Society wouldn’t accept the marriage, either. They’d freeze her out, and, eventually, Denys as well. His titled friends, pressured by their families, would turn on him, too. Nick, Jack, James, Stuart—they all liked her well enough when she was kicking up her legs and making them laugh, but surely not as Denys’s wife. Losing their friendship, losing his family, being ostracized and disgraced—these sacrifices would break him apart.
She wanted a secure future for herself, yes, but not by sacrificing Denys’s happiness. And he could never be happy with her—not as his wife, his countess, his helpmate for life. When his passion cooled, as it inevitably would, what sort of marriage would they have?
And what about herself? As much as she wanted to act, becoming Viscountess Somerton, the future Countess of Conyers, was a part she just wasn’t good enough to play. Not every waking moment for the rest of her life. A girl like her, married to a lord? It was ridiculous.
A tear slid down her cheek, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A sailor’s falling in love with a mermaid might make for a blissful fairy tale, but she knew, better than anyone, what happened when the fairy tale was over.
Her mind flashed back to the days of her childhood, with her mother gone, and her father, head in his hands, soaked in whiskey and sobbing like a child. It had taken him ten years of hard drinking to finally end his pain in the most permanent way possible.
She thought of her burlesque days in New York, when she’d taken the train down to Maryland and stood on the front steps of one of Baltimore’s most opulent houses, and a butler with haughty eyes had told her Mrs. Angus Hutchison had no daughter and had never had a daughter.
Behind her, the dressing-room door opened. “Lola?” Denys’s voice floated to her above the other sounds that came through the doorway—raucous piano, teeming voices, drunken laughter. “Lola, are you in here, or—”
His voice broke off, and she knew he’d just seen Henry.
Dismay jolted her as she realized what he would think, but then, a much more dismal realization struck her. She knew what he’d think, yes, but wasn’t that better?
She grabbed the peignoir and slipped it on before she could change her mind. Bracing herself to give the most convincing performance of her life, she stepped out from behind the screen. “Denys!” she gasped as if in horrified shock. “What are you doing here?”
His dark gaze lowered to the flimsy garment that covered her naked body, then moved to the champagne Henry had placed on her dressing table. “You—”
He broke off, and in the silence, she could see shock giving way to wariness and caution. “You left London.”
“The play closed.” She shrugged as if it was a matter of no consequence. “I had to find work.”
“Without even seeing me to say good-bye?”
“It seemed the best way.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Best for whom?”
Her courage began to flag, but she didn’t look away. “I told you, I had to find work, and no one in London seemed willing to hire me. So, I came back here. The Jardin de Paris was happy to offer me a place.”
“You didn’t have to do this. I told you . . .” He paused, his gaze sliding to Henry, then back again. “I’ll take care of you.”
She didn’t reply, and he took a step toward her, but then he stopped. “Henry,” he said, his gaze not leaving her face, “leave us, please.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said before Henry could comply, and she knew she had to end this quickly, or she’d lose her nerve, and—God help them both—let him talk her into a different future. “I’d like Henry to stay.”
He set his jaw. “Why?”
“We’ve become . . . friends.” She sauntered over to where Henry sat on the settee and sank down beside him, watching Denys as an appreciation of all the implications dawned in his eyes. Pain followed—his pain—slicing into her like a knife, and she knew she had to get this over with before it annihilated her.
“I heard you’re thinking we might get married.” She laughed, a brittle sound that made him grimace. And although it took every scrap of willpower she had, and cost her more than anything she’d ever done on stage, she held his gaze. “I’m flattered, but Henry has made me a better offer.”
“A better offer?” He shook his head, refusing to believe, and she knew she had to hammer the point home.
“Yes. He’s going back to America and taking me with him. He’s giving me my own show in New York.”
Denys’s jaw tightened. “I see.”
He took a step back, and she felt as if her heart were ripping in half. “Yes,” he said, nodding, “I see.”
She could see, too—she could see him hurting, hardening, any love he might have for her withering right before her eyes. But it was better for him to hate her now, when he wasn’t stuck with her for life, when he could still find someone else, someone who wouldn’t be an embarrassment to him and a stain to his family name, someone suitable who understood his life and could share it. Better for him to look at her with loathing now than with regret and blame a few years from now. Better to end this affair before there was a marriage that could not be undone and children who would suffer for their mistake. But as his eyes raked over her, what was better didn’t seem much comfort.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” she said, and caught the quiver in her voice. She forced herself to steady it, to speak with quiet finality. “Good-bye, Denys.”
The silence was smothering. Her chest ached, and she couldn’t breathe, and she knew that if he stood there much longer, she was going to break down. But just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he turned his back and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
“So,” Henry said beside her in the silence. “I guess that means you’ve decided to accept my offer.”
She was tough, she reminded herself. She was hardheaded and practical, and she’d done the right thing. “I guess I have,” she said, and burst into tears.
Henry had given her a handkerchief, a stiff drink, and a fresh start. With his backing and support, she’d taken Lola Valentine to Madison Square, and within a year, she’d climbed to the top of New York music-hall theater. With the training he’d promised, she slowly learned the craft and the discipline of serious acting, and Henry’s encouragement had given her hope that one day she’d be able to perform drama again. But now?
What am I doing here? she wondered wildly as she glanced at the actors all around her. She was in partnership with a man who had every reason to hate her and would like nothing but to see the back of her. He’d never let her be part of this company. And, she thought, taking another look at the people around her, why should he?
These were serious actors with established bona fides who performed Shakespearean drama and Greek tragedy, while she was known for a risqué song-and-dance routine. The only acting role on her resume had lasted a week. Most of these people had years of experience reciting the lines of Hamlet and Clytemnestra, while her most famous soliloquy was a bawdy rendition of You Should Go to France and See the Ladies Dance.
Self-doubt seized her like a fist, clenching and twisting her guts. Everyone already thought she’d slept her way to success, and being partners with Denys was only going to reinforce that. Even if she proved she could act, it’d take forever for people to respect her for it. And what if she didn’t prove herself? What then?