Stephen wished she’d complained instead. He stole all the covers, he never sent smarmy epistles, he had a vile temper, and he insisted on keeping his canes within reach even when making love. Surely those were noteworthy shortcomings?

A weight settled on the bed a few minutes later. Dancers could move silently, but Stephen had sensed Babette’s approach. She was fastidious, and the aroma of the rose soap he’d purchased for her preceded her under the covers.

“There you are,” he muttered, when she tucked up against his side. “Wondered where you disappeared to. I should be getting dressed.”

Her hand drifted down the midline of his belly. “One more before you leave?”

He’d make her oversleep and be late for rehearsal if he lingered, which he was in no mood to do in any case, despite the ever-willing attitude of his male flesh.

“Alas for me, I must away,” he said, trapping her hand in his and kissing her fingers. “You’ve worn me out.”

“You wear yourself out.” Babette stroked his chest. “Did Marie wake you?”

“I thought I smelled her perfume. Was she here?”

Babette withdrew her hand. “How is it you know her perfume?”

“She’s keeping company with the Hormsby pup. He buys cheap Hungary water and pours it into pretty bottles, then claims he has it blended just for his current chère amie.”

“That is awful. Must you rush away?”

“As if I could rush anywhere.” Stephen dredged up a sigh. “Hand me a cane, if you please?”

Babette obliged and helped him dress, all the while chatting about the latest drama among the corps de ballet. She was restful company, and Stephen would miss her. He missed them all, the restful ones and the tempestuous ones, and he hoped they missed him too—but only a little and for only a short while.

“The sky is nowhere near light enough to ride in the park,” Babette said, smoothing her fingers over his cravat. “Do you truly have to leave? I could show you what I know about riding crops.”

She was a Yorkshire shopkeeper’s daughter whose father had lost his military contracts when peace had been declared on the Continent. As far as her parents knew, she was toiling away for a tea-and-tobacconist in a decent London neighborhood, and happy to send most of her pay home.

“You have no business knowing anything about riding crops,” Stephen said, assessing his appearance in the cheval mirror. “And I outgrew my curiosity about the English vice before I gained my majority.” A person in constant pain wasn’t distracted, much less aroused, by applications of a birch rod to his backside, but Stephen had experimented with erotic pain for a time nonetheless.

One wanted to be thorough in one’s investigations.

“You look splendid,” Babette said. “I’m not just saying that.”

“I look splendid, until I’m required to saunter along, all lordly nonchalance. The second cane rather destroys the fiction.” On good days, he could make do with one cane. Good days were rare when he bided in London.