And it had nothing to do with Bentley sodding Drummle and his unforgettable mouth.
“Is Jakub sleeping?” Millie asked, hoping to free her mind from the velvet chains of the memory.
“Sweet lad only made it to ’alf past one afore nodding off in your bed. ’E wanted to congratulate you ’imself and ’e drew you in your costume and everything.”
That familiar sense of warmth and pride lifted Millie’s lips into an irrepressible smile as she floated from her washroom to her adjoining bedchamber. Lifting the curtains back from the poster bed, she crawled in and nuzzled the downy cheek of the creature she loved most in this world. Her greatest joy and her most terrible secret.
“Mój Syn?” My son?
Jakub’s hair, the color of wet sand, tickled her nose when he lifted his head.
Millie pulled her ridiculously fluffy blankets over him, almost causing his thin body to disappear in the mountain of down-stuffed comfort. “I’m home, kochanie.” She used the nickname she’d called him since he was a child. The word for darling in their native Poland.
“I waited up for you,” he mumbled.
“I can see that.” Smiling, Millie pushed a lock of hair from his forehead in hopes of seeing his soft doe eyes, but they remained closed. Her sweet boy was locked in that magical place at the surface of sleep where he’d sink back into the depths as soon as she released him to do so.
“You smell.” He wrinkled his nose.
Her smile became a tender laugh as she kissed the forehead she’d just uncovered and rolled off the cavernous bed. “I’m going to bathe and then I’ll come carry you to bed.”
“I’ll be awake,” he insisted.
By the time Millie had gathered a silk wrapper from her wardrobe he’d already fallen into a slack-jawed slumber.
As she watched him, exhaustion began to chase alcohol and excitement from her veins and replace it with weariness. Better finish that bath while she was still able.
Mrs. Brimtree laid out a towel, her imported Parisian soaps, and the scented almond oil that she liked to use to detangle her hair and rub on her skin to keep it soft.
“Go up to George, Beatrice, you know he doesn’t like to sleep without you. I’m too spent to be much company tonight. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast and I promise I’ll be much more interesting then.”
“All right, dearie.” Beatrice bustled around a moment longer, lighting another lantern and smoothing her wrapper and nightgown where they draped over a screen. “You’re right about my George, of course. ’E’s such a love. Drinks too much and curses too often, but I adore him for all of that.”
“Well, give him this for me.” Millie kissed the lady on her flushed cheek and began to untie her stays, which laced up the front, thus negating the need for help during costume changes.
Mrs. Brimtree hovered, her brow furrowing as Millie peeled her garments from her body. “Miss Millie, can I speak freely?”
“Of course.” Millie pulled pins from her heavy hair, her scalp switching from aching to itchy. Sweat caused by the stage lights and the close quarters of the after party had chilled and dried on her skin, and she looked forward to being clean with a lustful relish.
“It’s just that, you never bring a man ’ome.”
Millie froze with both hands locked in her hair, the statement astonishing her into stillness. If Mrs. Brimtree knew how close she’d come to bringing one home tonight. If she knew the manner in which she’d conducted herself. The woman would bundle her back up and ship her off to church.
“I have Jakub,” she said gently. “It wouldn’t be seemly.” Mr. and Mrs. George and Beatrice Brimtree had been her butler and housekeeper for almost two years now, as she’d been able to afford them, but in such a short time, they’d become like family. Though they were a couple deeply in love, they’d never before dared to remark on Millie’s solitude. What was it about tonight that she must be constantly reminded of her loneliness?
“It’s just that, women like you, wot have a mind of their own, and money besides, they tend to wait for the perfect gent to come along.”
Millie blinked, lowering her hands. “Do they?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as a familiar pang of loneliness stabbed her in the gut, where excitement and arousal had been only hours before.
“I worry all the time, that you spend yer nights acting out stories about ’eroes spouting sonnets, killing themselves in the name of love, or fighting off tyrants and monsters and saving the damsel. That man. That perfect ’ero, ’e’s not out there, but there are plenty of good’uns worth your time.”
Like who? Bentley Drummle? Lord, she was really terrible at keeping him out of her thoughts. The brigand. The ne’er-do-well. She should have gone with her first impression of him.
Beatrice didn’t look her in the eyes as she spoke, and Millie thought her hesitance and concern was endearing. “You sometimes have to make allowances for them. For example, maybe ’e’s ’ansom, but smokes like a chimney. Or maybe ’e’s kind, but milk gives ’im the brimstone winds. Or say ’e’s rich, but ’as a few bad teeth.”
“Are you saying you think I’m a snob?”
The fact that Mrs. Brimtree didn’t deny it hurt worse than Millie thought it would have.
“Sometimes, accepting a man just as ’e is, flaws and everything, chases the loneliness away, and over time those edges dull. If ’e feels like you love ’im for all that, ’e’s more likely to be loving you still when your youth, fame, and beauty ’ave gone the way of things.”