“I thought you were remarkable.”
There it was, that radiant smile he loved. “Really?”
“Really. And if you don’t believe me . . .” He paused and bent down beside the cart, reaching beneath the hem of the tablecloth to retrieve the morning papers he’d placed on the bottom shelf. Straightening, he held up the stack. “Perhaps you might care to hear a few other opinions?”
He dropped the sheaf of newspapers on the table and picked up the one on top, already folded back to the proper page. “According to Talk of the Town, you are ‘the most stunning and welcome surprise to appear on the London stage in years.’ ”
He set it aside, and picked up the next one. “The Times says, ‘Miss Valentine shines the moment she walks out on stage, rather like the sun peeking out unexpectedly between clouds on an overcast day.’ ”
“The Times said that?” She stared at him, understandably disbelieving. “The Times?”
“Yes, The Times. Congratulations,” he added, grinning at her over the top of the sheet. “I think you are the only person in theater who has ever inspired the staid and stuffy London Times to wax poetic. And you’ve done it twice.”
“Maybe, but the first time wasn’t very pleasant poetry,” she reminded. “Let me see.”
She set down her coffee, pulled the paper from his hand, and scanned the page. “I don’t believe it,” she said, laughing as she read the review. “Praise from The Times. Who’d have thought it?”
“In honor of the occasion,” he said, once again bending down beside the cart, “I’ve brought champagne.”
He pulled out two champagne flutes and the pail containing an opened bottle of Laurent-Perrier reposing in ice chips.
“This is . . .” She stopped and pressed a hand to her mouth, letting the paper fall from her fingers. It landed, splayed out like a lopsided army tent, on the floor. She looked down, staring at it for a moment, then she looked at him, and to his utter astonishment, he saw tears in her eyes.
“Lola?” He came around to her side of the table, rather alarmed. “For love of God, why are you crying?”
“This is so different,” she choked. “The last time you and I had breakfast and read reviews, it was so awful.”
“Which makes this all the sweeter.” He took her by the arms and pressed a kiss to her freckled nose. “Doesn’t it?”
She turned her face away and shrugged as if trying to dislodge his hands, but it was, he noted with relief, a rather halfhearted attempt, and he began to think he might have just taken another step forward. Slowly, he slid his arms around her waist. “So much sweeter,” he murmured, and kissed her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.
She stiffened, and for a moment, he thought she might pull away, but then, her arms came up around his neck, her mouth opened beneath his, and she gave a soft moan of surrender. This was his opening, and he took it.
Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss. His hands came up to cup her cheeks, and his fingers tangled in her hair, and when she pressed her body closer, tasting him with her tongue, the desire he’d been holding back flared up, and he worked to contain it at once. Pulling back, he gentled the kiss, suckling her lower lip, tasting her in small nibbles.
Given that their most recent lovemaking had occurred in a growler, he was determined that this time things would be much more romantic, and that meant taking his time.
Lola, however, seemed to have other ideas.
She grasped his wrists and guided his hands to her breasts. She wore no corset beneath her gown, and her breasts were full and lush in his hands, the nipples already turgid.
Lust surged in him, and he groaned, opening his palms, torturing himself for a moment before he once again pulled back.
She protested with a moan, her fingers tightening around his wrists to keep his hands on her, but he resisted, pulling his hands out of her grip. “Our lovemaking in the growler was far too rushed,” he said firmly. “Today, I’m taking my time.”
He fingered the top button of her gown, kissing her nose as he slipped it free. With the next button, he kissed her forehead, and with the third, her chin. By the time the gown was open to her waist, her breathing was quick and shallow, and so was his.
But he held on to his control, determined to wait until he’d made her lose hers. Once again, he pulled back, relishing her moan of protest.
She was wearing an odd sort of chemise under her gown, one that buttoned to her chin, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. “You’ve taken to wearing a nightgown under your dresses?” he teased. “Is this a new fashion I’m unaware of?”
“My maid’s out,” she murmured in a breathy whisper, and kissed him. “And there was this very insistent footman knocking at my door. I’m not sure . . .” She paused and kissed him again. “I’m not sure the Savoy would approve of such brass on the part of their waiters.”
“Desperate times,” he said against her mouth, his control slipping, “require desperate measures.”
“Are you?” she asked, nipping at his lips. “Are you desperate?”
Denys knew her attempt to take control of this seduction could not be allowed, or things would be over long before he’d accomplished what he intended to do.
To regain the upper hand, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bent down, and hooked his other arm beneath her knees, then he lifted her into his arms.
“Denys,” she protested, laughing as he carried her toward the bedroom. “What about breakfast? What about the champagne?”
“There is authentic room service in this hotel.” Once inside her room, he kicked the door shut behind him. “We’ll have ice and food sent up later. Now,” he added as he set her on her feet at the foot of the bed, “where was I?”
“I believe you were undressing me.” Her words were blasé, but her tone was breathless, and he knew he was again in charge, but once he had unfastened the buttons down to her waist, his control was again tested.
“My God,” he breathed as he slid her tea gown and nightdress off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her breasts. “You are even more beautiful than I remember.”
He let go of the garments, allowing them to catch at her hips, but when he cupped her breasts, she stopped him. “I can’t,” she said, pulling back, and he felt a jolt of panic.
He took a deep, steadying breath. “Can’t what?”
“I just can’t make love to you while you’re dressed in a Savoy footman’s livery.” She fingered a button of the distinctive gold-and-black-striped waistcoat. “I live here right now, and I see footmen wearing this all the time. It’s just too . . . strange.”
He laughed, relieved as hell she wasn’t calling a halt. “Are you telling me to get undressed?”
“Don’t worry.” She looked up, laughing, too. “I’ll help you.”
He let her remove the black jacket, striped waistcoat, and gold necktie of his footman’s livery. His collar studs, collar, and cuff links followed. He even allowed her to slip his braces off his shoulders and remove his shirt. But when she began to unbutton his trousers, he stopped her.
“That’s far enough,” he chided. “I am undressing you, remember?” He ignored her protests, plucked her hands away, then cupped her breasts in his hands.
He caressed and shaped them, savoring their lush fullness. When he caressed her hardened nipples with his thumbs, she tilted her head back with a moan, arching into his hands, and when he pinched them lightly in his fingers, she gave a soft cry, and her knees buckled beneath her.