“Thank you,” Betsy said.
He smiled at her; then, giving in to the impulse to touch her, he stroked his hand down her braid, then pulled her toward him. Her already heavy-lidded eyes fluttered closed as her lips parted, ready for his kiss.
Their lips met. He tasted the tea, the night, and her fear. His cock hardened and he tunneled his hands into her hair, scratching her scalp in his eagerness to be as close to her as possible. She wrapped her hands around his forearms and pressed her soft, unbound breasts against him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said against her mouth.
“Take me upstairs,” she ordered, then licked into his mouth.
He stood, pulling her against him. Their mouths met in a hot, openmouthed, devouring kiss. They tugged at each other’s nightclothes, tripping over his shoes as he toed them off. Forgetting the lights and the broken window in their desperate efforts to be close to each other, they made their way into his bedroom.
Her nightgown, worn without even a robe, was off in an instant. His robe followed. Buttons clinked to the ground as she tore his nightshirt open to midchest, then pulled it over his head. Her fingers roved down his belly and cupped him intimately, her mouth following as she knelt in front of him.
He stroked his hands down her hair, loving the way she teased him with her tongue. It smelled like a summer night; sweat and flowers and clean sheets, but also of their arousal. Arching his back so he could move his hips, he sank even deeper into her warm, moist mouth. He felt her swallow him down and he was lost to his orgasm, pumping into her. A minute later, she flopped down on the bed next to him. They were both breathing hard, but he could smell her, damp flesh beckoning to him. He pulled her around so that her thighs opened around his head and he bent to her, licking into her cleft, squeezing her buttocks and lifting her against his mouth.
She moaned and wriggled against him, at least as hot as he had been. It only took a couple of minutes for her to strain and rub and stretch her way to completion, and by then he was hard again and thrusting inside her before she had said a word.
Fast and fierce, he pulsed, rocking his hips as she clutched him against herself, lifting her legs and locking her ankles high against his back. He crushed his mouth to hers and they grappled together, wild things, no tenderness, only passion and fear and the night’s intensity. When her body undulated around him, he lost himself again, a slave to her passionate completion. He had no idea what he said, what he even felt, and he fell asleep without doing more than rolling to his side, pulling her with him so that he didn’t lose that most intimate contact.
Betsy woke, gasping for air. Her chest felt crushed. She tried to sit up and found herself trapped under Greggory’s body. He slept on his stomach, his shoulder covering her torso. She slithered out from beneath him, pressing down the feather mattress to buy herself a little space. Her skin stuck to his, as if it couldn’t bear to be separated.
Greggory murmured and turned his head away from her. She froze, but he didn’t move again.
What day was it? What time was it? Sleep still muddled her thoughts. Daylight showed itself in a nimbus around the pulled curtains. She remembered the broken window, the craziness of the night. How foolish they had been to go to bed together instead of guarding the house. When she climbed from the high bed she could still smell his scent on her skin. She needed a bath, remembered it was Saturday.
Glancing back at the bed, she saw him still sleeping, his face as wiped clean of life experience as a child’s, if not for the heavy beard. Unable to help herself, she opened the curtains and went back to the bed, kissing his chin to see what the bristles felt like under her lips.
She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his face. When she pulled back, his eyes opened, dark and unfocused.
He frowned. “Betsy?”
“We fell asleep. It’s morning.”
His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again. “The kitchen?”
“We fell asleep,” she repeated. “I don’t know. I just woke.”
“Go upstairs and check on the babies,” he said, sitting up. “I’ll go down. I can’t believe we fell asleep.”
“At least it doesn’t appear to be raining. Assuming no one else tried to come in, everything should be fine.”
“Except we might have an infestation of bees, bugs, even birds,” he said.
“We’ll manage.”
He nodded absently. “Have you seen my robe? Wait, is it Saturday?”
“Yes.” She tried not to smile as his large naked body circled around the bed like a puppy trying to find a comfortable sleeping place.
“Tomorrow night at the Hotel Victoria. Will you attend a charity ball with me? I have the tickets. I don’t know what the charity is, but Dudley wanted me to go.”
Now she frowned. “I don’t have a ball gown. I couldn’t possibly.”
“Letty’s clothing went to her sister,” Greggory said.
“I wouldn’t wear your dead wife’s clothing in any event,” Betsy said.
“How about my cousin? Would she have anything at Hatbrook House you could borrow?”
“Lady Hatbrook is a tall redhead. Her sister Rose is the only Redcake who is about my size.”
“Rose lives up north. But she might have clothes, older things, at her parents’ London house.”
“I’d be better off going to Prissy for emergency help, but I can’t do it, Greggory. I need to work today, and I haven’t the money for a ball gown.”
“It doesn’t need to be anything grand, just serviceable. This isn’t a society event. Please, I’d like to go with you. Consider the day off and a dress a gift.”
“Prissy can’t make a ball gown in a day.”
“No, but she’ll be able to alter an existing one, and she’ll know where to buy one secondhand.”
“I cannot believe you are suggesting I buy a secondhand dress.”
“It’s the only practical solution unless you want to rummage through Uncle Bartley’s house.”
“I would never do that,” she said, outraged.
He smiled. “Then get dressed and go find Prissy.”
“After I check the babies.” She sighed. “Why do you want me to go with you?”
“Because I want to hold you in my arms and sway to music. Waltz a little. Introduce you to Dudley.”
“Is this courting again?”
“I think the real courting was what we did here in the wee hours,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Not really. “Did it help you to know me any better?” she asked.
“I’ll ask you the same question.”
“I know how you wake now,” she mused. “Adorably.” She couldn’t help smiling at him. Concerned as she was by her wanton behavior, she couldn’t blame him for being attractive.
“I know I want you just as much now as I did before we became intimate,” he said huskily. “That hasn’t changed, and I don’t think it will.”
She blushed. “I’m going upstairs.”
“This gown might be the tiniest bit out of date,” Prissy admitted as she tied scarves around Betsy’s waist on Sunday night. “But the satin is good quality and looks lovely with your hair.”
“How out of date?”
“Three years,” Prissy said with confidence. “Not so very old. Anyone might wear a three-year-old dress, especially to a charity ball.”
Betsy couldn’t help admiring herself in the long mirror in Greggory’s dressing room. He had turned the room over to the sisters because Prissy had worked up to the last moment, widening the bodice and shortening the skirt of the dress she had found at a secondhand shop in the Petticoat Lane Market. “You did a really nice job.”
“I’m only sorry I couldn’t update it completely, but you don’t possess the corsetry for quite the current waist. The scarves also hide a stain on one side of the bodice.”
“I’m perfectly happy,” Betsy assured her.
Prissy stepped back and clapped her hands. “Mr. Redcake will be, too. I
hope he proposes tonight. Do you think that is his plan?”
Betsy watched her eyes go wide in the mirror. “Oh, I do not think so. He has so many other things on his mind. You know why his brother wants him to attend.”
“Why?”
“His idea about investing in a new hotel project. Mr. Redcake is thinking about investing, too. I’m sure I’m just an afterthought.”
“You would never be that. I saw how he smiled at you when I came in. He’s besotted, my dear. Soon, you will be a wife.”
Betsy smiled, then turned to give Prissy a hug. “We shall see. And if I am to be wed soon, then your turn will be next. I’m sure I will meet many eligible gentlemen if I become part of the Redcake circle.”
“We can both wear gowns like this every week,” Prissy said dreamily. “And dinner gowns every night. I saw the sweetest one at the shop. Fur edging on the bodice. Not for May of course, and I could never afford it now, but to be able to wear a gown like that. My stars.”
A knock came at the door and Prissy opened it to find Mrs. Roach.
“The cab is waiting downstairs, Miss Popham. Are you ready?”
“Thank you,” Betsy said. She paused. “I hadn’t thought about what to wear over the dress.”
“I brought you a shawl because you don’t have a cape,” Prissy said. “Here.” She wrapped a length of navy fabric around Betsy’s shoulders.
Betsy smiled and followed Mrs. Roach down the stairs, with Prissy in the rear. Greggory waited in the front hallway, in evening dress.
No man could look any more handsome. His glossy black hair shone in the gaslight and his clothing was new and perfectly tailored to his lean form. Even his shoes were polished perfection. Betsy felt a moment’s inadequacy at daring to think she could be a match for such a man, but his eyes trailed up and down her with approval.
“Prissy, you did a wonderful job,” Greggory said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go into service as a lady’s maid?”
“Oh, I like a bit more freedom than that,” Prissy said.
“You could dress a duchess with your skills,” he said.
Prissy blushed with pleasure. “You are too kind, Mr. Redcake. I will say no more for fear you might actually know a duchess.”
Greggory chuckled. “I’m sorry to say I do not. My cousins, on the other hand, do.”
“Are any of them coming tonight?” Betsy asked.
“Just my brother.” Greggory tilted his head. “I might be wrong about that, to be honest. There’s Gawain. He could be there.”
“His wife knows Queen Victoria,” Betsy confided to her sister, whose eyes grew wide. “She is appointed to Her Majesty’s medical team.”
Prissy shook her head. “What a distinguished family the Redcakes are.” She gave Betsy a significant glance.
And Greggory was far from a minor figure in the clan, given his ownership of the second Redcake’s Tea Shop and Emporium. How could she have thought she was an appropriate match for him? She hadn’t even arrived at this charity ball yet and she felt thoroughly cowed.
“Will many of our customers be there?” she asked.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Greggory admitted.
Her nerves intensified.
Mrs. Roach came back into the hallway. “The driver says he’ll have to walk the horses around the block if you are going to delay.”
“No, it is time.” Greggory nodded at her and held out his hand.
Betsy, gripping her borrowed shawl securely, passed through the front door. Greggory took a minute before stepping through. She gazed at him curiously.
“I gave Prissy some money,” he said.
“I paid for the dress,” Betsy said. “Because I don’t have rent to manage.”
“I knew you must have, but I wanted to pay her for her time. She did a great deal of work.”
“Yes, but she’s my sister,” Betsy said. Did she have a right to expect a sister she had only recently learned existed would do nice things for her without expecting payment? She puzzled over that on the drive to the Hotel Victoria on Northumberland Avenue in Charing Cross.
“You are very quiet,” Greggory said as they pulled up in front of the grand hotel.
Betsy noted the elaborate Portland stone façade of the building. When they entered, they would pass under a glass and iron canopy that seemed mismatched. “If Dudley did something nice for you—I’m not sure what, perhaps buying you a new suite of bedroom furniture if you didn’t have time—would you pay him for his time?”
“Possibly. I would if he was starting a trade as a furniture salesperson. Your sister is a seamstress, and she probably missed out on paying work to remake your lovely dress. I meant no insult by it.”
“I know, Greggory. But it makes me feel like you don’t see her as a social equal.”
“Or you?”
“Or me,” she confirmed. “Which I know I am not, but if you really are courting me, and not just keeping me as a mistress, then I have to think of the appearances of such gestures. You must have given Prissy the money in front of Mrs. Roach.”
Greggory took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I do have to say it is easier for me to see Prissy in a different light. She does not have your cultured speech or relationship with my cousins.”
“Yet she is my sister.”
“Half sister, which does give us some latitude.”
“Prissy has dreams of reaching as high as I have, in terms of marriage.”
“You need to gently disabuse her of that notion. She’s older than you, for one thing. Instead of wasting time dreaming, she should be setting her sights more realistically.”
“You do not believe a woman should dream?”
“Not a twenty-five-year-old woman with a strong working-class Bristol accent. Her time for dreaming was years ago. She’s very pretty and dresses well, but that can only get her so far. In a couple of years she is going to be beyond hope.”
“I don’t know why she waited so long to come to London. It is possible her dreams were only formed when she met me.”
“I suspect she followed a man here. That’s usually how it goes,” Greggory said.
“She did say she’d had a falling out with a beau recently. It sounded like he was too happily unemployed.”
“No seamstress can pay a household’s bills. She was wise to stop the courtship.”
Their turn arrived to climb down from the carriage and venture under the canopy into the enormous, electric-lit grand hotel. While the entire Italianate space was impressive, Betsy was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the ballroom when she entered.
Blazing with light from chandeliers that reflected onto stained-glass windows, the space was partially walnut-paneled and marked out by columns with fabulous design at the bases and tops. Mirrors reflected light around the enormous space, where tapestries didn’t cover the upper walls.
While she had occasionally served at a society wedding, she’d never seen one held in a room like this. “What charity is this for again?”
“Disadvantaged something or other,” Greggory said with a lopsided grin. “I’m not sure.”
Betsy saw his brother approaching from across the room. Behind him were Sir Gawain Redcake, his exotic half-Indian wife, Lady Redcake, who had once worked with her very briefly, and another man whom she did not recognize. The foursome crowded around Greggory, seeming genuinely delighted that he was out in public. It reminded her how isolated he had made himself since his wife’s death, between his teashop and the babies. If nothing else, his family should be grateful to her for inspiring him to venture back into the larger world.
She smiled politely and drank champagne while they spoke about the hotel venture they were all considering. After a while, Lady Redcake lost interest, though she had owned a hotel in Leeds with her first husband, and discussed fashion with her.
“I do like navy on you, Miss Popham,” Lady Redcake said. “It suits your coloring very well.”
“Thank you. I am not used to wearing
ball gowns.”
The other woman smiled. “I was not either, once upon a time. But the world is changing. Men like my husband have far more position than they once did. And therefore we ladies have to learn to wear the correct gowns.”
Betsy smiled and nodded, wondering if Lady Redcake’s speech meant she had been approved by the wider Redcake family. It didn’t seem possible. She knew she had ruffled Lady Judah’s feathers back in the day, and Lady Redcake had no reason to love her either. Naked ambition had been her watchword for most of her career.
Eventually, the conversation turned to the tearoom murder and why the police hadn’t solved it. Betsy felt tired of the repetitive conversation and excused herself to a ladies’ withdrawing room. The elaborate curlicue carpet, or perhaps her lack of a decent meal all day, made her head spin, so she happily seated herself on a stool in front of a mirror and fanned her red cheeks.
Behind her, she saw a woman staring. The older woman wore an elaborate gold gown with a draped bodice and a train that did no favors for her stout body. Her graying hair was partially hidden under an elaborate headdress. The overall effect gave Betsy the strong hint that the dress had come straight from Paris. Surely no English designer would be so outrageous. She attempted to memorize the details, from the train that could double as a curtain to the elaborate brooches dangling on ribbons on the skirt, so she could share it with Prissy.
The woman did not cease staring. Betsy didn’t think she recognized her as a Redcake’s customer, but something had the woman’s attention.
“May I help you?”
The woman blinked and focused on Betsy’s face instead of her dress. “I was only thinking that I used to own that dress.”
Chapter Fifteen
Betsy stared down at herself in horror. The withdrawing room mirrors seemed to be projecting her embarrassing attire all around the room. “Oh, I shouldn’t think—” At the very least her simple navy draped gown didn’t seem fussy enough for this woman to want to wear.
“Yes, one of my simpler dresses, from a few years back,” the woman mused. “Gave it to my maid.”
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 20
