by Lisa Torquay
"In which case, you and your hypocrisy can go to the blazes." She threw at him, uncaring that she had careened out of control and her temper ran amok. Enough was enough.
He uncrossed his muscular arms, braced his long thick legs, and directed her a smug look, as though he intended her to go mad. “I’m already there.” And jerked his sculpted jaw at her. “Care to join me? Alone is no fun.” The movement of his head made his brown wavy locks shine in the oblique light. All she ever wanted in that minute was to dive her fingers in them.
Her mouth freed a humourless laugh. “And make the same mistake twice? That would be foolish of me.”
“At least our mistakes produced…” he paused and let her hang on what was to come, “fireworks.”
The flush that burst on her cheeks said it all. Those fireworks still fizzled her insides with memories and yearning. “You can go and produce them with your future marchioness.” She was past caring that he would see the source of her anger. The onslaught of her feelings made her shake.
“I told you there’s no future marchioness.” He said that with such propriety she almost believed him.
She shrugged, even if it came thrumming with emotions. Whether or not he spoke the truth, it didn’t concern her. “Whatever you say.” She dismissed. “Your life isn’t my business.”
“But it could be.” He taunted again.
“You want to go back to your convenient way of doing things I suppose.” Her statement dripped in sarcasm.
“It was working, wasn’t it?” His hands found his trousers pockets as he towered over her with his massive height and the wall of his body.
Damn, but she missed him! She might deny it to him as much as she wished, but there was no way she could cheat herself with lies she didn’t.
“I can understand it worked for you.” She answered, trying to press down the effect he had on her. “Your people have been doing everything this way for centuries.”
“A right tested formula.” Without her realising it, he’d come closer because she had to crick her neck to look at him. His eyes bore down on hers, giving her the urge to climb all over him.
“One you don’t intend to change.” She jabbed. If he meant to push her, she would do the same.
“In my point of view, it’s perfect.” That solid shoulder moved up and down with apparent casualness contradicted by the intensity of his eyes. This close, the scent of him wormed through her nostrils, mining her self-restraint even more.
“What you’re saying is that you’d have kept me even if you walked down the aisle.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Those brandy irises caressed her from the stray strands of hair escaping her bun after a day’s work, to the bodice where her breasts rose and fell with the intensity of her emotions, to her worn boots that trembled to hit the boards with frustration. Those fireworks teetered, about to burst. His stare clasped back on hers and she nearly went up in the air.
“Why not?” He rasped, gruff and suggestive.
The forceful yearning roiled and mingled with the wave of pure rage that his answer erupted. He might only be goading her, but she wouldn’t tolerate this. She felt her eyes bulging on him as her hands bracketed her waist. “You can stuff your archaic views.” She vented.
He tilted his head as though her quip amounted to nothing. “A man can’t be blamed for trying.”
“Trying the usual tricks, you mean.” She accused.
“All’s fair in love and all that,” he said.
“Who said anything about love?” She snapped. If he gave himself the right to push her to the edge, so did she.
In the glorified servants' position mistresses held, they had no right to love. Scorned by society, dismissed as unimportant by their keepers, they'd be fortunate to have even a shred of future after the men who held all the power discarded them. And Hester pitied those women who were foolish enough to fall in love with these lords. In her point of view, the upper crust was always so afraid of losing their precious fortune and status that they never even learned the meaning of love or any other authentic feelings. Mistresses who became attached to their masters were fated to suffer loss, disdain and regret. And she couldn't avoid the notion that she managed a narrow escape from this destiny. She'd fallen for his proposition but counted herself fortunate to have a family, a work, and even a home to go back to.
Her answer made his eyes darken with the banked fury she sensed he hid behind his apparent cynicism.
This conversation had gone too far. Hester thought it better to put an end to it lest she said or did something she might regret later. “I bid you farewell, my lord.” And curtsied as gracefully as her ragged emotions permitted. Her feet stepped away and turned to leave.
“He won’t satisfy you; you know.” He drawled behind her. “Not like I do.”
She swivelled to him, a scornful grin on her face. “I do believe I’ve learned enough to find satisfaction with any man.”
With one of his long steps, they were standing toe to toe. “Damn you.” He growled as his large hands lined her cheeks. And his head dived to her.
Taken by surprise, her body reacted instinctively. Her hands grabbed his shoulders as a moan nearly left her. His touch set fire to her senses, and she let go. She didn’t have forces for even a token resistance. He’d undermined her with such skill there was nothing left to counter it.
His lips grazed hers, warm and intent on seduction. “Damn you.” He repeated. Then his mouth opened hers for him. And so, it began, the plunder, the fire, the hunger.
He invaded her mouth as though he’d die if he didn’t. His hands kept her in place for him to transform her into jam. With a muffled sound clogged in her throat, her hands climbed up his shoulders and filled themselves with his slick hair while her body glued to his.
Oh, yes!
Her response prompted him to wrap those bunched arms around her and pull her even closer to deepen the kiss to a point that she’d be begging for surcease in more or less a second. He straightened, still banding her body, her feet left the boards, and she soared into sensation.
Their tongues entangled, and she didn’t understand why it wasn’t enough. It should be, but only a bottomless need unfurled in her. The same he unleashed since the first time they met. The one that kept her under his roof for a year. The same that wouldn’t leave her in peace.
He turned his head this way and that, and every cell in her just screamed for more. He moved, and suddenly her back touched the floorboards as he brought them to lie down. And then their bodies also entangled as he made the kiss into a weapon that’d annihilate not only her body but also her clear mind, and her will-power.
She couldn’t care less.
She opened further, glued closer, demanded whatever she would get.
He broke the kiss for his sensual lips to slide down to her earlobe, leaving a tragic trail of thirst in their wake.
He pulled the lobe lightly with his teeth. “You belong with me.” He rasped as the heat of their bodies clashed and burned hotter.
Everything in her urged her to agree, to give in, surrender her soul if only for a moment. But she couldn't go this far, she was the weaker link in this white-hot chain. "I belong where I decide." She countered with that point one per cent of clarity still left in her brain.
His mouth trailed back, that perfectly aristocratic nose connected with hers, their steamy breaths mingling, their eyes colliding.
“Give me that tart tongue of yours.” He commanded and hawk-dived for another earth-shattering kiss.
And she gave. Her tongue, her mouth, her moans and everything else she had. Her spine arched into him while the long, thick ridge of him marked her softness. How would she ever forget how snuggly he fit in her and how crazy he drove her in the height of passion?
Their mouths devoured each other as though the world would explode if they didn’t. Their kiss never let up, on and on it went.
When he came up for a
ir, the tip of their noses reconnected, ragged breaths puffing between them. His eyes were dark and heated, focused on hers.
“It’s only a kiss or two, and we’re done in.” His pupils darkened even more as she looked at him.
That had the power to throw her back into reality. Good gracious! They were lying in the middle of a stage, in a wide-opened theatre in broad daylight, out of their minds with desire. Her head cleared as though a bucket of icy water had splashed on her. Restlessly, she moved from under him and scrambled to her feet. Breathless, dishevelled hair, too-bright eyes, flushed to the roots of her hair, she stared at him wondering how they came to this point.
Like a panther in a jungle, he stood up, his eyes still clasped on hers.
“And it won’t repeat.” She blurted with the little wit she gathered.
Pivoting, she strode stiffly out.
The tea party couldn't have bored Drake more as he held a delicate china cup in his large hands and looked at Lady Millicent across the room. Their private ruse wasn't the only reason he forced himself into this uninteresting function. His dear mother also attended, which gave him the chance to talk to her and not be in private. Alone, she'd use the occasion to lecture him on marriage as she'd been doing for nigh ten years. He was familiar with the perpetual script and theatrics of it. Who knew he didn't develop a taste for the scenic arts because of his tenacious parent?
This unbidden thought brought the memory of what happened before he left the theatre earlier this afternoon. What started as a mere way to goad the little rebel into reacting to him, had escalated into a full-blown upheaval of his senses. He’d fallen in his own trap and wouldn’t even regret it. If anything, he just craved more regrets. Or more of the woman who stood up to him and put fire to his blood.
Bleeding hell! If this was the reward for his jabbing, he’d no doubt repeat it. But next time, he’d be sure to do it in a quieter setting, so he’d obtain the whole woman for himself. Over and over because his want of her grew to unbearable levels. And their explosive kisses told him she felt the same even if she denied it on mere principle. Not that he didn’t understand her misgivings. London was abuzz with talks of his impending betrothal, showing that the intended bride would achieve her goals. But the price to his, say, personal interests proved a little too high.
Hester didn’t have to listen to her misgivings though, did she? She might just, well, go with the flow. Accept to stay with him, regardless. But no, she had to prove that her morals were above everything. And why he respected that, he had not the slightest idea.
As these musings roiled inside his head, he’d neared his partner in crime. “Lady Millicent,” he greeted and bowed over her gloved hand.
“Lord Worcester,” she answered graciously. “I didn’t imagine you’d be attending.”
“Your presence alone would have convinced me, my lady,” he said, aware that they’d be overheard.
“My father is most adamant that you should dine with us as soon as we can arrange it.” She signalled her aggravation at that.
That her father took gossip as a fact showed how eager he was to get rid of his own daughter at the first opportunity. The usual would be for Worcester to ask for permission to court her before anything else happened. But the Duke of Haddington seemed not to care for any of it. Drake truly hoped that Lady Millicent knew what she was doing by burning her bridges towards matrimony.
They talked until the lady excused herself to join the Duchess of Brunswick, the Countess of Thornton, and Mrs Darroch.
As he watched the debutante bond with those ladies, someone approached him. “Who knew my strategy would produce the desired fruits.” His esteemed mother crowed with no small amount of satisfaction.
“It’s amusing how the ton is willing to rely on mere hearsay.” Unwilling to compromise, he chose a neutral comment.
“It serves to attest to my wisdom in doing it.” His mother confessed unashamedly.
“At this rate, I’ll have to sell your townhouse and ban you to your dower house in the country.” He quipped unapologetically. Drake wasn’t about to allow his mother any further interference in his life. He was old enough to make his own decisions, he’d taken over the marquisate a decade ago after all.
Honora directed a sour look at him since she relished life in London. Drake wouldn't take it from her, naturally, but she had to keep in mind that her actions had limits, and more importantly, consequences.
“Lady Millicent will produce a flawless heir to your title.” A hardened ring coated her statement.
In a way, Drake pitied Honora. She’d followed every single rule that made sure to browbeat any debutante into swallowing their bitter fate with meek acceptance. No love, no physical pleasure, no freedom, only duties and a womb to go with them. No woman who bought in men’s standards would be willing to admit to such a waste of time and energy. He saw clearly how much his mother had sacrificed as a woman to put him in this world and be done with it.
“Whatever you say.” He dismissed. This was no time or place to drag out this issue.
Honora pursed her mouth. “One day you’ll remember this gratefully.”
He seriously believed he wouldn’t, but said nothing. Life might prove her right or wrong, useless to worry about such trifles. His choices weren’t a cold scientific theory, and he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Drake endured a few minutes more until he took his polite leave.
That evening, after the play, Hester stood in the dressing room for the actresses putting away costumes and make-up. The actors and stagehands had already left to whatever tavern they’d relax in after a hard evening’s work.
Their theatre didn’t boast the luxury of individual dressing rooms, not even for the main actors. It contained one for the men and another for the women. The company had announced the end of this play and the debut date of the next, which made people flow in before this one ceased its presenting. The rushing in and out of scenes made the dressing room a mess.
“I did think I’d find you here, Miss Green.” A haughty voice said behind her.
Startled, she whirled to see the Duke of Haddington at the threshold.
She’d spotted him alone in his box during the shifting of the flats, wondering at his presence at the same play so soon. Well, now she had her answer, and the man presaged nothing positive. In the back of her mind, she calculated her father and brother would be in the office sorting the ticket money. One call and they’d be there if she needed help.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. It didn’t do to treat any patron rudely, even less a duke. Nobility could make or break a small theatre company like this one. Still, she eyed him, straight spine, chin tilted up.
She imagined his appearance not to be disagreeable with his greying black hair and the good shape of his frame. Even though he seemed to be here to talk to her, she didn’t fathom about what.
He shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other so ostensibly it resembled a weapon. Hester didn’t trust his stance one bit.
“I do hope you heard of my daughter’s impending betrothal.” He started as he stepped into the room uninvited. Clearly, he didn’t deem an invitation from a woman necessary, from an actress he must positively never have contemplated.
His overture made understanding hit her. As much as his reputation preceded him, Worcester’s did, too. Relief flooded her as she judged the subject harmless enough.
“I did, Your Grace.” She thanked her training for the stage, which made her voice come meekly despite her weariness for the man, and for his arrogance in assuming he could interfere in any manner.
“And I expect the marquess to severe his liaison with you.” It came as nothing short as an order.
Temper flared inside Hester. She wanted to tell him very bluntly what he should do with his meddling but masked it.
“There’s no question about that, Your Grace.” If she had to repeat the address once more, she’d be sick
. Someone like him didn’t deserve the deference, though he was unfairly born to it.
“Good.” He gloated, as his lecherous gaze raked her from the practical bun rolling her hair, to the unremarkable working dress, to worn-out boots. “Not a hardship, I suppose. Worcester seems to have neglected to take proper care of you.”
This time, Hester couldn’t help the vexed flush surfacing on her cheeks. The fact she’d chosen to be the mistress of the only man ever to get under her skin didn’t give this nobleman before her the right to judge her or anything about her choices.
“I beg your pardon.” She lowered her head to hide her temper and look suitably compliant at the same time. “But I must finish my work for the evening.” And gave a step forward, indicating she’d leave the room. The duke didn’t move from where he stood some five feet away.
"When he ditches you, I'll be taking over from where he left." The duke informed without a single consideration for her opinion on the matter.
A duke had access to the Prince Regent, meaning he availed the chance to convince the prince to take away the theatre’s license to function. If crossed, the man before her wouldn’t hesitate to throw his weight around and destroy the Green Theatre Company. Hester harboured no illusions about the consequences of saying no to him, but there was no powerful man in this world who would dictate her life.
“My gratefulness for your offer has no depth.” Hester started in a sweet voice. “But I regret to say that I will require no keepers after the marquess.”
Haddington would surely think her former keeper would provide for her future, a factor he would be powerless to prevent. His murderous expression said as much.
“We’ll see,” he answered haughtily and moved to go. At which, Hester gave a deep curtsy, more fuelled by relief than by her respect for ranks.
Quickly, she strode out of the dressing room and hid in the privy, trembling, as blood leeched out of her face and a cold sweat broke on her skin. The last thing she imagined was attracting this man’s attention. She wouldn’t have accepted his offer even if she hadn’t heard of his cruelty to women. Worcester would be the one and only. But it seemed there’d be no way to fight the prejudices attached to her trade. She’d fight them, nonetheless, if not the prejudices then the men using them for their own ends. When she felt less shaky, she left the privy to go say good-bye to Oliver and Ely.