by Lisa Torquay
“I agree after this morning’s drizzle,” he answered distractedly while he found purchase amid the crowd in this fashionable hour.
The lady dressed impeccably in the latest fashion and sat poised by his side. In the last half-hour, they talked amenities as the aim was to see and be seen in public.
While they shifted subjects, Drake sighted Miss Amelia Bolton walking arm in arm with the Countess of Thornton. Miss Bolton was an astronomer together with her brother Sir Joseph and had given a lecture on comets in one of his and Hester’s soirees. He tipped his hat to both women as the barouche passed them. Last he heard, Miss Bolton and her brother had travelled to their Northumberland home where their family owned coal mines.
“I’d like to ask your leave for a question of a somewhat personal nature if I may, Lady Millicent.” Worcester started after a moment of silence.
She shrugged with that weariness so part of her. “I suppose it’s all right. There are no secrets in London.”
Yes, the gossipmongers made sure of that. He wondered how much of it affected her as she wasn't guilty of her father's unfathomable sins.
“Is your home safe for you?” he asked in a low voice so her maid wouldn’t listen. Many lords paid servants to spy on their family members.
“For me yes.” Her voice came softly too. “Though it’s been difficult since my mother died.” Something sombre clouded her expression.
“When did she die?” he preferred not to become too personal with her, but she volunteered the information.
“Two years ago.” She’d gone completely expressionless as she said that. Too young to carry this burden, the courageous waif.
“I want you to know that should you need anything, anything at all, you can come to me.” The girl was little more than a child and already sounded as though she had no dreams.
She eyed him with a tinge of suspicion before a small smile graced her disenchanted stance. “You’re a good friend, Lord Worcester.” Her hands twisted in her lap as she lowered her head. “You don’t seem to be the rake people believe you to be.” Her gaze lifted back to him.
“I had my moments back in the day.” He admitted wryly. Before Hester happened and he became horribly focused on only one woman.
The rest of the ride elapsed in companionable silence.
Later that afternoon, Hester left the theatre after helping Oliver and Eli with their chores. She carried the printed play with her to do her markings this evening. Her house lay five minutes away, so she ambled calmly.
With the ideas about the play rolling in her head, she nearly collided with another woman. Her hands held the other woman's shoulders to prevent her from falling.
“Miss Bolton.” She greeted when she saw who it was.
The Boltons were habitués at Lord Worcester's townhouse. Amelia proved to be a brilliant mind as she gave a lecture in one soiree.
“Miss Green.” Amelia returned with enthusiasm. She appeared not to harbour most women’s prejudices about actresses. “Splendid to see you again. How have you been?”
“Rather busy of late.” The answer came as Amelia joined arms with her. The other woman’s warmth felt soothing. “And you?”
“Just back to London after a brief stay in Northumberland.” The younger woman smiled unreservedly.
“I’m for home. Would you care to join me for tea?”
“It’d be delightful.” Amelia cheered.
They sat at Hester's tiny drawing-room cum dining room chatting animatedly until Amelia moved to take her leave as it'd be turning dark in about an hour.
"Oh, this has been my lucky day," Amelia said gleefully. "I took a walk in the park with Lady Thornton, had tea with you. I even saw Lord Worcester riding with a girl whose name I don't recall."
Everything in Hester sank to bleak levels. The dratted man swore it was all rumours when in reality, he was courting the debutante.
“Oh, my, oh my!” Amelia wore a horrified look to her face as she stared at Hester, a hand clamped on her mouth. “Hester, I’m so stupid.” She said mortification all over her. “I shouldn’t have…sorry, sorry!”
Hester rested a hand on her upper arm. “Don’t worry. It’s no secret to anyone in this city.” Bravely, she held the other woman’s gaze.
“Lady Thornton told me the news and I just—oh!” She lamented again, slumped shoulders, then pulled Hester in a hug.
Hester took solace in it, grateful for having a real friend. “It’s better to know than not to.” She reassured Miss Bolton.
“Let’s have luncheon together, shall we? We’ll talk only about positive things.” Amelia squeezed Hester’s hands in hers.
"That would help a good deal," Hester replied.
“It’s settled then.” And the women said their good-byes.
Hester closed the door and leaned on it, a hand rubbing her brow. Emotions swirled inside, mingling disheartenment and anger, so much anger. How could she have cheated herself to the point of accepting his proposition? And with only a drop of resistance, less than that. Drat, what a vulgar cliché she became! The meaningless actress and the powerful lord who did whatever he wanted just because he could.
Her eyes burned with the need to shed tears, but she tamped them down with forceful intent. What good did they do? None whatsoever. She lost everything! Lost herself, lost her dignity, her self-worth, her mind. Such a waste of time!
And now that she sought to rebuild her life, the blackguard inveigled himself in the new play. Work would have been welcome in this healing process, but he left her not even that. There was nothing to it, she reassured herself. The best she could do was to reach top performance so rehearsals would be fewer, the sooner for him to be away from her.
With this to direct her mind, she sat with the play to do the markings. The faster she went through them, the faster the whole process would run. There were support roles to assign, but the cast was experienced, and they wouldn't be a hindrance.
The actors set for the play roamed the stage while Worcester observed them interact with each other. They greeted one another, talked, listened carefully to what someone said. The whole bunch looked pretty much as they would in a firm in the City, London’s financial centre, for instance. Work colleagues going about their day.
Drake had a passion for the theatre. He’d devoured every play he’d found in Eton’s or Oxford’s libraries, frequented Drury Lane as often as possible, and watched the same play or opera more than once. His time with Hester had been the most enjoyable in that they kept close contact with arts in general, and theatre in particular. That artistic effervescence of new ideas and creativity always amazed him.
The production of a play though made him dive in an entirely different world. Here, he had the chance of seeing everything from the inside, the making of it from scratch, the daily life on the backstage. And Hester. As he awoke in the mornings, the perspective of seeing her and spending the better part of a day in the same place as she filled him with an energy he'd not taken notice before though it'd been there in every single moment he spent with her.
It'd be useless to deny that this affair of investing in the production held any other aim than not allowing the distance between him and her. Only now did he recognise what he had with her and took for granted. The woman proved to be a hard nut to crack. Mistresses didn't question their keeper's decisions, nor did they have a say in the men's intention to marry or not. In reality, they comprised a glorified type of servant. They received their wages in jewels, dresses and living arrangements but were still bound to do the lords' bidding.
Hester subverted the standard arrangement. Threw him out of the house he himself gave her, left behind the house, the clothes, and the baubles, and ended their liaison at the mere hint of a betrothal. Blasting hell, she was a force in herself. And he never valued that, or her. Look where that left him. Alone in a bed that called only to this woman. His woman.
Said woman arrived right on the time set for t
he rehearsal to start. He watched her fairly glide on to the stage to greet the others. Today, she wore a simple dress of an uncertain shade of grey. It didn’t steal her beauty or the elegance of her movements. Straight spine, head held high, that no-nonsense air about her caused her to appear taller than she really was.
And she didn’t look at him, not for a millisecond. Not even a side glance. Regal and aloof, she ignored him so pointedly he felt his guts twist with it. She was dead serious in keeping this wretched distance between them. She’d give no quarter, the stubborn slip of a woman.
“Miss Green,” he called.
Her entire frame went stiff and tense as a tuned cello. Her head turned to him, but she didn’t deign to look at him. She looked through him, over him, somewhere over his shoulder. Her coldness hit like a blast of frost, colder than the Arctic.
Her delicate, delicious feet strode to him as though she neared the gallows, her eyes a dull moss that never met his. She halted a good five feet from him and curtsied briskly.
“My lord,” she said to the wall on his back and that frost in her voice.
Closely, he studied her, wondering at a behaviour she’d not displayed before. This was not the Hester he’d been used to, this was a shell, thick and remote. Her hair scraped back with severity underlined her withdrawn stance.
Not a word, not a glance, she simply waited. Just like the servant she embodied in this play, quiet, reserved, but not biddable, no. Restive energy swirled about her as if it would spring to life at any second if she relaxed but a single muscle.
“I expect you made the notes for the play.” The rasp came tinged with the effort not to come closer or give in to touch her. Even in this icy posture, she tempted him, drew him, infuriated him.
"I did, my lord." And reached for a bag at her side he hadn't noticed to retrieve it. Woodenly, she extended it to him. He took it, and she let her arm fall as though she wanted to avoid any contact with him. Something was afoot, and he wished they were alone to find out exactly what.
The booklet in his hands carried her scent, a mixture of roses and lemon, sweet like her mouth and tart like her tongue. A perfume he harboured no hope of ever forgetting. He’d invariably trail after it as he kissed her. Everywhere. His eyes arrowed at hers to find a lighter shade of moss a second before her lashes lowered. Her lashes might lower, but certain parts of him rebelled and thrashed to rise.
It lasted barely a ragged second. Next, Hester turned her back at the same time another actress neared him. Franny Brown, if he remembered correctly. The theatre people made their introductions in their first general rehearsal.
“My lord,” she started all dove eye and batting lashes. “You cannot imagine how delightful it is to have you in our midst.” The high-pitch of the remark made him wonder if she posed herself as a candidate to stand in for his former mistress. The possibility soured his mood. Hester was not someone he could ever replace. Just thinking about how fulfilling the past year was made him want to roar in frustration.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he answered impersonally. And to everyone swarming on the stage. “Shall we start?” He sat in the first row in the audience.
The actors and backstage hands took their positions.
It wasn’t the biggest theatre in Drury Lane; it counted half of the seats and boxes of the Royal Theatre. But they’d been lucky enough to acquire the king’s license to operate as they carefully built their reputation for alternative and consistent plays. Light came from the open windows and doors on both sides of the stage, allowing for airing and a sense of time as daylight continued.
“Mr Flynn, a step back, please. Allow Miss Green space to act.” He directed at a certain point.
Worcester watched as the scene where the duke poured his glib over Sarah Bourne unfurled on the stage. With his experience and good diction, the role fit Flynn like a glove. But the way he looked at Hester all the time got to Drake. All. The. Time. The Irishman simply couldn’t hide his personal feelings for her. His lambent eyes and captivated expression made Drake sick. Not only because of all that disgusting sweetness. The sharp, blistering emotions that roiled in his guts went much further. The murderous impulses that followed were tearing at him.
Flynn put space between him and her. But Hester didn’t acknowledge Worcester. Her head didn’t move a single angle. She started again, cool and precise. Her acting and the way she’d memorised her lines, he could only label as flawless. At this rate, they’d be ready by next week. Too soon for his taste.
Sarah Bourne was almost falling for the duke’s hollow promises. The duke neared her and held her arms with affection. The sight made the virulent feelings in Drake’s guts bite.
“Holding her arms gives the impression you’re forcing her.” Drake intervened. “Stare at her as if your victory is at hand.”
This time Flynn glared at him. “Holding her arms shows how eager he is in his conquest.” The tone of someone who explained it to a five-year-old pushed Drake to the edge.
“No, the lines you say do.” Drake countered.
Still, the woman would not turn her eyes to Drake. She repositioned and began anew. A hard intake of air from the actor prompted his repeating the lines.
The rest of the rehearsal elapsed in a similar fashion. Drake stopped it every time Flynn came less than six feet from Hester. The actors and the stagehands began to wilt with exhaustion. Flynn wasn't hiding his annoyance any longer. No one would dare confront a marquess, and Drake guessed that's what held them back. Only Hester stood wordlessly, re-doing the scene as many times as necessary, her whole attention on the stage. Her whole indifference screaming at him.
But when the scene where Sarah would finally break came, Drake had no stomach for it. “Alright, we can stop here for today.” He ordained, unable to watch as the characters would have to touch each other.
A general sigh of relief seemed to cut through the stage as everyone left without delay.
“Miss Green, a word, if you please.” He hindered her fast progress towards the exit.
Half-turned to him, she said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but I have an appointment.”
Her refusal pushed him to an inch from snapping. What appointment, and more importantly, with whom? Images of her and Flynn in her cosy little house together and alone morphed him into a feral creature he had to smash down to keep his threadbare control.
“It’ll take but a minute.” He insisted.
She stalled in the middle of the stage while the theatre emptied. Her back eternally to him.
In long strides, he climbed the few steps up the stage and rounded her to post himself right in front of her. His eyes sought hers, but she diverted hers. Drake peered fixedly at her even as she evaded any eye contact. Silence fell between them not even broken by the sounds of steps distancing on the floorboards. Everyone had left.
“What is it?” he asked, crossing his arms in waiting.
“I don’t know what kind of question that is.” The coldness of her tone was only skin deep, underneath he heard the strain that it took her.
“You are not yourself.” He reiterated.
She scoffed to the wings behind him. “As if you had a clue of who I am.”
He did, enough to see something wasn’t right. “I’ll stand here with you until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Apart from the hell of a day I just had?” He’d never seen her swear and perhaps that gave away the measure of her emotions.
Drake narrowed his gaze. “We could talk about the hell of a day I also had, but we won’t.”
“Good, because I don’t have all night.” She rebutted.
"In a hurry to go to your love nest and your darling actor?" She wouldn't miss the note of scorn in his tone.
That made her turn to him, launching a thousand daggers with those green beacons.
There. It was coming now.
“You dratted hypocrite!” She spat hotly while those beacons pierced him, heated
him, swallowed him. He’d take anything she was willing to throw at him. Anything!
Needless to ask the reason for her veritable wrath. Men gave themselves the right to take as many women as they wished and never gave those women the same choice.
He hitched a brow determined to drive her to the edge. Any reaction would be better than the indifference he endured all day. “Of course I am a hypocrite.” He was not about to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie. “I’m a man, and an English lord on top of that.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The undiluted powder keg that exploded inside Hester blew with such force she didn’t recognise herself. She’d spent an awful night as her unhinged imagination produced images of this scoundrel before her and his future wife together, revelling in every single pleasure he’d taught her, did to her. It turned her into a fireball of frustration and anger.
By the time she left her bed, not only was she tired and irritable but also without a drop of energy for the work she loved so much. And then she entered the theatre to see the very bloody giant standing magnificent in his finery to induce impulses of ripping it all off his taut body and explore him with her hands and mouth. The amount of effort it took her not to look at him, not to revel in his baritone, and even not to feel the acute jealousy that threatened to open its sour dam at Franny took the last drop of will-power she possessed. The strain had been extreme in itself. But naturally, the dratted man had more in store. He halted the rehearsal every five minutes to point at inexistent flaws, clawing at the last shred of patience she had left. Duff and Hester did a great job today, there was no need of that.