Her cheeks were stained pink when she looked at him. “Really? That would be useful. Although Prissy has promised to advise me.”
“Has she been married?”
“No. Engaged, apparently, but she was disappointed by the man in the end.”
“You could compare what she says to the articles. Why don’t you sit down and finish dinner and I will find some of the most recent magazines? You should have them. There’s no one else to read them.”
“Why didn’t you cancel her subscriptions?”
Now it was his turn to glance down. He’d liked seeing something still come to the house with Letty’s name on it, he supposed. But mostly, he’d been too busy to notice. Perhaps Mrs. Roach or the other servants liked to read them. Or used them as kindling.
“I should do that.” He sighed.
“You must have loved her terribly. What a shock to lose her so young.”
“Life seemed very simple until Letty died,” he admitted. “Did you ever meet her?”
She returned to her seat, and he felt a small thrill of victory. “I never did. I think if she was at the opening gala, I was probably busy speaking to Lady Hatbrook most of the time. Mrs. Redcake wasn’t one to come into the tearoom.”
“No, she kept herself very busy redecorating our home. She loved art nouveau, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”
“I love the bird wallpaper in the sitting room upstairs,” Betsy said.
“I have peacocks in my bedroom. A beautiful metal fire screen, and the wallpaper is something that must be seen to be believed.” He chuckled. “When I first saw it, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep there. All those eyes. But now they comfort me.”
“The peacocks make it less lonely?”
“I suppose they do. They are undeniably very beautiful. One finds oneself missing the feminine graces when one is a widower. I was never one for the masculine world of clubs. It pleased me, coming home to a cozy domesticity, with a wife who liked nothing better than to make my home comfortable and attractive.”
Betsy stared at the beef and vegetable tray. “I’m really not hungry.”
“I am not either,” he said. “Would you like to see the wallpaper?”
“It isn’t proper,” she said with a demure tilt of her head.
He knew she was tempted. Demure was not Betsy Popham’s style. “No one will ever know but us.”
She licked her lower lip. “I am curious. Other than Redcake’s itself, my decorative education is sadly lacking.”
He groaned softly beneath his breath. “Then you must see this.” His cock hardened, hidden by the tablecloth. He wanted to stare at Betsy, imagine what might happen with her in his bedroom, but that would only make the situation more awkward. He stared at the unwelcome, heavy meal, remembered all the work and cares piling up a few streets away at his business, and his body eased.
Pushing back from the table, he said, “Shall we go?” He offered her his arm.
“Very well.” She rose far more gracefully and took his arm.
He had never really noticed her hands before. Dainty, a little bit plump, her ringless fingers had dimples in the joints. She needed adornments. He would give her rings for her fingers, necklaces to adorn that magnificent bosom. Smiling to himself, he thought she also needed a jeweled belt to clasp around that tiny waist and those bell-shaped hips. Her ankles? They were probably as tiny as her wrists. Jangling chains, maybe, like some Indian princess out of a fairy tale.
“What are you smiling about?” Betsy asked him when they reached the foot of the staircase.
“Nothing. Sometimes I amuse myself.”
“I would like to know.”
The stairs were too narrow for two at a time, so he gestured her to ascend. He put his hands on her shoulders and followed one step behind, remembering the times he’d done this with Letty. She’d been shy at the very start of their marriage, but she’d learned to enjoy lovemaking and would go upstairs giggling. He missed that laughter and fun.
Betsy seemed a much more serious girl than Letty. Her life had been so different, not pampered in the least. But how she excited him, aroused him. His feelings were not the tender flowers he’d offered Letty, but something more robust, magnificent in their passion. He wanted to tear into her, take a bite out of her gorgeous body.
As she walked down the corridor, he let his hands fall from her shoulders and felt as if he stalked her. Did she sense his intentions? Welcome them? Or was she too naïve to understand what he had in mind? His erection returned.
His bedroom took up most of the first floor. The rest of the space held a dressing room and a tiny study. Betsy opened the door off the landing, which led into the dressing room. The main decoration there was a painted frieze of rabbits cavorting among greenery.
“The rabbits are adorable,” Betsy said after he turned on the lights.
“Yes, but not as impressive as the peacocks.” He smoothed his hands down the lapels of his coat, wishing he could take it off. The first floor seemed significantly warmer than downstairs. He could feel sweat prickling his back.
“I am eager to see them.”
“That door leads through. I want to go in first.” So I can see your face.
She smiled and opened it, then stepped aside so he could pass into the room. Light still streamed in from the two windows facing the rear garden on the opposite side of the rectangular room. He turned up the gas sconces on either side of the fireplace to highlight the wallpaper.
Betsy took two steps in, then turned in a small circle. Her skirt belled out, the darker flounce on the bottom making it seem wider than it was. As he admired her, she stared at the walls, openmouthed.
“It must be hand painted,” she said, moving around a comfortable cream armchair against the wall by the fireplace.
“It is.”
“The peacocks have so much personality. It’s like being in a jeweled cave with a hundred little bird emperors.”
He laughed. “Shall I show you my favorite?”
She nodded, and he took her hand in his and pulled her to the corner between the bed and the window. “Look at this one.”
She grinned. “He’s winking. I love it.”
“I keep the drapes closed in here during the day. I know the colors will eventually fade, but I want to keep the paint fresh as long as possible.”
“I can see why.” She let go of his hands and walked along the walls, investigating each of the large birds. “This one reminds me of a soldier. His carriage is more upright than the others’.”
He’d begun to sweat in earnest now. He took off his coat, then sat and removed his shoes. “You must be warm.”
“It is hot in here,” she agreed. “But the fire isn’t lit.”
“We’re above the kitchen. It’s lovely in the winter.”
“Maybe you should switch to a summer bedroom at other times of the year. It’s easy to create a cross breeze upstairs in the bedroom. I did that last night.”
“Have you thought of me, a couple of floors below you, when you are upstairs in bed?” he asked.
“I . . .” She twisted her hands together and stared down. “Well, Mr. Redcake . . .”
“Greggory.”
“Greggory,” she said softly. “I think of you all the time. This house smells like you. And the babies. And good food, and cleanliness. It’s wonderful here.”
“Then why think about moving away?”
“It’s improper for me to stay here.” She moved closer to him.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing about my feelings for you is proper.”
She blinked. “No?”
At this point, a true innocent might run. But she didn’t. She stayed still, but her gaze lifted to his face. He shook his head and loosened his tie. “I see you there and all I can think about is how to remove you from your clothing. The high neck of your dress strangles me when I look at it.”
Her fingers went to her collar. He watched her swallow. “It is tight.”
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He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat before standing. “Let me loosen it for you.”
“I know it’s not proper dinner attire, just a day gown, but I haven’t any dinner dresses,” she said as his hands went to her shoulders, then up her neck to the buttons just beneath her hair. She shuddered and rotated her neck, as if she loved the feel of his hands on her skin.
She hardly seemed to breathe. He undid the buttons down the back of her dress until he’d completely exposed the layer beneath. He could see her shoulders, the back of her neck, and had renewed appreciation for her tiny waist.
He loved her shoulders. She had a strong body due to the physical demands of her work. Her skin was peachy and soft, but he knew there were firm, rounded muscles underneath the feminine grace. He could see them move as she half-turned around.
“Wait,” he said, helping her out of her dress, hoping she wouldn’t demur. She didn’t. Only then did he let her turn.
The demands of her work and the warmth of May meant she wore few layers beneath her clothing. A single petticoat, he thought. No corset cover. With the top layer of her armor gone, she appeared even more of a siren.
She seemed as stunned as he felt when she stared at him in his shirt, trousers, and suspenders. He felt proud, admired, in a way he hadn’t been in more than a year. Her fingers went to the base of his throat where his collar was open and caressed him. His pulse leaped at her touch. For a moment, he wanted to cry from the sheer pleasure of a woman’s caress. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her forward, knowing she’d be able to feel the hardness of his cock against her belly.
“Are we wise?” she whispered.
“No, but we want each other,” he said. He hesitated, but she only looked at him, those deep brown eyes pulling him under. “It’s enough.” He bent his head, caressed her cheek with his breath, then set his lips to hers.
“I can’t make excuses,” she whispered against his mouth. “I’ve made mistakes before.”
Yes. “Good; then we’re both sinners.”
Her mouth opened under his, maybe in passion, maybe in surprise, but he took the opportunity to plunder, to taste, and caress. Each small gasp or moan sounded like a reward for his ministrations. He smoothed his hands around her waist, almost spanning it, then curved his fingers around her plump, feminine bottom. The tip of his cock moistened and he wanted to put it in between those soft, round cheeks. He wanted to take her every way possible. How much of a sinner was Betsy Popham? How he wanted to know.
“I must get you out of these stays.”
“Yes, I need more of your touch,” she agreed.
He unlaced her, watching her breasts rise and fall, creamy mounds with deliciously hidden tips he couldn’t wait to reveal. Then he undid the front. Her chemise, of a fine summer fabric, showed the round darkness of her areolae, the pointed tips of her nipples. He went to his knees in front of her and suckled first one breast, then the other, leaving dark, wet marks on the fabric. Between her breasts the fabric was already damp with sweat. She signaled approval with a strangled squeal, pulling his head against her.
Betsy herself undid her petticoat and pushed it down, exposing stockings, combinations. But she wanted his shirt off and began to tear at the buttons. So he pushed his suspenders down and helped her, until he was completely nude on the top, his trousers resting low on his hips, tenting where his cock jutted proud and needy between his hip bones.
“You must be huge,” she said, her eyes wide as she glanced below his waist.
“I hope you aren’t worried. I’ll make you ready.”
Her lips curved and she dropped to her knees. “Oh, Greggory, it’s been years. I’m ready.”
He nearly came in his pants when her hands went to his trousers. She took them down, deftly removing socks and underdrawers in the same movement. Clever with her hands, this girl. He’d have to remember that. But then her fingers were moving up his legs, tickling the hair as she coaxed it in the opposite direction of how it lay. Her touch on the insides of his thighs made him moan. His cock beaded, so ready for her. She had seen it, too, and her lips parted, though it was her fingers that spread the moisture.
Betsy Popham was touching his cock. He could not have dreamed this any better. She fisted her small hand around the flared head, dark with passion, then slid up the base to tangle in the crisp hairs. Her head bent, her cheek touching the head first, then those lips, then the heat of her mouth.
“Stop!” he begged.
She pulled back, his cock popping from her mouth.
He shook his head. “Oh, God, Betsy, I cannot stand it. If you suckle me again I shall come all over your face.” He trembled at the delicious notion. His voice had lowered to a rumble.
“A trifling thing like that? I wouldn’t mind.”
“I want to pleasure you,” he whispered.
“I like this,” she said. “I really do. And you’ll be ready again soon enough.”
“Oh. I—” He supposed she was right, though he had not been tested in quite some time.
Her lips wore that secretive, powerful feminine smile experienced lovers knew. “May I continue?”
He took a step backward and all but fell into his armchair. “Please,” he rasped.
Her mouth took him to the root. His head fell back on the chair and his body arched. “Oh, God.” He forced his eyes open to feast upon the magnificent sight of Betsy, her reddened lips moving on his cock, her roughened fingers on the more delicate flesh of his thighs. His hands went into her hair, releasing the scents of shampoo and dinner and sunshine. He pumped into her mouth, unable to help himself, and lost himself as she took him to the back of her throat and swallowed everything he had to offer her.
Long moments passed, and he found that his head leaned on the chair again. His hand still rested on the back of her head, but she’d moved her cheek to his thigh. Weary now, he found her arm and pulled her into his lap. His fingers found the slit in her drawers. While his throat felt tortured, desperate for water, the feeling of her slippery, wet folds was enough to make him salivate.
“That did excite you,” he whispered. “Oh, Betsy, you’re magnificent.” He stroked between her folds, searching for her pearl, already hard and ready for his touch. Circling her there with his thumb, dipping inside her channel with his fingers, he made her writhe and gasp. She had more control than he, eagerly accepting his mouth on hers while she hitched her hips back and forth along his fingers. When she came, he took her cry of completion into his mouth, loving the way she shattered against him. And he hadn’t even managed to undress her. Not a lover with a lot of finesse, but they’d certainly enjoyed each other.
The thought of her pleasure had his cock stirring again, restored his strength. She didn’t protest as he picked her up and took her to his bed, lay her on the coverlet, her head on a pillow. He stripped off her damp underclothes until she stretched naked across his white bed, rosy with health and lusty appetite. Then he hooked his hands behind her knees and drew her legs apart. She didn’t say a word, just watched as he knelt between her legs. His cock, damp from her mouth and his passionate reaction to her ministrations, notched into her smoothly. He slid into her, feeling as if he returned home. But her body, as he leaned over and nuzzled her neck, smelled and tasted so differently from any of the few other women he’d known. She was salty from their earlier exuberance in the warm night, sweet from her bakery job. And there was something beneath, fresh and vital, healthy and young. All of her, perfect and sensual and meant to be loved, physically and often.
Her hips surged against his, working her body along his cock, grinding the top of her slit against his pelvis. This girl knew how to find her own satisfaction and wasn’t shy about the climb. He loved it. Her hands went to his hips, then lower, digging her fingers into his cheeks, urging him harder and faster.
“It’s hot in here,” she gasped.
“We’re making it hotter.”
She licked his neck and chuckled low, then e
nded on a gasp as he changed angles slightly. “More.”
“Oh, Betsy,” he whispered, finding her mouth again. He worked hard for his pleasure and hers, and when she clenched tightly around him and began to spasm, he lost himself in the muscular grip around his cock, spending completely. His hands loosened and her legs dropped bonelessly to the bed. He lay atop her, breathing hard, thinking of nothing, satisfied in a way he hadn’t been for nearly two years.
A couple of minutes went by and her hands went to his shoulders. He understood the signal to remove himself to another part of the mattress and rolled off her, gasping like a beached fish, too hot to even pull her close.
The ending might not have been romantic, but the start? The middle? He smiled sleepily and patted her hip. “Sin is a beautiful thing.”
She made a noise that wasn’t quite a word and rolled onto her belly. He rubbed his cheek into the pillow and stroked a lock of her hair that drifted past his shoulder, then fell asleep.
Betsy woke in her bed the next morning, feeling sticky and sore in unexpected places. Sun shone in through curtains that hadn’t been closed properly, and she heard cheerful birdsong in the tree outside the window. She sat up abruptly, her head spinning, and pulled her legs tightly together, then tucked her face into her hands. She hadn’t even managed four nights in her handsome manager’s house without falling into bed with him. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been with a man for four years, or that he was only her second lover. She was still a slattern. Did she bring her messy life on herself? How did she ever think she’d be able to marry a good man if she did such things? She’d find herself on the streets without a character.
The only response she could make to her own stupidity was to go. If Greggory remembered to pay her today—and he should, unless there were more murders or violence—she would look for ladies’ chambers immediately. Throughout the day nearly every newspaper in London would be left in the tearoom. She’d snatch them all up and look for notices. If nothing presented itself, she’d walk around tomorrow until she found a place. Greggory had said she could take the day off and she would do so.
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 14