Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (10 page)

“Perhaps that is the difference between us. I do feel like my mother’s daughter, and my father’s keeper. It’s not the same. I’ve spent my life being ashamed, which meant Simon Hellman could control me.”

“Not any longer. I’m sure the police will pick him up soon.”

“And Victor Carter, I hope.”

“Listen, Betsy, you deserve to be happy. Take a chance on this gentleman. Does he know your story?”

“He does now.”

“Good, and he’s still kissing you.” Prissy tapped her full lips with one finger. Betsy could see scars from too many pricks with a needle. “Yes, I think it is time to work on your trousseau. We had better start on the important things, like nightgowns.”

Betsy blushed. “I don’t have the money, Prissy. Victor, you know.”

“You’ll recoup, now that the thieves are out of your life. I’ll talk to Ralph myself if he protests; make him understand from a sister’s perspective.”

“You can’t tell him I’m being courted. I don’t even know if that is what is going on.”

“You had better ask this gentleman’s intentions,” Prissy advised. “You have a right to know. Normally, I would tell you to speak to your father, but if you want to be independent, you had better ask yourself. Don’t be shy; this is your future.”

“It is. You are right.” Betsy wondered if she could really see a future with Greggory Redcake. How she wanted to fall into that fantasy and stay there. Mrs. Greggory Redcake, with two little babies to love already. United with him in their love for their business.

She sat up very straight in her chair. What if he’d want her to stay home with the babies instead of maintaining her position?

“What?” Prissy asked.

“Oh, nothing. I had better return to my post,” she said. “It’s been so nice to visit with you, Prissy.”

Prissy nodded. “When I’m running errands for Mrs. Fair, I’ll keep an eye out for the perfect fabric, so I can snatch it up when you are ready to start your nightgowns. I’ll sketch for you.”

“Sketch for yourself,” Betsy said with a giggle. “We’re so similar.”

Prissy patted her hand. “I’m so glad I found you. I hope 1892 is the year that turns you from miss to missus.”

“Why not both of us?” Betsy asked. “You’re in London now.”

“I’ll wait for you. If you can marry well, that will make it easier for me to do the same,” Prissy said with a wink. “Don’t take too long, now.”

“That is very true,” Betsy agreed. “I accept your offer of help.”

Betsy stayed almost giddy through the rest of the day, at least until she arrived at the dinner table to find she was alone with her father.

“Where is Mr. Redcake?” she asked.

“He has never come home,” Ralph said, arranging his napkin. “I told Mrs. Roach she didn’t need to be formal, but I believe Mr. Redcake left orders for a full dinner to be served.”

Betsy frowned. She had checked with Greggory before she left for the day. He’d seemed distracted but told her to go on to the house and he’d be there soon. At the last moment, he’d looked up and smiled. She’d wanted to apologize for her silly behavior of the night before but decided she should leave personal matters for outside of Redcake’s. If he stayed out all evening, she wouldn’t have a chance to right their relationship.

Or maybe this was his way of showing her that she didn’t matter?

 

Greggory had been sorry to miss seeing Betsy the evening before, but Lord Judah had telephoned and asked him to call around when he left work. He’d spent the evening in conference with the man and some of his Redcake cousins, who were very curious to know how his branch fared in the present circumstances. Even though he’d been given the property as a wedding gift, they shared the business name and fortunes were somewhat intertwined. His cousin Matilda had told him that Uncle Bartley had planned to buy him a house, not give him the business, but his wife’s father had already owned the Kensington Church Walk property and it didn’t make sense to take on another house.

On Thursday, though, he presented himself at dinner. Only Betsy was at the table.

“Is Mr. Popham running late?”

“He is playing chess with an old friend,” Betsy said. “They play once a month. He won’t be here until the wee hours.”

He smiled. “Then I have the pleasure of spending an evening calling you Betsy.”

“Not when Mrs. Roach is present, I hope,” she said.

He nodded agreement as the housekeeper walked in with their soup. “How did your first day with the new housemaid go?”

“She worked a treat,” Mrs. Roach said, ladling out the broth with spring vegetables. “And the babies had a short nap today, so they are likely to sleep better tonight.”

“So the world spins back in our favor,” Greggory said. “It is time.”

He thought Betsy’s smile was weak in response to his words. Given her recent physical scares, it was probably difficult for her to relax, the poor girl. Noting the wine decanter on the sideboard, he brought it over and topped each of their glasses.

She lifted an eyebrow.

“Relaxation in a bottle. We both need it, I think.”

“I am not much of a drinker.”

“You have a need for control. I am a light drinker as well, given the babies.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Roach will have a new nursemaid for you next week. I sat with them for an hour just before dinner. It is not hard to love such sweet little creatures.”

My children are sweet little creatures
. He puffed a bit with pride as he sipped his wine. “Not a bad vintage. My cousin, Sir Gawain, is becoming interested in wines. He sent over a case of whatever this is for the twins’ birthday.”

“Were you supposed to set it aside to build their cellars?”

“It does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it? I thought I’d save two bottles for them. Honestly, I wouldn’t know if the stuff was fair or foul, only whether it tastes good to me.”

Betsy sipped from her glass. “I like how it feels in my mouth, but we only ever had ale at home. I almost never drink wine.”

“You won’t turn into a connoisseur in this household.”

Now, she smiled more genuinely. “Perhaps not, but I’m enjoying my nursemaid time. I’ve never had much exposure to babies.”

“Do you want children?” he asked.

Her eyes fixed on a position far above his head. She seemed to freeze. “Every woman does, I believe. It is what we aspire to.”

“I might have thought otherwise in your case.”

“Why not?”

“Your father doesn’t seem to have raised you like a typical girl.”

“No, he didn’t. I have learned independence, along with not nearly enough household management. But it won’t be so different from learning how to manage Redcake’s.”

“I believe in you,” he said as Mrs. Roach reappeared to remove the soup and bring in the fish course.

“Delicious,” Betsy said, forking up delicate white fish in butter sauce. “I don’t know how you can eat like this every night.”

“I don’t indulge in Redcake’s pastry very often,” he said.

“I can’t imagine giving it up. I am tired of wedding cake, though. I ate so much imperfect fruit cake that was left over in my previous position, I can do without it.”

“When you marry, what kind of cake will you have?”

“A spice cake, I think. With apples. Something very unusual, but decorated in the best fashion. I am not the most talented decorator at Redcake’s, but I do well enough.”

“You want to make your own cake?”

She nodded. “That way I will know exactly what is in it. I won’t be making my own dress, assuming I have a nice one. I don’t have those skills. But cake I can do.”

“You are planning quite a modest affair,” he said with a smile. He loved listening to Letty right after they’d become engaged, bringing their wedding celebration to life with a picture in words. She had done it, too. A lavender dress in the year’s most elegant French style. Redcake’s best cake, decorated by Lady Hatbrook herself. A wedding meal at Lady Fitzwalter’s home in Bristol. All the best, and he’d enjoyed every second of it. He thought every bride would want the same.

“I’ve been too busy to think about a wedding very much,” she said. “Plus, no beau.”

Betsy wasn’t like his family. The Pophams were Redcake’s employees, not equals. Long-term, valued employees, but nothing more. Something about her had landed her into his home, made him think of her as something more, this brunette beauty with the glorious curves and sharp mind. Not to mention the tragic past.

“I think every girl should have a nice wedding. Her parents should save for it, as they’d save for a son’s education.”

Her lips tensed and her gaze drifted back to her plate. He winced as he realized he knew exactly where Ralph’s money, and hers, had gone. If she’d had a mother, it might have gone differently, but her mother had been even worse. The thought struck him: She really had no one she could count on but herself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing back from the table. She was seated to his right and he pulled his chair close to her and sat back down. “I’m being insensitive.”

“We’re not from the same type of family,” Betsy said. “My family, originally, owned a boardinghouse. Yours owned factories. Then your family climbed the social ladder, and mine . . . well, mine didn’t.”

“Yet you and I are both here at this moment.”

She winced. “You own this house and I am a penniless guest. It hardly matters that we are both here.”

He leaned in and cupped her cheek. “Oh, Betsy, my dear girl, it matters to me.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough for him to know his touch affected her, but when she looked at him, her gaze was clear and imperious. “You know how grateful I am, and I will move on as soon as I see my pay envelope. Tomorrow or Saturday. I have it all sorted in my own mind. I just need the money and my day off.”

“You do not need to work on Saturday,” he said. “We don’t have a lot of trade right now, and it was never meant to be part of your work hours.”

“Or yours.”

“I’m irrelevant. I’m the owner.”

“Then I can stay here with the babies, if that would help.”

“My children aren’t your problem.”

He felt her draw away, both physically from his touch and mentally. “But I appreciate that you think that way. It’s who you are, Betsy. You always make yourself useful in any situation. I applaud that, you know. I don’t enjoy those ladies who have no energy for anything. Give me a charity campaigner, a suffragette, a doer of good works any day. An artist, or a mother who cares for her own children.”

“Or someone who needs to earn a living?” she said with an edge of sarcasm that he was sure was meant to make it clear that she knew he hadn’t said it. “Well, all the better. I will look for a new residence in two days’ time.”

“I spend all day with women like you,” he said gently.

“Yes, but do you really have a passion for the business? You work as hard as anyone and even more, but as you say, Redcake’s was handed to you. I’ve been there since the first day the flagship teashop opened.”

“I’ve worked at Redcake’s as long as you,” he said. “But on the factory side. I care as deeply as you do. It’s my name.”

“And I’m just an employee.” He heard her heels scrape on the carpet. Her chair moved back and she stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe the first two courses were quite enough for me this evening.”

“You never seem to finish your meal.”

Her expression was strained. “I’m not used to these multiple-course meals. There’s no way to get through them except eating like a sparrow at each course, and I don’t think to stop.”

“How are you going to spend the evening?”

Mrs. Roach entered with a platter of sliced beef and vegetables. He wished she would go away. Betsy would leave and he couldn’t pursue her into her bedroom.

“If you don’t need me with the children, I shall have an early night of it.”

He couldn’t use them as an excuse to keep her available to him, not when he’d said they were not her problem. Frustration filled him. How had he ruined a rare chance to have a quiet evening with her? Or at least as quiet as one could have with servants and children forever underfoot. He might have thought courting in one’s home would be easier, but it was actually worse than trying to court in public.

And why was his mind turning to thoughts of courting, with his own employee no less?

“Y
ou could stay with me,” Greggory blurted out. Had any man, a widower at that, ever sounded greener?

His housekeeper’s pleasant expression shuttered. She set down the beef and vegetables instead of offering the plate to him and left the room. Obviously, the older woman did not approve. He thought his words had sounded innocuous, but she must know his real, carnal intentions.

“I do not have a reason to,” Betsy said, clasping her hands in front of herself, ready to flee him for the evening.

“We work so closely together, but I don’t feel like I really know you.” Was this a reason?

“You know me better than anyone else.” She said this in an exasperated tone as she pushed the bangs out of her eyes.

“I know about your parents and your troubles. Now I’ve learned that you don’t want a large wedding. What else? What are your dreams? Do have other career hopes beyond being assistant manager at Redcake’s? Do you plan to leave employment when you marry? Do you like to play music or sketch?”

“What does any of that matter?”

He spread his hands apart. “We have an entire evening in front of us, if you don’t run away from me. We could play cards if you like. We could look at my late wife’s pressed flower albums. She was extremely proud of them. We could dance.”

“We don’t have any music, and I don’t know how.”

“I have a piano. Do you sing? We could sing together. Letty’s fashion magazines still come here, if you want to look at dresses.”

“I don’t have money for clothing.”

“You will now,” he said. “In a few weeks.”

“I’m going to build my trousseau,” she said, then compressed her lips.

He lifted one hand, then placed it palm side down on the table. “There, now I know how you plan to spend the near future. Planning your trousseau. Excellent. I’m sure there are articles in some of those magazines.”

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.”

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.