She’d hoped telling him about it all now might impel him to stop looking at her with the old desires in his eyes, that her confession would ensure he’d make no further attempts to kiss her, or seduce her, or steal her heart again. She’d given him up once for his own sake, and if she had to do it a second time, she feared it would annihilate her.
But her attempt to push him away by throwing some of her past in his face had backfired. He hadn’t been repelled, or shocked. He hadn’t even seemed particularly surprised. If driving him away was her goal, telling him about her burlesque dancing hadn’t been particularly effective. Lola bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps she ought to tell him what had finally made her stop doing it. What would he think of her then?
Her heart twisted in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, but if she thought that would blot Denys from her mind, she was mistaken, for her imagination could still conjure his face and remember the desire in his eyes. She could still hear his voice, vibrating with masculine need.
Nice, am I?
Aching warmth spread through her limbs at the memory of that question and an answering desire began to overtake her. The way he’d looked at that moment had been anything but nice. That searing kiss in his office—that, too, had not been nice. Denys, she well knew, could also be very, very naughty.
Her breathing deepened as memories flooded her mind, memories of their afternoons in St. John’s Wood. The unbearable anticipation of waiting by her window, watching for the carriage that would bring him to her door. Of being in his arms, of his mouth on hers, his hands undressing her, caressing her, bringing her to blissful completion.
Lola groaned and turned on her side. She could not go on thinking about him this way. She’d go crazy, or worse, she’d do something stupid, or allow him to do so, and they’d ruin everything. And then what would happen? Another name, another place, yet another fresh start?
Her eyes tight shut, Lola worked, just as she had so many times before, to forget those afternoons in St. John’s Wood, to forget his kisses and his caresses and the one brief blissful time in her life when she’d allowed herself to fall in love.
It was a long time before Lola could finally fall asleep, and after a grueling rehearsal the following morning, during which Arabella chose to be particularly trying, the flower show in Regent’s Park was a very welcome distraction.
“I needed this outing, Kitty,” she said, as they walked the path of the park’s Inner Circle, making their way to the grounds of St. John’s Lodge. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”
“Arabella?” her friend guessed at once, offering a glance of sympathetic understanding.
Lola’s gaze slid away. “Partly,” she mumbled, and made a great show of shifting her white parasol to a better angle. “The woman is just so impossible. She has to stop and discuss everything. It’s quite trying.”
“Oh, I know,” Kitty agreed. “I was there the other day, hanging up the backdrop for Desdemona’s bedroom scene to see how it looked, and she happened to be there at the time, worse luck. She told me at once how completely wrong it was for her scene, and she demanded to know how on earth Jacob Roth had chosen someone to do the scenery who can’t paint for toffee.”
“Did you just want to strangle her?”
“Rather! She’s lucky I wasn’t wearing a necktie that day.”
Lola laughed, smoothing her own dark blue necktie against the base of her throat, taking a moment to wickedly imagine possibilities. “I’m just glad we were able to end work today when we did. As it was, I had to run all five blocks back to the Savoy in order to have time for a bathe and a change of clothes.”
“Well, it was worth it, for you do look a treat,” Kitty said, sliding an appreciative glance over her flounced white skirt, blue-and-white-striped bolero jacket and blue-dotted white waistcoat. “Are these puffy sleeves the newest fashion?” she asked, fingering one of Lola’s dark blue gauntlet cuffs.
“Yes. Leg-o’-mutton sleeves, they’re called.”
“They make your waist look so tiny, don’t they? I do hope the fashion lasts.”
“It won’t,” Lola assured, and they both laughed.
It felt good to laugh after a sleepless night and a trying morning. And to be outdoors on such a fine day. She breathed in deeply, noting with heartfelt appreciation that the air up here in Regent’s Park was fresher and sweeter than the dank air down by the river. Being here, her heart already felt lighter, and all the tumultuous feelings of the night before slid into their proper perspective. Her worries about the future and what disasters might happen down the line seemed to just float away, carried on the warm May breeze.
By the time they arrived at St. John’s Lodge, the flower show was already fully in progress. The wrought-iron gates of Lord Bute’s private residence had been thrown back, inviting anyone who had purchased a ticket to enter the grounds.
Once their tickets had been properly punched by one of Lord Bute’s footmen, Lola and Kitty were able to join the throng strolling amid the white tents that had been erected on the marquess’s lawn.
Though the show was open to anyone who had been able to afford a ticket, there was nothing crude about the arrangements. A string quartet played the music of Mozart and Vivaldi, liveried footmen carried trays of champagne, lemonade, and canapés. Lola felt as if she’d stepped into a duchess’s garden party. It was lovely.
In honor of the fine day, the walls of the tents had been rolled up, and beneath their shade, long tables covered with pristine white cloths displayed the finest flower specimens from London’s finest gardens in glittering crystal vases. A card written in an elegant hand identified each bloom, the garden in which it had been grown, and the name of the person responsible.
“The Countess of Redwyn,” Kitty read, as they paused before a stunning pink peony. “Heavens, you’d think she grew the bloom herself. Why doesn’t her poor gardener receive any credit, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“He should,” Lola acknowledged. “It’s a lovely thing.” Glancing over her shoulder, she spied a tent displaying vases of her own favorite flower. “C’mon,” she said, pulling Kitty’s arm. “Let’s go look at the roses.”
They walked across to the rose display, admiring the blooms for some time before the heat impelled them to a search for a footman with refreshments.
They spied one handing out flutes of champagne to an elegantly dressed group of ladies and gentlemen near the first tent, and they started in that direction, but they were still a couple of dozen feet away when Lola spied one man in particular amid their circle, a man whose back was to her but whose tall, wide-shouldered frame made him easy to recognize.
She froze, suddenly paralyzed. Her heart leapt in her chest, a sensation borne of dread, excitement, and something else—something a lot like longing. She knew she should turn around before he saw her, but her feet could not seem to obey her mind’s command.
He turned his head toward a slim brunette in pale blue silk who stood beside him, and when the girl leaned closer, putting her hand on his arm as she murmured something close to his ear, the gesture of familiarity told Lola the woman must be Lady Georgiana Prescott.