Her Wicked Marquess: Imperious Lords 4

by Lisa Torquay

  Drake abruptly gave her his back as she wondered if he aimed at hiding his relief. After a heartbeat of silence, he pivoted to her again. “Why this?” The quiet question came laden with how ludicrous he thought it.

  Her eyes bulged on him and she would have sold her soul not to answer and lay bare how affected she’d been by the gossip. It crossed her mind to lie, say that she didn't welcome his attentions anymore. Say that she would move on and focus on the theatre. Find someone and settle down even. But the single truth, the one she didn't want out, was that he and another woman together disgusted her, unleashed so much bile, and rage, and hopelessness she possessed no words to describe it.

  A deep breath gave her courage to draw slight nonchalant shrug. “The whole town is abuzz with your impending betrothal.”

  Long fingers raked through his wavy brown hair and an ugly imprecation escaped his expert mouth. The memory of what that mouth had taught her, had incited her surrender until she’d begged for more, made heat course through her. “Betrothal? To whom?”

  Hester would have laughed if those two laconic questions didn’t soar her rage to out-of-control heights. How could he ask when everyone knew? If he insulted her intelligence by trying to pretend he had nothing to do with it, she’d be hard-pressed not to react physically.

  “Don’t fake ignorance!” She accused.

  He cast her a hard gaze. “I’m not. I don’t lie as you are well aware.”

  True, he didn't. He didn't lie when he approached her at the theatre after the play she acted in finished, and invited her to dine at his townhouse, to hear a blatant refusal. He didn't as, the next day, flowers in hand, renewed the invitation with a wicked glint in those luminous brandy eyes. Neither did he lie when he offered whatever she wished if only she accompanied him to one of those licentious places where everything happened.

  It didn’t cross his mind to suggest a walk in the park where anyone would see them, not a ride in an open carriage for the same reason. An extended invitation for a garden party, a tea party or some such whimsical ton functions wouldn’t even cross hers. Even a remote tavern didn’t figure in the whole farce. Her role was to lurk in the shadows so his pleasure didn’t suffer shame or limitation.

  Though, as he grazed his lips on the sensitive skin of her hand when they first talked, she faltered. And after a rehearsal, in the darkened hallway of the theatre, he towered over her, melted her with his scent, his breadth until she almost begged for a kiss. He lowered his head and took her to heaven. All in the dark, hidden and illicit, because that was where a simple actress belonged. He kissed her to a point after which she’d be willing to accept any terms of his proposition. How stupid!

  “Lady Millicent, clearly,” she said as she held her temper by a thread.

  The daughter of a duke, said lady would elevate Drake's status and connections to new heights.

  Stupid she might have been, but Hester would take this as a lesson. Lords married ladies. Bricklayers married tavern wenches. Lawyers married lawyers' daughters. Actors married actresses. In this patriarchal aristocracy, ranks didn't mix. Not officially, only when the man in the higher rank wanted to bed a woman in the lower one. Because they could, and would, whether or not the woman in question had a choice. Fortunately she, Hester, did. She fell into this willingly, eyes wide open, for the first and last time.

  “And you believe them?” Came Drake’s vexed rasp.

  Believe? There was nothing to believe, they were facts, proven again and again by the actions of those in power, who abused the less fortunate, for those who had no voice, no chances of being heard. He’d marry a flawless lady like all the snotty ancestors who preceded him.

  “A tricky choice of words to be sure,” she dismissed.

  “Nothing needs to change.” The veritable eruption his words almost caused her to go on a crazed reaction.

  The last thing she’d allow was for him to see how much it, he, affected her. Nothing needed to change. Ha! For him, for the ones in power to continue wielding it, using it to subjugate people, and keep their humble heads low. The pomp and circumstances of royalty justified it. The bowing of the inferiors to the superiors enacted it. The moral lessons in books and plays fed it. But she wouldn’t buy it, not any longer.

  Instead of venting her fury, she put on a mask of indifference. This comedy had to end here. She had a life to begin anew, happiness to achieve. No one would hold her back, not even a peer of the realm. She'd consider this year as a one-off and build on it. Learn with it, because she was done with being the pliant woman who served merely for the urges of the moment. He could marry sodding Lady Millicent and go to hell. She'd go back to reality.

  Measuredly she walked to the front door and calmly opened it herself as the inferior she should be. "I'll leave in the morning. Have a good night." It nearly killed her to keep her composure and the cold glaze in her eyes, but she did. Crumbling inside with his words and what they meant though, she would collapse at any second.

  She waited, straight spine, unmoving expression, eyes fixed on him. The minutes passed. He glared his dissatisfaction at her. Still, she stood there. He didn’t move, nor did she. More minutes elapsed as their eyes duelled with unyielding intent. When she almost could take no more of it, he moved.

  A big, strong hand extended to pick up his hat and coat. A hand that had made her squirm, and plead and then fall in blinding release. “We’re not finished.” He said, glared some more, and marched out.

  Hester used the last crumbs of energy to close the door on him, on them, on her poor decisions. And slid down to the floorboards, face in her hands.

  Fuming like a man possessed, Drake burst through the Thornton ball where his mother's fearful butler had informed him she headed. Worcester had been so busy with his estates, his soirees, and his mis—former, well, Hester that he'd missed another of his mother's machinations. This time she'd gone too far, spreading rumours of his betrothal to the Haddington chit.

  This hadn’t been the first of her tricks, but he’d make sure it’d be the last. For years, since Drake was a buck, soon after losing his father, the Dowager Marchioness had been trying everything under the sun to get her reluctant son to become leg-shackled. The house-party, where the Duke of Brunswick met the girl who he’d marry years later, was one of the devices Honora Aldridge used, but ineffectual as the ones that came before and after it.

  He passed the footman who’d announce him like a comet in collision route with the planet. And then froze mid-step as the entire crush of the ball silenced to turn to him. As the giant he was, the crowd would easily spot him.

  “Lord Worcester!” The nearest marriage-minded matron exclaimed. “We are so delighted that you have finally chosen your marchioness.”

  “The daughter of a duke no less,” cooed another.

  And the crush opened as though he was an arrow aiming right at the heart of a general. At the end of the spontaneous aisle stood his schemer of a mother with a tall, slender debutante. Worcester didn’t think he’d ever met this one, which led him to believe she was his intended. If he was fuming before, now he was about to open fire. And if he resembled the arrow, his mother would be the general. Honora made good on the comparison as she gave no quarter at her son’s razing look.

  With the stage set for this vulgar parody, Drake strode forward with leisure he acted better than a weathered actor. His giant frame reached the woman who put him in this wretched world.

  “My lady,” he bowed to her. And in a louder voice, “I don’t think I have met this charming debutante.” The Marchioness wouldn’t have it easy, desperate tactics or not. He had to show everyone that he hadn’t even been introduced to her, let alone be her future husband.

  “But you have, my esteemed son.” Her countenance didn’t change an inch. “Though you’ve been so distracted of late,” she retorted since the worst guarded secret in London was the name of his mistress—former mistress damn it! “Might I refresh your memory? Lady Milli
cent, you must remember my son, Lord Worcester.”

  As he met the girl’s eyes, he sensed a weariness to her that didn’t fit with her tender age. “Most certainly, Lady Worcester,” as she gave a little stiff smile. “The one I was told to keep away from.” His reputation preceded him by the looks of it.

  That caught Drake's interest. The chit had a spine after all. He bowed to her while his mother seemed none too happy with that sharp tongue. "Enchanted, my lady," he replied. As the daughter of a duke, she had no obligation to curtsy and stood there more aloof than a princess.

  “Lady Millicent has just told me she had only one waltz left in her dance card, a lucky evening for my beloved son.” The dowager taunted shamelessly.

  And if the girl didn’t have a waltz left, the marchioness would make the orchestra play a thousand more, Drake had no doubt.

  It was writing his name on the dratted card or embarrass a debutante who had nothing to do with his and the marchioness’s clash of wills. He did his duty for the girl’s sake.

  Little by little, the people went back to whatever they were doing when he arrived. A gentleman whose name he didn't remember came to collect the chit for the next dance. That gave him the opportunity to have a sweet talk with his darling mother.

  Worcester offered his arm, and they ambled seemingly in harmony to a corner of the ballroom. The music would muffle their voices.

  “This will not work.” He said low and hard.

  His mother widened her eyes innocently at him. “I couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about.”

  A humourless side-smile graced his lips. “I’d wager my non-entailed estates on the fact you started the rumours as a means to pressure me.”

  She shrugged with fake indifference, betrayed by the furrow in her brow. “You’d lose, naturally.”

  Drake’s anger resurfaced full-blast. “I don’t care for your antics. I’m not marrying the chit, and that’s the last of it.” His glare bored into her.

  The dowager’s feeble tricks had cost him today. He’d learned early in their liaison that Hester had her pride. She’d not stand meekly in the wings and take the humiliation this whole pathetic incident would cause. For which he’d go back to a cold bed tonight with blood simmering in his veins.

  “But your rejection will blow her reputation to smithereens.” The marchioness nearly wailed.

  His features crumpled in a way that would cause fear in a king, but not in the field-general that was his parent. “You were counting on me going along with that to avoid scandal?” He huffed a laugh. “It serves to prove how little you know me.”

  “You’ll have to choose a lady eventually; this one is as good as any. And a duke’s daughter on top of that.” He wouldn’t expect any less than his mother holding her ground.

  “You should have realised by now that you will not have a say in the matter.”

  “So you prefer our name in the mud, for your rejection and for your…excesses.”

  “You started the rumours. Fix it,” he growled and ignored the barb involving his personal life.

  For the first time in years, Drake saw the field-general slump her shoulders. A sliver of guilt made its way into his brain, but he quashed it quickly. It was about time she saw she would have to wait for him to decide. And he might pass marriage altogether, though he’d not tell her that as yet.

  Without another word, he pivoted and left her company.

  “I’m sorry you became caught up in this.” Drake broke the silence that dominated his and Lady Millicent’s waltz.

  The girl had kept to herself, retreating inside in a manner she made herself almost absent from the premises.

  She was tall, but not so much she might avoid tilting her head to look at him as she did at that moment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue this ruse for a while longer.”

  Drake really looked at the chit at that. Quiet and withdrawn she might be, but she hid surprises behind her weariness. “If that’s what you wish.”

  “Yes, Lord Worcester. It’ll appease your mother and my father for a few weeks.” Her words came unexpectedly.

  “I hope you know it will put your prospects at risk.” They swirled on the dance-floor, oblivious to the music.

  “That’s exactly my intention. I couldn’t care less for marriage.” That made two of them.

  “An unusual notion for a lady,” as far as he saw, ton ladies pursued the institution for varied reasons of to bear children, to have their own homes, to find financial security. None of them, the lords included, possessed a mind for love. Not even for their trysts outside marriage. Marriages and paramours happened in a mart where everyone exchanged varied currencies, vis-a-vis money for heirs, youth for a position, or status for vengeance.

  “In a few years, I’ll come into my late mother’s inheritance and settle my own home.”

  Sensible to the point of coldness, the girl knew what she wanted.

  And who could blame her? Another badly kept secret was her father’s…inclinations. The Duke of Haddington indulged in every single unlawful pleasure London covertly offered. Some said he didn’t have mistresses, he had victims. Even Drake shuddered at the thought of this innocent girl living under the same roof as that bastard, though she seemed to be safe enough. Her father wouldn’t soil goods that could bring him social advantages.

  “I wish you success in your plan,” he answered.

  The waltz finished, and the lady curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.” A less guarded smile graced her features.

  Drake went in search of a drink as a group of lords stood in his way. Fortunately, his closest friends, The Earl of Thornton, Harris Darroch, the shipping magnate, and the Duke of Brunswick. Worcester had gone to school with Thornton and Brunswick. Darroch’s wife, Edwina, was sister to Philippa, the Duchess of Brunswick, and close friends with the Countess of Thornton.

  “Edmund,” he greeted the earl. “Titus,” to the duke. “Harris,” and greeted Darroch with a nod.

  “Here comes the rake about to be reformed.” Titus celebrated, obviously believing the rumours.

  Drake had to own that in his wildest hay-days, his behaviour hadn’t been in the best of forms. Though, in the last year he’d been exclusive. His attention had focused entirely on Hester. And now she was gone, but he promised himself he’d rectify the situation.

  “Not so soon,” he answered as he took a glass of champagne from a footman.

  “Don’t tell me you’ll drag the betrothal.” Edmund taunted, a knowing look on him.

  “That’s what I would’ve done. Before I fell for Edwina, I mean.” Harris added. The Scott had held the fame of the worst libertine London had ever seen.

  "I won't be betrothed at all. The whole thing is my mother's doing." Drake vented and tossed the wine. "I was introduced to the chit an hour ago."

  “Bleeding hell,” exclaimed Darroch!

  "The rags will go aflame with the scandal," Edmund predicted.

  "You can't do that to a duke's daughter," Titus warned. Even having met Philippa in Worcester's house-party, he ended up marrying her second cousin to avoid a scandal.

  "I told my mother to fix it, it's her mess," Drake said dead serious.

  “Perhaps you should try it.” Edmund started. “Marriage isn’t all that bad.” The earl fell hard for an orphaned miss and was a protective and possessive husband.

  “It definitely isn’t,” came from Darroch.

  “Not in the least,” echoed Titus. After two years of widowhood, he finally married Philippa.

  Drake eyed each of his friends as if they’d grown two heads. “Heaven protect me from fallen men and their domestic bliss!”

  The four of them laughed heartedly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A few days later, Hester entered the theatre where her father waited for her to discuss a new play. The theatre company owned by her family had established itself in Drury Lane with a tidy return. Both her parents came from t
enant families in the country. As a second son, her father wouldn’t take over after his own father. So they decided to try their luck in London. They’d started as backstage hands in the company they ended up buying after a decade working for it. Oliver Green chose the plays and the cast for it. Her brother, Eli, proved good with numbers and her late mother had had magical hands with the costumes. Unfortunately, she’d died two winters previously from an outbreak of fever.

  Since she left Worcester’s leased bird’s nest, she moved to a small house her mother had left her not far from the theatre. Jane Green used to tell her daughter that a woman’s destiny was constantly uncertain and that having a place of her own would afford her daughter a choice. An enlightened person, Hester thought gratefully.

  In the hallway leading to her father’s office, she nearly collided with Duff Flynn, one of the actors. Fresh from an impoverished Ireland, he’d started in the company when he’d not even sprouted a beard. Not so tall with a reddish-brown hair, he’d practically grown up with her.

  “Hester, what a surprise,” he smiled at her as he approached.

  “Duff, it’s been a long time.” She’d visited her family here at the theatre while living in Worcester’s house but not as often as she might have liked.

  “Shall we take some ale before you leave?”

  “I’m not leaving.” The answer came a tad stiff.

  “Oh, sorry, I heard the news,” and took her hand. “Do you need anything?”

  It didn’t escape Hester that the actor carried a torch for her. He’d done for years, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel more than a sisterly friendship for him. At that moment, the last thing on her mind was anything remotely related to a tryst.

  The morning after her conversation with Drake, she packed the few belongings she’d brought with her, said good-bye to the servants and took refuge in her house. Luckily, the house had been closed for several months and needed a good cleaning. The physical work helped her keep her mind straight. The nights though had proved a burden she feared she would take time to be able to carry.