“And then all hell breaks loose,” she mumbled. “Your father will never allow me to sit at your table.”
“It’s not up to him to allow it or not. I am the host, so his only choice is to stay or go. If he doesn’t wish for our company, he’s free to stand up and walk out.”
“Denys—”
He sank down on the edge of the bed, and when she tried to turn away, he grabbed her arms. “You said you love me. Did you mean it? If you did, then prove it. Come down and face them. Run that gauntlet.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can, because you are braver than you think.”
“I’m not brave at all.”
“But you are. Good God, you are, and you don’t even see it. You fought off a man who wanted to assault you. You threw wine in a senator’s face. You went halfway around the world to become a French cancan dancer when you didn’t know French or the cancan. You decided to become an actress when you didn’t know how to act. And after a humiliating failure, you walked out on stage last night to face an audience that fully expected you to fail again, and you proved all of them wrong about you. And you don’t think you’re brave enough to take on my family? Darling, give yourself a little credit.”
“But it wouldn’t just be your family. It would be the world. Your world, Denys.”
“That’s true, and it won’t be all beer and skittles for you if you marry me, I grant you, even if we manage to win over my family. It will take courage and fortitude and a very strong will to face down theton. Many of them will be cold, hostile, even vicious. They will say unbelievably cruel things about you and to you.”
“And to you!”
“Yes,” he admitted. “And it may very well last the rest of our lives. But I’m asking you to do it anyway. And you won’t be alone, for I will be by your side every step of the way. On the other hand...” He paused and stood up. “You could take the easy way out. You could buy a steamship ticket and go somewhere else and change your name and repeat the pattern of your life. It’s your choice, my love.”
He raked a hand through her hair, pulled her head back, and bent down to kiss her. “Dinner is at quarter past eight,” he said. Then he let her go, turned away, and walked to the door. Opening it, he paused and looked back at her over one shoulder. “If you’re coming, don’t be late. Among my set, being late for dinner is just not done. If you’re not coming...” He took a deep breath. “Then God help me.”
With that, he walked out and closed the door behind him, but before heading down the corridor to the lift, he paused to say a little prayer, for he knew that right now, he needed all the help he could get.
Lola sat on the bed, staring at the doorway. He’d barely departed, but already, she knew Denys was right.
She had a very clear choice to make: another ticket out of town and another fresh start, or a whole new life that would be unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
Being Denys’s viscountess would be the hardest thing she’d ever taken on, much harder than learning the cancan or training as an actress—harder, even, than taking off her clothes for randy sailors. She’d be facing an audience harsher than any London critics had ever been, and she’d be more exposed than she’d ever been in any dockside tavern. And she’d never, ever, be able to run away.
And with that thought, as quick as the flare of a match or the snap of one’s fingers, her choice was made.
She didn’t want to run. She wanted to stay. Because she wanted to believe that happy endings did exist. And because she hated walking away from a challenge just because it scared her. But most of all, she wanted to stay because Denys loved her, and she loved him. She’d always loved him. And she was not going to run away from that. Not this time. Hell, no.
She’d go to this dinner party, and she’d walk theton’s gauntlet, and she’d live with him and be his wife, and if his family didn’t accept them, and society scorned them, that would have to be their loss.
She shoved aside the sheets and stood up, but she’d barely taken one step before a whole new question ran through her mind, a question that was of such importance, it stopped her in her tracks. Tonight might very well be the most important night of her life, and that forced her to face the same awful, agonizing question that had plagued women in this sort of situation throughout history.
What, in heaven’s name, was she going to wear?
The crucial question of Lola’s ensemble for the evening was decided at last, due mainly to the excellent taste and critical honesty of her lady’s maid, and at precisely ten minutes past eight, Lola was presenting herself to the Savoy’s maître d’hôtel dressed in a brilliant, head-turning Worth gown of shimmering, moss green silk. White gloves sheathed her from her fingertips to her elbows, and peridot and diamond jewels sparkled in her hair, at her ears, and around her neck.
The maître d’hôtel, however, was not particularly impressed by Worth, or by jewels, or by any actress who might be wearing them.
“Good evening, MissValentine.” The maître d’hôtel greeted her. His tone was polite enough, and he bowed his head a fraction, but contrary to what Denys had led her to expect, the man didn’t move to escort her anywhere.
She tried again. “I am with Lord Somerton’s party.”
“Quite so.” There was now a distinct hint of distaste in the man’s voice, and he still didn’t move. Lola waited, wondering what she was supposed to do now, and as the silence lengthened, she began to see a definite smirk lift the corners of the man’s mouth, reminding her that if she continued to take this path, this daring attempt to rise above her station, she would face many more smirking faces, high and low. This, she appreciated, was just the beginning.
But Lola had no intention of being cowed by a mere maître d’hôtel. The best way to proceed, she decided, was to pretend she was on a stage, and she was playing the part of a viscountess. What would a viscountess do when faced with this sort of behavior from a mere servant?
Despite the nervous apprehension in her stomach, she managed to lift her brows just enough to seem intrigued by this lack of cooperation rather than threatened. “Shall I arrange for Lord Somerton to escort me in to dinner?” she asked, smiling a little. “Or shall I allow you the honor of doing so?”
Reminded that the viscount was on her side, the maître d’hôtel’s manner became slightly less superior. “This way, madam.”
