A Baron for Becky

Chapter eight

Becky waited by the window for Aldridge to arrive. He would come to her first, and then they would collect Sarah from the separate apartment he had established a year ago for her and her governess, and finally they would go to the homes of each of the other children whose parents accepted Sarah as a fit friend for their daughters.

She had no idea how Aldridge had worked that particular miracle, but she was grateful.

Meeting Aldridge at Sarah's apartment would make more sense, but Aldridge preferred to greet her in a manner that was inappropriate under the nose of her daughter and her daughter's servants. He was always careful to protect Sarah from her mother's role in his life.

So, she had walked from her daughter's rooms to her own town-house already changed for the evening. The clothes she kept here—her Rose wardrobe—were too frivolous, too obvious, for a night out with children, the cut and draping designed to accentuate her physical assets.

Tonight, she wore a neat walking dress in Aldridge's favourite powder blue, long-sleeved and high-necked, trimmed with piping and embroidery in navy blue to match the redingote that waited in the hall.

His note said he would be here at five o'clock. Becky checked the rococo mantelpiece clock for the hundredth time since she'd arrived, then laughed at her own eagerness.

Waiting was the lot of a mistress, and she was luckier than most. She could spend most of her time as 'the widow Winstanley,' living quietly with her daughter, two streets from the infamous Rose of Frampton. Aldridge's impeccable good manners meant that, except for a couple of occasions when he was deeply troubled, he always sent a message before he arrived on her doorstep.

Now, no more than three or four times a week, and then, only when he was in London. In the first heady days of their contract, he'd barely let her leave his side, spending every night with her when he was in Town, and taking her with him to the country estates. She'd fancied herself in love: an exhilarating mixture of sexual attraction, gratitude, response to his charm, and the pleasant experience of being heard and treated with courtesy.

But the shine wore off. His charm and humour hid ruthless self-interest. He had a deep, but patchy, sense of honour. He would cheerfully cuckold a man he knew, but never broke a promise. He wouldn't force a woman against her will, but would throw all his considerable resources into suborning her wishes.

When he first took another lover, then told her about it in detail, she did her best to be philosophical. What they had was a contract, not a love affair.

Her heart proved to be dented, not broken. When the scars healed, she was no longer in love with him. Fond, but not in love.

She enjoyed his company, and missed him when he was off on duchy business, or out making mayhem in the ton. She'd learned more about sex in three years with Aldridge, than in three years in a brothel and six with other men. But he was also good company out of bed, an entertaining conversationalist, happiest when his mistress had opinions and made him work hard to defend his.

The deep melancholy he kept so well disguised called to the mother in her, and she would trust him with most things in her life. Though not with a sister, if she had one, and not with her daughter, if Sarah were a few years older.

She wasn't at all sure she could trust him with the news she was going to have to tell him soon.

That was him now; an unmarked carriage with nothing to distinguish it from a thousand others turning unobtrusively into the street. Aldridge was as careful with her daughter's reputation as Becky was herself, and would not let the scandal sheets learn the connection between Rose's house and the one where Mrs and Miss Winstanley lived.