“Again,” she demanded, her arms winding around his neck, her body rubbing against his like a cat demanding to be stroked.
His curse was lost in the cavern of her mouth, and she knew in that moment that they both needed to see whatever this was between them to fruition.
A commotion warned them before the door from the hall burst open. Two female bodies spilled into the entryway floor in a heap of skirts and spitting, swearing, scratching violence. One of them they’d seen kissing another in the hall.
The aggressor was a stranger.
Millie and Mr. Drummle leaped apart, suddenly surrounded by a riotous group of men crowding behind them, shouting pleased and lusty approval and encouragement to the fighting women. Millie watched them for a moment. Stunned that ladies could be so vicious to one another.
But, she supposed, jealousy was a powerful emotion.
“Well,” she called over the din, looking back over her shoulder to her would-be lover. “Would you like to—”
Her words died away, as there was no one to offer them to.
He’d disappeared.
CHAPTER THREE
Millie knew she’d had a touch too much to drink when she had to wonder to herself if the carriage she’d hired to take her the scant distance from Covent Garden to Drury Lane had, indeed, stopped. Because the world still rocked ever so slightly.
She wasn’t one to imbibe overmuch, but tonight was a special occasion.
Tonight she’d been abandoned.
Well, of course she’d had a splendid opening night at Covent Garden. There was that. But also, she’d had the most sensual, romantic moment of her entire life and then … nothing.
Bentley Drummle. What a stupid name. She was certain now that she’d heard it before, and not under the best of circumstances.
“Here you are, Miss LeCour.” The driver opened the door and cold November air blasted her with sobering force. “Watch your step, now.”
Millie took his offered hand and gathered her skirts before stepping down onto the street with a shiver. She overpaid the driver, Higgins was his name, a kind rather jowly man with a lovely top hat and bow tie. She thought at least he might be able to take the rest of the morning off and catch what few hours of sleep he could before the sun came up over the London rooftops.
She hiccupped and shuffled to her door.
Bentley Drummle. What a sod. She’d not give the man another thought. She was supposed to be celebrating her unbridled success and good fortune. Perhaps the man was sent by the powers that be to humble her on the night where her fame climbed to its greatest pinnacle yet. To remind her that in this world, she could still be treated like a common gutter slut.
God knew she’d acted like one with him.
Not only that, she’d been brought even lower by his rejection. Lord, but she was too romantic. Too willing. Too …
Lonely.
“Do you need help inside, Miss LeCour?” the driver asked with the careful voice reserved for drunks, invalids, and little children.
“No, thank you, Higgins.” With a turn of her key, she lurched inside and slammed the door on the evening.
Her apartments were not spacious, but for a suite in the middle of the city, they were downright palatial. As Millie stepped into the entry that served as a parlor, she let the warm glow of the welcoming fire melt her until she felt as though her bones were made of dough.
She loved this place. Draped in imported silks from the Orient, furnished with everything from Indian cushions to Louis the XIV antiques and bedecked with Turkish tassels, it paid homage to every example on the color wheel, and still maintained a balance between cozy and opulent.
“Millie, me love, you’re ’ome!” Millie found herself clutched to the plump bosom of Mrs. Beatrice Brimtree, her housekeeper. “An’ you’re as frozen as a snowman! Get in ’ere and take off your cloak. I drew ye a bath when they sent word that the celebration was beginning to thin.”
If either of them resembled a snowman, it was Mrs. Brimtree. Her round, pillowy breasts rested neatly on a figure that would never require a bustle to be fashionable. Every bit of the woman from her cheeks to her backside bounced as she walked, much to the delight of her ever-randy husband, George, who still called her “young lady” after twenty years of marriage.
“It’s after two in the morning, Bea, you shouldn’t have stayed up to wait for me.” Millie fought the woman over her cloak until she somehow became stuck in the folds and had to stand patiently like a child while Mrs. Brimtree uncoiled her.
“Nonsense, I couldn’t sleep until I ’eard all about your debut as the star of the London stage.” With a wrinkled nose, her housekeeper drew her toward her rooms at the back of the apartment, the carpet muffling their steps. “Lord, but you smell of gin and cigars and men who are up to no good.”
“As it so happens, I spent the after party much in the company of all three.” Millie giggled a bit, wishing the edge of bitterness hadn’t crept into the sound. Still, the night had been an incredible success, and through it all she’d been feeling as though her feet would never actually touch the ground.
The gin had helped reclaim her good mood, she suspected.
“I take it opening night was a success.”
“Oh, Bea, they called me back for three separate bows. Three!” Millie twirled in place while Mrs. Brimtree checked the temperature of the water in the deep copper tub and poured a bit of lavender oil into it. “You should see how many flowers are in my dressing room. It smells like a hothouse. It was so exhilarating that my heart still hasn’t slowed.”