How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,6

the will of the Quality.”

That observation—about Stephen having to marry—was inordinately disquieting.

“He doesn’t do what you think he’ll do,” Babette replied. “Take the last biscuit. We have rehearsal in the morning. You’ll need to keep up your strength.”

That Babette continued to dance when Stephen paid her well enough that she could put away her ballet slippers bothered him even as it earned his admiration. Men were fickle, fate was a mercurial old beldame, and bad luck was inevitable. To wit, Jane’s fourth child was indeed yet another girl.

Though Stephen was helpless to do anything but adore his nieces.

“You are perilously fond of your lordling,” Marie said, sounding as though her mouth were full of biscuit. “He doesn’t strike me as a man to inspire fondness. Cold eyes, never a wrinkle on his Bond Street finery. His canes are worth more than my poor papa’s life savings, God rest his soul. Have you ever heard Lord Stephen laugh? Does he snore? Does he forget where he put his sleeve buttons?”

“He smiles.”

What had laughing or snoring to do with anything, and who in his right mind would misplace gold sleeve buttons?

“He smiles like I smile at this butter biscuit, Bets, like he’s about to demolish something or someone and relishes the prospect. He’s fought duels, you know.”

“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