been working far too hard this season.”

With that, she turned her attention to Susan, but as she inquired about the girl’s dress for an upcoming ball, Denys found little relief in the change of subject, for he was forced to face the fact that during the past three weeks, the woman he was considering to be his future wife had occupied none of his attention. He hadn’t answered her letters; he hadn’t even read them. In fact, other than a brief consideration of her during his conversation with Lola at Covent Garden, he hadn’t spared so much as a thought for Georgiana during the entire time she’d been away.

Of course, many things had been going on in his life of late. Any man might find himself a bit at sixes and sevens in consequence—

He stopped that attempt to justify his lapse of gentlemanly conduct straightaway, for he knew there was no justification. He was thinking to marry Georgiana, for heaven’s sake. How could he have forgotten about her so completely?

Even as he asked himself that question, he knew the answer.

Denys set down his knife and fork, shoved back his chair, and stood up, intending to remedy his lapse in gentlemanly conduct at once.

“Forgive me, ladies,” he said, bowing to his mother and sister. “But I must be on my way. I have a great deal to do today if I’m to take tomorrow away from the offices.”

He turned to go, but then paused and looked at his mother. “You are quite right, Mama. I have been spending too much time working. Will you be so good as to inform my secretary which events you would most like me to attend in the coming weeks? I shall make every effort to fulfill your wishes on that score and spend more time enjoying the season with our family and friends.”

That accommodation pleased her, he could tell, but it didn’t make him feel much better. As he left the dining room, he was still dismayed by his own forgetfulness, aggravated by the reasons for it, and feeling guilty as hell. He’d vowed that he would not allow this partnership with Lola to have any effect on his private life, and so far, he was not doing very well at keeping that particular vow.

“Be a reed, Denys,” he muttered, raking his hands through his hair as he traversed the corridor to the front of the house. “Not an oak.”

As he turned toward the stairs, he noticed the butler in the foyer, and he paused, one hand on the newel post, one foot on the bottom step. “Monckton?”

The butler turned from the mirror on the wall he was attempting to straighten. “My lord?”

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