by Lisa Torquay
He found her in the storage room where the company kept the costumes from past plays. Her arms stretched as she held a dress by its shoulders and appeared to be examining it.
The sound of his boots must have alerted her because she turned her head to him. “I’m checking if we have the necessary costumes,” she said as he came in. “Mama used to make them, but now we may need a seamstress.”
“I expect the investment has been enough for that.” Drake didn’t boast about it, just stated a fact.
“More than enough, I should say.” And put the dress on her front as if calculating if it fit.
In slow steps, he neared her. “I didn’t mean to distress your father,” he started as he halted about three feet from her.
The rows of clothing gave their voices an intimate timber and cocooned them in the room. He raked her petite form clad in a practical dress, a tight bun on her beautiful hair. Their night together hadn't sated him. Not exactly. If anything, it made him starve for more. Another unprecedented fact in his life. Before her, he usually tired of the women sharing his bed quite quickly. One year with her, and he couldn't get enough. When he took her as a mistress, he'd promised himself he'd let it run its course and then do his mother's bidding. Honora wasn't precisely wrong in insisting on seeing the next generation before her time came. Drake knew his duty and planned to get down to it after he'd been done with Hester. He'd not counted on the factor he might not be done any time soon, if ever. The alternative of keeping her on the side as he accepted the parson’s noose and produced an heir did cross his mind. And he couldn’t even say he felt ashamed about it. How many lords did that same thing since the Middle Ages? But the little rebel busted the notion with a decisive strike of her tart tongue, uncovering a fierce woman beneath the meek mistress she’d been. And he only craved more of this new facet of her. No, not more, everything. Every single fibre of the purposeful and intelligent woman before him, together with the nights she’d made even more scorching.
“I understand,” she replied to his comment. “I should have talked to you about it.” And turned to put the dress away.
“I assured Oliver you’d be safe.” Her movement caused her scent to fill his nostrils, and his body responded intensely. Unbidden, he closed in on her.
Her head lifted to him. “I—” The words dried as their eyes meshed.
Even in the dim light of the room, Drake witnessed her gaze morphing into that parakeet shade. As much as his blood rushed to his nether regions. He didn’t think, didn’t censor himself, didn’t care.
One arm laced her waist and brought her flush to him. Her intake of air and lack of resistance encouraged him. His head plunged, and their mouths clasped together while her arms held his shoulders. He kissed her with desperation, the day’s worry surfacing and mingling with the hunger that wouldn’t abate, wouldn’t be ignored. Both his arms banded her, bringing her so close their bodies melded. She produced a sound in her throat that fuelled him further. He devoured her mouth as if he’d never kiss her again in his life. Because losing her to danger hurt. Sacrificing her in the name of lineage caused an acute pain he didn’t understand where it came from. But gnawed at him with agony and regret.
They weren’t in the Middle Ages any longer. He, as a lord, didn’t have that much power. She, as a professional, acquired more choices. And he’d have to let go eventually. The simple thought ripped at his guts like a thousand plough shears cutting at his flesh. Everything in him screamed a resounding no. He wouldn’t be another unhappy wretch like his mother, or even his father, who must have sought women to appease his loneliness, to give meaning to his hollow life.
Drake caught Hester’s upper arms and interrupted the kiss. He was aware that his eyes bore the taint of his despair for the future.
Her head tilted back, she looked at him wide eyes, swollen, moist lips. And all he wanted was to ravish her here, this very minute.
“Marry me,” he gnarled, unconcerned that his voice came soaked in emotion.
Her gaze assumed a vague hue as though she doubted what she heard. He watched as her brows pleated and a hard glint transformed the parakeet into moss in a question of seconds.
She pulled him away and strode to the other side of the room and returned her stare to him. "Are you insane?" Her tone spelt ludicrousness in each syllable.
He might be. Insane, that is. Or he just wished to avoid going insane with the route their lives could take. He would marry a noblewoman of a breed and reproduce his lineage, his station, his society to a nauseating point. She could marry that damned Irishman and reproduce her beauty, her intelligence. Her insouciance. She'd not look back once as she showed in these past weeks.
And perhaps he'd follow in his father's steps, looking for her in every mistress, making his marchioness unhappy, making himself miserable. And what for? Their lives were drops in the ocean. The vanity of today was the dust of tomorrow. Look at the Roman Empire, for instance. Crumbled to dust, to oblivion. All those arrogant emperors, or generals, or senators whose names few remembered. Whether or not they made a difference, they were dead. Their pathetic existences wasted in the search of glory also turned to dust—the search and the glory.
“I’ve never been more clear-minded in my entire life,” he growled with the weight of his musings.
“It doesn’t seem so to me.” Her voice had a tinge of affront, and he didn’t fathom the reason for it.
“We’re the perfect match,” he argued. The past year proved they liked the same things and possessed similar personal traits.
She huffed a laugh. “What, the rarefied lord and the lowly actress?”
He braced his legs, crossed his arms, and looked right in her eyes. “No, the man and the woman.” He proposed on an impulse. But the more he dwelled on it, the more he saw it as the right thing to do.
Her chin tilted up, her eyes two icy orbs on him. “The man and the woman aren’t isolated in a desert island somewhere.”
“No, we’re in a very populated and very hierarchical island in fact,” he quipped.
“Precisely.” Her hands came to her waist. “And I have not a death-wish to enter your glitteringly useless world.”
“We could live peacefully in the country.” He imagined it to be the ideal.
“I enjoy the country, but who and what I am are exactly here, in this theatre.” What she meant was that she wouldn’t stop working because of marriage or children. Her peers did it all the time, why would he think it strange?
“There’s nothing, no one, preventing you from carrying on with your work.” No one did it in his circles, but he prided himself in his open-mindedness.
This time she gave laugh devoid of humour. “Oh, yes. Imagine the comments.” She pointed a finger at empty space as if to someone, a hand on her waist. “’Look at the Marchioness of Worcester whoring herself in the stage!’” Her voice mimed a matron full of herself, like a true actress.
“As if you cared for the ton’s opinion.” He appreciated her flair for the stage even as her body language changed again, her arms falling to her sides, chin tilting higher than before. The woman was a veritable chameleon.
“No, but I do care for their toxic leering.”
And who would blame her? Noblemen, not noblewomen, ruled this country as members of parliament, ministers, secretaries. They comprised a caste of their own, detached from every other rank, living in their own glass-dome, making their own rules and, worse, using everyone they considered below them as pawns for their own benefit. Drake saw it clearly, wasn’t proud of it, or the part he played in it. But one man alone couldn’t change the world; he could change his world. That’s what he was trying to do here, with little to no cooperation from the woman standing before him.
“You don’t have to answer me now. Take some time to ponder on it,” he suggested as a last resource.
“I don’t need any time.” And cast a direct look at him. “The answer is no.” And brushed past him out of
the room, leaving him to stew in her rejection.
Drake didn’t linger, however. He pivoted to follow her, not forgetting she required protection from the threat of the duke.
Next morning, Hester sat in her room in Worcester House after breakfast, still bewildered by the events in the storage room. Even after a whole sleepless—and lonely—night of musings, her head continued spinning. One minute, Drake was kissing her, the next he was talking about marriage. And she didn’t know what to make of that. It came so out of the blue that she lost her breath at the memory. Not to mention her heart thrashing in her ribs with a cauldron of emotions, surprise the least of them.
As a marquess, he belonged in his station. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him acting out of his privileged way even once. He possessed his box in the theatre; he approached her, propositioned her, settled her in a house for his convenience. And frequented his exclusive club, consorted with his exclusive friends, drinking his exclusive brandy. Typically, he also displayed the eccentricities he was entitled to. The soirees were his initiative, funding the play too. Directing it, his chief oddity, had been his idea. But lords did whatever they wished. Be it archaeological pursuits in Egypt, classic marbles collection, or exploring trips to India. Their wealth and connections bought them anything.
Drake was no different, and therein lay the trouble. Because Hester would bet her own little house on the fact she counted as one of his whims. More than that, she feared he proposed marriage like one of those insect collectors who pinned butterflies by the wings to their display panels. And used every opportunity to show them off to their illustrious guests. The comparison brought utter disheartenment.
If she told any other actress about the proposal, Hester would no doubt hear that it was every mistress’s dream. The ultimate achievement, from the mistress box to the wife box. Ha! A simple reality check would show any romantic fool that lords didn’t marry mistresses. Which indicated Drake probably proposed in the heat of the moment.
Of all the steamy kisses they shared, the one in the storage room listed as special. Something happened there. And Hester found herself unable to pinpoint what. It had been hot but also filled with intangible emotions. She'd felt it down to her bones and stood at a loss what it really represented. As he'd lifted his head, she'd been in a fog of delight and emotional confusion. Only for him to drop that cannonball of a proposal.
Her mind tried to picture herself wed to him. Domestic life would probably be close to what they'd experienced already. Evenings full of books and conversations on several artistic and scientific developments. Soirees with their open-minded friends. This included what they did themselves. There would be interactions with other people in this. Problematic since high society used to be merciless with outsiders. Added to the fact she'd insist on keeping her work, a very public work at that. No, it all seemed too complex, too straining to even contemplate.
Last night she’d remained in her own bedchamber for the single reason she felt lost. Besides, she needed to reorganise the jumble in her head before she faced Drake again. But the clock chimed the time for them to leave for the rehearsals, and she didn’t consider herself ready to face him. But face him she must.
Dressing simply, she filled her lungs for courage, opened the door and reached the stairs to the foyer. From up here, she saw Drake waiting for her, dressed in dark green finery more tempting than any sin under the sun. Their eyes clashed with a thousand unspeakable words, unnamed emotions, unconfessed sensations.
With effort, she wrenched her gaze from his and concentrated on the steps. Not looking at him, she accepted his hand to climb up the carriage and her seat, forcing herself to ignore the effect of his touch and sit poised at her corner, taking refuge in the scenery outside.
“I understand your misgivings.” His tenor caressed her ears after a long time of silence. She snapped her eyes to him. “About my proposal,” he explained.
She strove to drag air to her lungs. Being this close to him already proved tragic to her clear mind. A whole night craving him didn’t help. A whirling mind deprived of sleep helped even less.
“I regard this subject as closed.” Finality coated her tone.
“But I don’t,” he disputed.
Of course not! As a lord, his will ruled. So, she waited for him to make his case. “We should address your objections, namely, the ones about our social stand.”
“How so?” she deigned to ask for politeness’s sake.
“We could accept a few invitations together and see how it goes.” Those brandy eyes met hers with determination in them.
Her brows pleated. “Why go down the beaten path when we know where it will lead?” In public disdain clearly.
“We won’t have a full picture until we effectively try,” he defended.
“There’s no point in going through something that’s evident.” She’d have to be foolish or unutterably stubborn to do it.
“You’re saying you won’t even think about it.” This was Drake throwing down the gauntlet and goading her, calling on her sense of challenge.
But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “You’re branding me a coward?” she quipped. “No problem. Your opinion has nothing to do with me.” And made to go back to looking at the window.
That caused his gaze to boil with vexation. “You should at least stand up for what you believe.”
That got her enraged. As an actress, she made it a point to convey her concepts in her roles. She was nothing if not committed to the messages the theatre broadcast. Namely, the voices of women, or the underprivileged.
She fulminated him with her eyes. “You are a sleazy scoundrel!” she vented. Only to witness him produce one of his victorious side-smiles.
"Tonight, we'll see which invitations to accept." He ordained just before the carriage lurched to a stop in front of the theatre.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My dear Lady Millicent,
Circumstances have changed, and I consider it time for us to ‘end’ our courtship, with your agreement naturally. Please, be so kind as to inform me if you prefer to give me the cut direct or the other way round.
Yours,
W.
Drake folded the note and gave it for the footman to deliver. At the latest developments, he couldn’t very well show up at some function with Hester on his arm when the whole ton believed he courted the debutante. He had full awareness that this apparent change in their outlook would not please her father. At this moment, other things occupied his mind for him to care too much. Hester would be safe; he’d make sure of that.
The footman came back with her answer.
My esteemed Lord W.
Thank you for your timely warning. Seeing it as I aim at remaining unmarried, it's more convenient that you 'end' it. If it helps to advance the case, I'll be at the Brunswicks ball.
Yours,
M.
He threw the note in the fire as the lady in question most assuredly did with his, for confidentiality's sake. Philippa's ball and her warm acceptance of Hester would give him leverage in his quest. His appearance in the company of Hester would send the message of his non-betrothal. Things looked up, fortunately.
Hester checked herself in the cheval mirror in her chamber at Worcester House, nerves causing her hands to be clammy and her heart to gallop. Not even the prospect of facing an audience of hundreds got her in this state. She'd chosen one of the best dresses Drake had ordered for her in emerald silk that matched her eyes perfectly. She put on her gloves with shaky hands, admonishing herself for having fallen in the damned man's trap, and cursing said man for it. There was no need to go through this. The result was as predictable as mixing tea and milk. Even if the ball would be at the Duke and Duchess of Brunswick's townhouse, it only meant that the hosts were her friends, nothing more. The other people weren't her friends and probably would never be.
Her life, her work on the stage made her happy. She required no more than
that. The Greens came from humble origins, and she saw no shame in it. But she’d promised Drake to give it a try, and she’d stick to her word.
Five minutes before the due time, there was a rap on her door. At her word, Drake came in. His brandy eyes lit on her, taking in her figure from elaborate hair on top of her head with tendrils framing her face, her attire moulding her curves with perfection to her green satin slippers and reticule.
“You’ll be the most dazzling woman in the ball,” he drawled in a molten tone that washed heat down her body.
With difficulty, she produced a brittle smile of acknowledgement of his praise, her hands twisting in front of her.
“These will match your beauty,” he said and opened a velvet box she hadn’t even seen in his hands.
Her eyes lowered to spot a delicate emerald necklace and earrings in understated good taste. Her jaw dropped, despite her effort in avoiding it, as an intake of breath filled her starved lungs. “I-I don’t know what to say,” she blurted.
With his gaze intent on her, he answered, “Your incomparable eyes say it all,” His voice was a velvety caress lighting her skin. “May I?” And gestured to the jewel box.
In reply, she turned as he rested the box on the vanity to pick the necklace up. He came close, so close she could sense the heat of his body. Then his hands placed the jewel around her neck and clasped it, his hands feathering her skin as he completed the task.
His head bent to her ear, lips floating a mere inch from the shell as he inhaled her perfume. Everything in her melted with the yearning for him.