Her Wicked Marquess: Imperious Lords 4

by Lisa Torquay

  She gave a slight grin at his thoughtfulness. "I wish to return to work if my father will have me."

  His smile broadened as his eyes lit. “Of course he’ll have you. You are one of the best actresses in town.”

  She couldn’t be sure of that. What she knew was that other companies had tried to lure her away with promises of grandiose fame. In the fickle world of the stage, fame might be overrated so she’d stayed on, more secure in the place she’d been born.

  “Thank you, Duff,” and moved to leave. “I should go now. Let’s have that ale later.”

  “I’ll count the minutes,” and waved as he walked away.

  Reaching her father's office, she halted at the sight of him, head bent over a sheet of paper, quill in hand. A wave of tenderness invaded her. She should have come more often, stayed longer. But the fever of being with Drake had swallowed her to a point she'd given up so much. Oliver had been categorically against her accepting Worcester's proposition. Her infatuation with the giant marquess had spoken louder, and she'd chosen to live it out and see where it led. Well, it led to the starting point if her presence here was anything to go by.

  “Papa,” she blurted.

  Her father lifted his bald head, a mixture of surprise and elation in eyes as green as hers. “Hester,” he whispered and stood up to come to her to hug her without reserve. To be wrapped so warmly brought tears to her eyes.

  At last, he took her shoulders as their identical eyes held for several heartbeats. “You’ve come to stay.”

  Hester would never cease to marvel at his sensitivity. No reproach, no ‘I said so’, only support. “Yes,” she said, unable to hide the chagrin that spread in her.

  Oliver only nodded seeming to understand fully her feelings. Back to his chair, he sat and pointed at a bunch of parchment. “We’ve received a new play I consider promising,” and extended the bunch to her.

  “‘The Plight of Sarah Borne’” She read. “I’ve not heard of this Ted Rann,” the author’s name on the first page.

  "Neither have I," Oliver agreed. "But it's very good, and I plan to put it on for the season. The main role is yours if you want it."

  Surprise invaded Hester. "There must be other actresses in line for the main role you would consider." She harboured no wish to get in the way of anyone's career, as she'd been away for a year.

  “I would.” He conceded. “But you’re the best and back. The only one who’ll do it justice.”

  "I—thank you." She loved acting but hadn't expected to plunge right into work so soon. "What is it about?"

  It is about a scullery maid who falls in love with her employer, the duke. It explores the friction between social ranks.” So, a follower of John Gay, who wrote “The Beggar’s Opera” almost a century ago, and denounced the exploitation of the poor by the rich.

  The play sounded so attuned with her own private plight. “Can I take it home for a close inspection?” she asked. The theatre would have more printed copies to work with.

  “Sure.” He smiled tenderly at her. “And study your role while you’re at it.”

  At the backstage that evening, Hester helped with the ‘flats’, the painted scenery that could be shifted as the scene changed. As the panels moved, she could see the revellers. By the interval, she sat on the three-feet-high stage floor, her feet achy with walking around. She’d take off her boots as soon as she could.

  Through a slight opening in the curtains, she saw people circulating. A huge man dressed in black finery caught her eye. And she wished he’d not because it seemed only one dratted lord had her whole attention, together with the whole of the air in her lungs, and the wild beating of her heart. He had his back to the stage, his wavy brown hair shining in the light of the chandeliers. The man stood not in the box he owned, but in somebody else’s. A tall girl in the finest rose silk was in front of him, facing the stage. By her side, an older man that she recognised as the Duke of Haddington as he’d been the keeper of a former actress who fled London after he’d finished with her.

  Hester’s jaw dropped while she realised Lady Millicent as being the daughter of that man. Gallantly, Worcester bowed to the girl as Hester’s insides bled at the sight. His future wife was tall, pretty and poised; a perfect breed for a marchioness. Everything inside sank, and something akin to defeat invaded her. The mere picture assembled before her told of everything this jagged world was about and how meaningless she’d been to him, accepting to be an insignificant way for him to assuage his needs.

  The actors returned for the next act, and she focused on the flats as she tried to blank out what she’d just seen.

  Standing to applaud the grand-finale, Drake’s eyes perused the stage. He came to the theatre not for the play, though it proved to be of high quality as usual for the Green’s company. He’d been quite certain Hester would be here.

  During the interval, he noticed Lady Millicent sitting with her father in their box. He went to greet them to help her with her ruse to forego marriage. He’d not deny any girl who had a father like hers.

  Said father had followed him to the deserted hallway when he took his leave.

  “Worcester.” He called at his back.

  Drake turned to find the Duke of Haddington standing in the middle of the carpet. In his fifties, his dark hair began to grey though he still retained a lean figure. His dark eyes held a tinge hard-pressed not to resemble cruelty. The very sight of him caused nausea.

  “Haddington.” Drake acknowledged the man.

  The older man strode to him with that self-importance that justified every illegal act the ton dished to their inferiors. “The interval is at an end, so I’ll be quick.”

  Drake waited, wishing to shorten the conversation as much as possible.

  “We need to meet to sign the marriage contract.” The duke stopped before the marquess, looking down his nose though he was much shorter than the latter.

  Relief took him over because there would be none. “Naturally.” That Drake hadn’t even asked for the girl’s hand so far appeared to make no difference. It showed how completely the ton relied on hearsay.

  “In it, I’ll include a clause obligating you to end your liaison with your mistress.” The hypocritical bastard had no limits! “I’ll not have my daughter be London’s laughingstock.”

  That was one of his reasons to avoid marriage. When he imagined himself leg-shackled to a woman with whom he had nothing in common, the impression he had was of living such a bleak life he’d succumb to utter hopelessness.

  The vexation that arose in him at the man’s gall nearly impelled him to call this off at once. Only his promise to the bastard’s daughter stayed him. He masked his response as deeper bleakness invaded him at the fact Hester had taken care of the aforementioned chore days ago. “That’s a given.” He answered coldly.

  The duke gave a satisfied nod. “Good.” The scapegrace must have thought his superiority in rank gave him the right to make demands. “I’ll have my solicitor draw up the contract.”

  Inwardly, Drake scoffed. With a father-in-law like him, one needed no foes. By the time the documents were ready, he’d have disabused society of the match. He gave a slight bow of acknowledgement and headed to his box.

  With the play over, he waited until the theatre emptied to leave his seat. He knew the backstage very well as he’d been there several times to try and woo Hester to his proposition. Purposefully, he exited his box and walked impatiently downstairs.

  Outside her father’s office, he stopped short. Alone, Hester sat behind the desk, reading a sheaf of papers with a concentrated frown on her perfect face.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen her on stage. From his box, her beauty and talent had mesmerised him. She’d moved around the stage as though it was her own home, her realm. Her role as the Fairy Queen demanded her light brown hair fall in loose waves around her. The deep blue high-waist dress she’d worn left her shoulders bare and moulded to her round
breasts with mouth-watering precision. He’d not been able to take his eyes from her, his body ready to tumble them both in his bed. He’d wanted her so badly he sat in his chair like a statue while his blood raced in his veins.

  Her eyes had been as wide on him as his on her when they met in the dressing room that same night. He’d wanted to shove all those lechers from that room and kiss her, and kiss her until he’d become a pulp of mindlessness. But when it was time to close the theatre, she’d given him a shallow curtsy and shallower smile and left as though he meant nothing, as though they hadn’t been devouring each other with their eyes.

  She’d kept him at arm’s length and on fire for so long, he’d feared he’d succumb from the fever in his blood. But he came back every night, fool that he was, as his body spiralled into derangement at the mere sight of the petite woman. His fairy queen fast became an obsession he tried hard to control. When she allowed him to kiss her hand, it had reduced him to a ragged worshiper at this goddess’s altar, nearly brought to his knees. No other woman had ever done this to him, and he’d not known how to deal with it.

  Now, seeing her, hair in a practical bun, a simple dress he remembered her wearing in those first days did all the same things to him as when he met her.

  “Hester,” he murmured almost like a chant to the woman he came to appreciate. For everything they lived together, the fire, the talks, the lazy mornings in bed.

  Her head lifted as she focused those green beacons on him. It felt like a boulder hitting right in the chest. Looking at her always did things to him. Here at that moment, everything shifted and heated.

  But her expression shuttered and her eyes went mossy and withdrawn. She stood up though she remained behind the desk as a warrior in a fortress.

  Her neck bent back to meet his gaze. “Lord Worcester.” Her husky voice wrapped around him at the memories of how it sounded when their bodies entwined, hot, sweaty and hungry. She curtsied in that regal way of hers, transforming him in a mere vassal begging for her favours.

  He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, show her how much power she had over him. With great effort, he tamped down on the feverish reactions to her and tapped on his noble upbringing.

  “I came to take you back.” And used his height to compound the authority he yielded.

  Her eyes narrowed; her mouth pursed. Hell, that mouth! She had the obscenest lips he'd ever set eyes on. Both upper and lower lips were full and in a shade of red that matched her creamy skin to perfection. Just the memory of what he did to it and it did to him in return made him ready.

  "You wasted your time, I'm afraid, my lord," and looked back at the sheaf of papers, moving to sit in clear dismissal.

  He fisted his hands with the clashing reactions she arose in him. The crave mixed with the annoyance might prove explosive.

  Before she resumed her loud indifference, he spoke. "My mother spread false rumours to force my hand." He spat drily.

  Her glare slapped back on him as she froze in place. “Indeed.” It came out dripping in sarcasm as though she didn’t believe him. “And she will succeed by the looks of it.”

  His features crumpled on her. “You saw me in Haddington’s box.” There was no other reason for her not to take his word for it.

  “Including all of London,” her chin tilted up, her hands coming to her waist, defiant as you please. He wanted to kiss her until the defiance melted into the moans he knew would come.

  “You judge my honesty on my being polite to a debutante?” He paced until he stood mere inches from the dratted desk. “I hadn’t even met her before the Thornton ball.” He’d told her about the ball days before she left.

  “Well, now you do, and you can proceed with whatever lords and debutantes do to beget heirs.” The contempt for the aristocratic way of life projected in every syllable. She didn’t make it a secret of her opinions about the upper crust and how silly she thought it.

  “I’ve told Lady Millicent I’m not marrying her, as I did my mother.” He stated categorically as his eyes bore into hers.

  She shrugged, attracting his attention to the swell of her breasts. He’d give one of his estates just to touch them for a second. “Very well,” she answered, “If not her, someone else. Even you must admit you can’t delay this much longer.”

  He could, and he would. When this madness for her cooled, perhaps he’d be able to get on with his life. For the time being, she was the only one his body responded to, hungered for.

  One more of his steps and only the desk-fortress stood between them. "Look into my eyes and say you've been sleeping at night." He sounded gruff even to his own ears.

  At his taunt, her eyes widened and went into that parakeet shade that simply snitched she was ready for him.

  It had the effect of tinder. On their own volition, his feet moved and he rounded the desk to stand right in front of her. He looked down at her at the same time her head bent to meet his gaze, the parakeet colour flashing on him. It made him so hard it hurt. They stood facing each other as that invisible thread of awareness engulfed them. Time died; the universe lost its meaning as Drake only imagined transforming the desk-fortress into a desk-bed.

  “Do you?” He repeated in a struggle to stay above water and not drawn in her eyes, in her.

  Her lips parted, her breasts lifted with her intake of breath, her stare devouring him whole in the same way he fantasised her mouth doing. “W-what?” Her delicate brows pleated as if she tried hard to concentrate.

  “Sleep,” he reminded her in a rasp.

  Those wide beacons blinked once, she exhaled and blinked again. Her lashes lowered, trying to hide what she couldn't hide.

  He took in all of her petite form, the bodice of her simple dress hugging her breasts lovingly, the narrow waist that fit in his large hands, down to her feet. And that’s when he saw it. The delicate toes bare, under her skirts.

  A veritable blast of undiluted lust washed over him like waves of a stormy sea. Her feet, her wicked, delicious feet, the very ones she used with such proficiency that made rational thoughts vanish like smoke in the wind. Memory shot again of her foot travelling from his own, up to his shin, his knee, his thigh, to slide between the thighs to where they caused the most damage. And then he taught her how the second might join the first to make him weak, to make him beg, and finally defeat him in his own arena.

  As an actress, she used her body to compose her roles, used it at her will and his utter disgrace. He wanted to be disgraced forever, to plunge in sin and perdition, never to resurface.

  Her lashes fluttered up, and she saw where his attention lay, a flush of pure crimson invading her perfect face. With a step back, she pulled the skirts down, hiding those delicate limbs from him.

  He needed a distraction, any distraction, or he’d ravish her here in her father’s office for anyone to happen on them. He eyed the sheaf of papers on the desk and took it up. “New play?” he asked.

  A moment passed until she looked at his hands and identified what he talked about. “Yes, the next we’ll present.”

  He read the title and the author. “Will you be in it?”

  She filled her lungs with air. “My father wants me to take the role of Sarah Borne.”

  “Hm.” He grunted. “You’ll be the rage of the season, no doubt.”

  A small smile graced that tempting mouth, “Perhaps.”

  For a fraction of a minute, it felt as though they were back in the life they led, conversing about plays, music, or science. In those days, they had decided on the soirees they became famous for. A gust of longing inveigled its way into his insides. They'd been, if not happy, content in this past year.

  From the printed play, his focus shifted to her, and she responded by peering at him. “All right,” he said. “You can take the play home to study.” He didn’t mark the word ‘home’ until it was out of him.

  In the past year, they'd travelled to many places. They'd stayed in his seat in Hampshire where he fo
rbade his mother to go lest she threw another house-party—he'd banned her to the dower house in another estate. Hester and Drake often stayed in his townhouse as he'd bought one for his mother far from it. But when Drake visited Hester in the house he bought for her, he felt at home. She transformed the bare walls in a cosy place for books, painting, and a warm meal. Often, they sat in the drawing-room in the evenings, reading while she sipped on tea or sherry and he with brandy or port. Until he could stand no longer only watching her as she sat across from him, and took her upstairs to their bedchamber for the night. They wouldn't fall asleep until much later.

  As he fairly commanded her, a hard glint came to her fierce expression. “I’m going to my house and you to yours.”

  The abode she stayed in for last year was hers, but he didn’t think she referred to it. He directed a quizzical look at her.

  “My mother left me somewhere to live when she died.” She offered.

  Of course, he predicted she'd have somewhere to go as she left him, but didn't imagine she'd have a property. "Your place is with me." He stated hotly.

  That defiant chin tilted up. “My place is where I decide to go.”

  Expelling impatient air through flaring nostrils, he raked his hair. “Is this your final word?”

  “Yes,” she said resolutely.

  That single affirmative fell in his guts like a huge iceberg, hollowing everything in its way. Why couldn’t the diminutive woman simply abide by him? She seemed pliable enough to do it in the past.

  “Fine,” he yielded. “I’ll drive you in my carriage.”

  “Thank you, but my brother will accompany me.” She wouldn’t give him even this slight joy. “Good night, my lord.” And curtsied, bare feet and all.

  Her irreverence might blow him to pieces. And he’d go happily up in the air if only he could look at her one last time. Before he gave in to the impulse of throwing her over his shoulder and taking her to the nearest secluded corner, he gave a curt nod, pivoted, and left.