“Men do. They don’t typically linger after an encounter with an opera dancer, don’t cuddle up with her like she’s a warm hearth and he’s a weary soldier.”
A cup hit a saucer with a definite plink. “Betty Smithers, what have I told you about cuddling?”
There were rules about cuddling?
“You break it off with Lord Stephen,” Marie went on. “The sooner the better. If you crooked your finger at Framley Powers, he’d be sniffing at your skirts in an instant. Powers is rich.”
“He’s nearly twice my age and silly.”
“You’re barely twenty. No cuddling, Bets. No cuddling, no pet names, no foolish notes that can be used to blackmail you if you ever turn decent. You show up for rehearsals and keep dancing until you’ve enough put by to open a shop. Those are the rules.”
And sheaths, Stephen wanted to add. Always make the blighter use a sheath. He’d sent Babette a trove of expensive Italian sheaths in a fancy box, though he knew to always bring his own to any encounter. An enterprising mistress with a sharp needle could easily conceive her way to a generous pension.
A gentleman was honor bound to support his offspring, but he needn’t sprinkle progeny across half of London. Then too, Stephen would not visit bastardy on any child if he could avoid it.
“I will never have a shop,” Babette replied tiredly. “Name me one dancer who’s earned enough to open a shop. Clare will end up sewing herself blind for some modiste, her baby farmed out to a wet nurse who’ll kill the poor thing with the black drop. When Lord Stephen holds me…”
“Babs, don’t.”
“When he holds me, I feel like the most precious, dear, cherished woman in England, Marie. His hands are warm, and he does this thing.…He squeezes my neck, not hard, but firmly, and every ache and pain from rehearsals, every worry and woe, just drains right out of me. He rubs my feet, Mare. My ugly, aching feet. Then he rubs my back, slowly, all the time in the world, like caressing me is his greatest joy. His hands are inspired, and far more than the swiving, I crave that tenderness from him.”
Thundering throne of heaven. No man should hear such a confession. Duncan, Stephen’s cousin and erstwhile tutor, had once mentioned that the ladies liked a bit of petting. Stephen liked a bit of petting, saw no harm in it, and had added a few little gestures to his amatory repertoire.
Abruptly, departing the premises became an urgent necessity. Departing London itself had gained appeal as well, if not England, but then, there was Miss Abbott, tucked up in Stephen’s blue guest suite.
In the next room, a chair scraped. “Betty, we are friends, as much as anybody in this idiot business can be friends. Get free of Lord Stephen before he destroys you. He won’t mean to, you won’t blame him, but he’ll ruin you all the same. He’ll ruin your ability to be happy even if he doesn’t put a babe in your belly. Don’t argue with me, for I must be off to bed if I’m to dance before noon. Thanks for the tea and biscuits. Don’t be late for rehearsal, especially not because you fell back into bed with the likes of him.”
A door closed, none too softly.
Stephen remained stretched on the mattress, eyes shut, when what he wanted was to bolt for the door right behind Marie. Eavesdroppers supposedly heard no good of themselves, though Babette had had only positive things to say about her lover.
Stephen wished she’d complained instead. He stole all the covers, he never sent smarmy epistles, he had a vile temper, and he insisted on keeping his canes within reach even when making love. Surely those were noteworthy shortcomings?
A weight settled on the bed a few minutes later. Dancers could move silently, but Stephen had sensed Babette’s approach. She was fastidious, and the aroma of the rose soap he’d purchased for her preceded her under the covers.
“There you are,” he muttered, when she tucked up against his side. “Wondered where you disappeared to. I should be getting dressed.”
Her hand drifted down the midline of his belly. “One more before you leave?”
He’d make her oversleep and be late for rehearsal if he lingered, which he was in no mood to do in any case, despite the ever-willing attitude of his male flesh.
“Alas for me, I must away,” he said, trapping her hand in his and kissing her fingers. “You’ve worn me out.”
“You wear yourself out.” Babette stroked his chest. “Did Marie wake you?”
“I thought I smelled her perfume. Was she here?”
Babette withdrew her hand. “How is it you know her perfume?”
“She’s keeping company with the Hormsby pup. He buys cheap Hungary water and pours it into pretty bottles, then claims he has it blended just for his current chère amie.”
“That is awful. Must you rush away?”
“As if I could rush anywhere.” Stephen dredged up a sigh. “Hand me a cane, if you please?”
Babette obliged and helped him dress, all the while chatting about the latest drama among the corps de ballet. She was restful company, and Stephen would miss her. He missed them all, the restful ones and the tempestuous ones, and he hoped they missed him too—but only a little and for only a short while.
“The sky is nowhere near light enough to ride in the park,” Babette said, smoothing her fingers over his cravat. “Do you truly have to leave? I could show you what I know about riding crops.”
She was a Yorkshire shopkeeper’s daughter whose father had lost his military contracts when peace had been declared on the Continent. As far as her parents knew, she was toiling away for a tea-and-tobacconist in a decent London neighborhood, and happy to send most of her pay home.
“You have no business knowing anything about riding crops,” Stephen said, assessing his appearance in the cheval mirror. “And I outgrew
