I screw up my face like he did. “Is it?”

“When Charles asked me to look over the properties he was considering, he only gave me hard numbers. Property value, revenue, and a description of the businesses operating in each. Meryton was listed as a ‘cabaret.’ So I was a little thrown when I arrived to find out that Charles had not only put in an offer without consulting me, but that the ‘cabaret’ was—”

“A threat to your virtue?”

He eyes me flatly, but the corners of that fine mouth of his twitch. “Not as described.”

“Huh. Seems you should have done some Googling. That’s some sloppy man-of-businessing.”

“You—” He presses his lips together, the attempt to hide his smile betrayed by a delightful crinkling around his eyes. “What I’m taking forever to say is that you were right. About my trust issues. That’s a Darcy family standard. If we had a coat of arms, it would just be an old man, clutching money, giving side-eye. I don’t want to be that way. It’s partly why I’ve spent my adult life on the other side of the country.”

He sighs. “But I’ve also had enough experiences to reinforce the family habit. So you’ll have to forgive me for needing time to adjust to a community that takes something I understand as intimate and treats it as something recreational.”

“So, you admit it,” I muse. “You see clothing coming off and it gives you a certain expectation.”

He frowns. “It’s not as though I’m expecting—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” I laugh. “You may have trust issues, but I think the bigger problem is a limited imagination.”

Darcy crosses his arms, settling in. “Then please, Ms. Bennet, broaden my perspective.”

The flirtatious edge to his request inspires a score of Ming-like replies, but I keep them to myself. I have a point to make.

I hop onto the table, mindful not to bump any photos, and settle beside the purloined canapés. “The first day of my Burlesque 101 class, we’re introduced to tassel twirls. We practice, and we’re having a great time with it. It’s very satisfying.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Out of nowhere, one gal starts crying. But she’s also smiling. She apologizes, but the tears keep flowing. And she explains, ‘I have two kids. I nursed both of them, and I never thought my boobs would do anything cool again!’ ”

“Okay—”

I throw up my arms. “Her boobs were hers again! They were fun, not functional. She was reclaiming part of herself, and it made her so happy, she cried. We all cried. It was a moment.”

I turn to face him, my knee bumping the tray between us. “I’ve been witness to so many of those moments in the scene that, frankly, it’s offensive to have someone reduce it to something purely sexual.”