He’d been proud of one thing though—he’d never kissed Freddy.
Until two nights ago, curse it.
The performers milling backstage formed a human wall he pushed through before slipping through the back door and into the courtyard. He took in great gulps of air, his gaze drawn like a lodestone to the wall where he’d kissed her. Before he’d known it was her. He’d known something, though. The hesitant yet fervent fingers clutching at his cravat. The experienced lips sipping at his own. The hair, soft and silken and so damn thick. His groin tightened, and he rested his forehead against the wall where he’d trapped her body, beat his fist into the brick, trying to beat the memory of her taste and smell and the little gasps and mewls she’d made.
Then the clouds had moved, and the moon had glowed bright, and her hood had fallen back, revealing golden, glinting ropes of hair braided, wrapped, and falling about her temples. His unknown goddess became quite known then. His quiet angel who couldn’t knit. Of course his body had wanted her. Of course the kiss had been better than any kiss he’d ever had. It was Freddy, after all.
All that pride for not kissing her—gone. Replaced with knowledge of the taste of her, the feel of her, of how eager she was and how perfect she felt in his arms. If he let himself fall—she was the one he’d fall for. She was everything he wanted—rest, a home, a heart—and would never let himself have.
“Mr. Webster? Is that you?”
No. No, no, no, no. The woman from last night. Returned to haunt him.
He pasted a smile on and turned with his best bravado. “Good evening, madame.” He bowed low, added a flourish. “May I help you?”
A smile, a purr. A damned purr! “I think so.” She reached out, ran a fingertip down his chest. Before two nights ago, he would have accepted her offer. But since everything in his life now seemed measured as Before Kissing Freddy and After Kissing Freddy, he could not help her as she wished. Nor had he been able to last night.
“I am most sorry. I’m afraid I am not the hero you seek. It’s all made up you see.” Closer to the truth than anyone knew.
She pouted, her pink bottom lip so outstretched a bird might find it a likely perch. “If you do not … help me, I may find myself insulted. You’ve helped many women before me. Famous for it, you are.”
He was, and he grew tired of the game. “I hope I’m famous for other things as well.” Namely his trade, his expertise on a horse and in the arena. “Go home to your husband, madame.”
Oh. The bird would be happy. His perch grew wider.
“My husband is old,” she said. “I want to … know a younger man. A handsome one.”
God, but he felt sorry for her. When the hell would the highfliers stop selling their chits off to the highest bidder? Why not let them choose their own lives, the men to warm their beds. It’s why he hadn’t felt bad about sleeping with a married woman here or there. Their husbands didn’t care for them, and the women hadn’t chosen them. They chose him, and for a night, he could choose them, too.
Before Kissing Freddy, he’d been able to choose them, that is, keeping up his quest for nightly momentary glimpses into love even though he knew, he knew, none of them were it.
After Kissing Freddy, he could no longer ignore that fact.
Damn. Looked like a celibate life for him until he figured out how to purge Freddy from his very soul.
He bowed low. “I am sorry, madame. I hope you find what your heart desires.”
She sniffed but turned back toward the gate and alley. “Me too.” Her voice was sad.
Grant almost called her back.
“Webster.”
Damn. Was this night to be one annoyance after another? Had he died and descended into Dante’s rings of hell? When during the act? Surely he’d know if he’d perished from an accident. Perhaps he’d actually fallen during the wobble, broken his neck like a sugar cube. Not a pretty picture, that, but one he could conjure with ease. From memory.
“Webster.” A demand.
Grant plastered on a smile and turned on his toe. “Hello, Garrison. Just popping out for a bit of air.”
“Air. Humph. That’s what you call it these days? My office please.”
Damn. Grant had too many fathers for comfort, but Garrison was the only living man he thought of that way, so he followed him without further question down the narrow hallway leading away from the backstage area. His own dressing room, tiny and cramped was at the very end, but they’d stop sooner than that.
Garrison opened a door in the middle of the hallway and ushered Grant inside. “Sit, sit, my boy.”
Mr. Webster always became Grant and my boy behind closed doors. The man didn’t like any of his performers to think he had favorites, not even the boy he’d adopted at the age of six.
“What can I do for ya?”