Her Wicked Marquess: Imperious Lords 4

by Lisa Torquay

  At the theatre’s backdoor, Hester covered her head with her cloak’s hood, congratulating herself for bringing it despite the short distance to her house. Nervously, she looked around as though someone might spring from the shadows and do her harm. Her conversation with the duke left her jumpy. The sun had already disappeared as the shadows dominated the back street where the lamps didn’t reach. Head down, she hurried away unsure if that man would follow her or not. He didn’t look like someone who might stoop that low, but she’d better not risk it.

  She turned around the corner in such a speed that she had no chance of avoiding colliding with a warm wall of muscles. Big hands held her shoulders as she recognised the scent of him.

  “You should look where you go, miss.” He warned before she lifted her head to him. “Hester.” He rasped.

  “Drake.” She answered almost glad to see him.

  Observing better, she saw that unmounted, he pulled his horse by the reins, the end of which became caught between his hand and her shoulder. “Genghis-Khan lost a shoe.” He explained.

  “I see.” And eyed him before continuing. “Good night.” And moved to go, except he still had his hands on her shoulder.

  Drake studied her, and Hester suspected her eyes were too bright and too wide while she’d been unable to hide the tightness from her voice or the ashen hue of her front.

  “What is it?” His brows crumpled as his eyes took all of her.

  “Nothing.” She blurted. “I should go.”

  “Are you going home?” He asked as his hands fell from her, but his eyes remained fixed on her face.

  “Yes.” And turned to go.

  “I’ll accompany you.” And fell into step with her. “Wasn’t there anyone to be with you?”

  “My father and Ely are busy,” she said, not meeting his gaze. In her current situation, refusing his help would be stupid, so she headed to her street.

  They walked the short distance in silence until she stopped in front of her entrance and fished her key from an inner pocket on her skirts. “See? Safely home.”

  He’d hear none of it as he took the key and unlocked the door. Before she had the chance to bid him farewell, he’d tethered the horse and followed her into the dim hallway.

  He shut them inside while she lit candles and the fireplace, soft light spreading in the tiny drawing-room. When she turned to him, he had his legs braced and arms crossed, his scrutiny never leaving her.

  "What happened?" He asked in a tone that brokered no going around it.

  Her gaze clashed with his, swimming in undiluted distress. “Lady Millicent’s father came to talk to me after the play.”

  Disgust smothered his rugged features. “Haddington?” She didn’t even know his given name and cared not to learn.

  She nodded stiffly. At the question in his stance, she had to continue. “He said you would discard me before the betrothal.” And let her cloak fall from her shoulders to hang it on a nearby peg.

  He breathed a humourless laugh, no doubt at the fact that Hester had taken care of it before either man had even thought of it. But his attention remained fast on her. “And?” He knew her enough to read her reactions, blast him.

  “Informed me he’ll be my next keeper.”

  “Goddamnit!” He swore.

  The mere memory got her so nervous she lost her balance and put her hand out onto the table, but he was faster. Collecting her in his arms, he sat on a worn couch on the corner with her on his lap.

  The events of the evening made it impossible for her to reject his support. Her head fell on his broad shoulder, her arm wrapping him, his familiar scent of rosemary and leather bringing her solace. His jaw rested on her hair, and they stayed like this for long minutes. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, calming her little by little.

  “I told him I won’t need another keeper.” She volunteered when she became certain her voice wouldn’t let her down.

  One long finger lifted her chin, and she met brandy orbs full of worry. “As if he cares what you choose.” His voice came as pure banked fury.

  “He must.” She shrugged and returned her head to his muscular chest.

  “Hester.” Her eyes rose back to him. “You’re aware this doesn’t bode well for you.”

  “I’m sure he’s found women who said no to him.” She tried reasoning.

  He nodded. “And you don’t want to know what happened to them.”

  “This bad?” Her brows pleated, her distress threatening to return.

  “Look.” He caught her by her shoulders. “You must go back to the other house.”

  “This one is my home.” She countered.

  He inhaled, eyes closing as if gathering patience. “I bought that one, it’s in your name.”

  That shocked her so much that she sprang from his lap. “You what?” She stared at him as though he’d bought the whole of England. “I’ll take nothing from you.”

  “No news in that, is it?” He also stood from the couch. “You move back in.”

  Her hand rubbed her brow, still stunned. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “But I did it anyway.” He answered, hands bracketing his tapered hips. “Living in it will give the impression you’re still under my protection.”

  “But I am not, and I don’t wish to be.” She uttered firmly.

  “Did you hear what I said—give the impression.” One of his large hands raked his wavy hair. “No strings attached.” He completed, and she eyed him suspiciously. “I mean it. You can change the lock if you don’t believe me.”

  She filled her starved lungs. “I-thank you but running will make it worse.”

  “You’ll not be running, for heaven’s sake! Few know you left me.” The forceful note in his tone was unmistakable.

  “I didn’t leave you!” Her turn for vehemence. “You decided to marry.”

  “I didn’t, but you won’t take my word for it.” His stare right on hers.

  Both silenced, realising that lay beside the point.

  “One thing for sure, I’m not going back there.” Hester resumed the discussion. Living in that little cosy house would bring memories she was already struggling to forget. They would weaken her, making it much more difficult to let go, to accept her place in this world, and in his life.

  “All right.” He lifted his palms to her in a sign of compromise. “Fine. Do as you wish, but I’ll assign a footman to watch over you.” At her resistant glare, he added. “This is non-negotiable.”

  “Blast it! You’re a hard nut to crack.” Hester vented.

  His features crumpled again. “Me?” He argued. “I’m not the one bent on rewriting ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ backwards.” He accused.

  In that play, Hester mused, Shakespeare must have supplied solace to the whole of his ruffled-feathers male readers. The woman who wouldn’t conform to live by men’s standards, suddenly and out of nowhere, becoming submissive and docile in the end. Ha! And here stood the male who inherited the whole rank structure, telling her she started docile then rebelled against the centenary mistress arrangement.

  “Oh, yes.” She quipped. “How convenient to invoke such a soothing play about every man’s dream of the perfect woman.” And the worst was that many of those women bought into this fallacy, Hester despaired.

  “Pity it didn’t serve as your role-model.” There was a drop of jest in this, which surprised her.

  “I prefer to be my own model, thank you very much.” She maintained.

  Silence fell anew with him looking at her with a glint she’d not seen before, something akin to admiration and another element she couldn’t decipher. Their eyes merged with a million undercurrents vibrating between them. The only thing that came to her mind was that she might beg him to kiss her like he did on that empty stage and never stop until they died of it.

  But she forced herself out of this haze by dispelling it with words. "Would you like tea or something?" Not
that she afforded all those luxury drinks he stocked that other house with, and she hadn't been to the market for supplies with her busy day.

  His gaze didn’t waver as his head shook slightly. “You’ll agree that it’s wiser for me to leave.”

  Her head did. As for other parts of her, she wouldn’t put her hand in the fire for them. In truth, they were already on fire.

  “Undoubtedly,” she answered while forcefully clawing her eyes from him.

  “I’ll send the footman as soon as I arrive at Worcester House.” He rasped the reiteration.

  “Thank you.” The least she might do was to show her gratitude.

  With a dry nod, he turned and left.

  Drake had left the unutterably dull tea party and had been making his way home when his horse’s shoe broke. On foot, he roamed the streets and, by the time he marked his surroundings, he was in Drury Lane. And then suddenly, Hester literally bumped into him. Exactly who he craved to see though he’d not own it to the woman herself.

  Now, leaving Hester’s house, he led his horse through to Mayfair, head heavy with what she said. Fury nearly got the best of him at Haddington’s abuse. Yes, abuse, because Charles Hilton, the duke, fairly threatened Hester. If he were to listen to his rage, Drake would go straight to the duke’s house and thrash him until he begged for mercy. The colossal instinct to protect Hester aroused so suddenly, and so unprecedentedly, he’d almost lost his speech. He’d nearly demanded to stay with her himself to make sure she’d be safe. Beforehand, he predicted she’d refuse, as she did the offer to go back to the other house.

  He'd never have imagined that his fake future father-in-law would target Hester. Buxom blondes were his usual types. Though he figured that the duke aimed at entering in competition with the marquess. And Hester stood to be the casualty in this skirmish. Over his dead body, Drake promised himself. He'd kill anyone who dared even think in harming her.

  It didn’t cross his mind to wonder why he felt this way. It would be a waste of time to ponder over such abstract questions. He preferred to take action instead. If his woman was in danger, he’d do everything in his power to protect her. Even if she didn’t agree she was his, the little rebel.

  Indisputably, she came in the middle of this because of his mother’s machinations and his own agreed ruse with Haddington’s chit. Which made it his responsibility to prevent any further threats to her well-being.

  Arriving home, he instructed his brawniest footman to stay close to Hester at all times.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The stocky footman, Bruce, followed her everywhere. And Hester couldn't say what was worse, this shadow or the threat of Haddington. Even now, as she headed for the rehearsal, the servant nearly stepped on her heels. Certainly, nothing would happen to her in broad daylight, but Bruce said his orders were clear. His constant presence only broke as she reached the theatre and Worcester would send him home to rest until rehearsals ended and he returned to resume his post.

  As she entered the backstage, she saw Drake already talking to the actors. Their eyes met and a current vibrated through her. She lowered her gaze quickly as Worcester signalled to Bruce to leave until late afternoon.

  In this fashion, the days elapsed, and the preparations for the play progressed. Worcester had seen to it that her notes became part of the main text, and the rehearsals included them. Even bewildered with the marquess's open-minded changes, she felt glad a woman's voice would echo on stage even if timidly. It was more than she had ever expected.

  But it hadn’t been easy to work all day, everyday side by side with Drake. The ceaseless emotional strain of his presence ate at her insides, and she finished her duties exhausted and restive. When she finally found her bed, it was to reminisce on the day’s events and revel in her mind’s eye’s image of him.

  Haddington hadn't spoken with her again or shown up at the theatre, which brought her a deep sense of relief. She almost believed she'd been imagining danger where there was none and intended to ask Drake to stop torturing poor Bruce with unnecessary nocturnal watches. The footman stood outside her door during the night with little shelter from the weather.

  At noon, Worcester gave the actors the usual break, and Hester sat at the backstage with bread and cheese and a cup of tea. The others preferred to go to a nearby tavern for a warm meal, but Hester often got hers after the rehearsal.

  She sensed someone sit by her side. A large someone and didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  “Any news about Haddington?” Drake asked as he fished an apple from his pocket.

  “No.” she looked at him, though it was always a mistake to do so. “I’m beginning to see that poor Bruce need not go to all this trouble.”

  “Yes, he does.” He insisted. “We’re not talking about a harmless buck here.”

  “Sure, but after that evening, the duke never showed again.” She rebutted.

  “You came into his attention because of me. And I’ll not allow anything to happen to you.”

  During their year together, Drake hadn’t exhibited this protective streak. Hester was at a loss what to make of it. As though he cared, she mocked herself. He may just wish to avoid scandals that would anger his very aristocratic mother. Hester met the Dowager Marchioness only a few times, none of them pleasant. The older woman viewed Hester as an obstacle to her lineage ambitions. Not that Hester would stand in the way, she left her bird’s nest at the first sign of a match. As a mother though, the noblewoman knew the son she had. The very reluctant son she had. Hester kept in mind that this should be something between mother and son and made it a point not to interfere.

  "His Grace will soon forget about me," she said and harboured no doubt about that. The duke would be satisfied when Drake married his daughter and carried on with the dynastic issues.

  “I expect you’re right. Then and only then will I relieve Bruce of his duties towards you.”

  Since he'd been the one to assign the footman he paid, she had no say in the matter. A long moment passed with them in silence. Drake's big frame loomed close, mining her will-power. Seeing him every day for all these hours comprised a real setback to her resolve. Her eyes tried hard not to ogle him as she made herself eat; she'd need the sustenance until her dinner before the evening play.

  “I’d like us to have a soiree sometime next week.” His tenor wormed itself in her ears merely to wreak havoc with her eager nerves.

  Her head snapped to him. "Why ever for?" One more trip down memory lane would feel insurmountable.

  He shrugged that bunched shoulder of his. “To bring our friends together for one.” He seemed very interested in the scenery painted on the flats beyond. “And to show Haddington you’re still under my protection.” He met her eyes as he said that.

  To say she didn’t miss the varied soirees would be a blatant lie. She’d always treasured them. But a repeat would have negative effects on her emotional state, already in tatters with these changes in her life.

  She shook her head. "I don't think it necessary." If she didn't know any better, she'd venture at the fact he was intent in making clear how much they lost. But that would be nonsense. As her keeper, he developed no deeper feelings for her than the physical ones he never hid.

  “But I do,” he replied woodenly. “It’ll also be a good way to spread the word about the new play.”

  What he implied was that by contract it would be her duty to be there. He didn’t spell it out, yet she could read it clearly between the lines. But she was not about to bend over backwards only because he said so. That he tried, gnawed at her temper. She sprang from where she sat and turned fully to him. “As far as I understand, I have no reason to accompany you to any function for the play you inveigled your way in.”

  He eyed her as something flared in his brandy gaze. His torso inclined forward, elbows on his knees. “You can’t do this.” His rasp washed over her with shameless consequences.

  Her brows pleated as she directed
a quizzical look at him. “Do what?”

  “Spit all this fire and expect me to remain unaffected.”

  It was as though a blast of heat poured on her insides. The glint in his irises, the gruff of his voice, the sheer size of him pulled at her as if he'd transformed her in a despicable puppet. He'd always known which strings to pull, but right at that moment, he didn't even have to do it. She'd go on her own. Or better, her body would acquire a life of its own and go to him, not because it wanted to, but because the void hurt, the hunger made everything in her ache for the slightest touch.

  It was arduous, so damned arduous, to pretend he did not get to her, but with a huge effort, she forced herself to do it. "The way you respond is not my business." And now, the fire would be all she threw at him. "Deal with it."

  One end of his sensuous mouth stretched up wryly. “I tried.” The intensity of his stare connected with hers like a tether. “But the solitary… solutions are not working.”

  The mere hint of him taking himself in hand had the explosive power nearly to make her forget everything and send her cares to the blazes. Her cheeks warmed to feverish levels as her mind came to an inch from collapsing.

  “Well, try harder!” She blurted out without thinking.

  “Harder is definitely the word.” The growl threatened to smash the little resistance she still possessed.

  To which she could grope for no answer. "Time to go back to work," she said instead and pivoted to leave.

  “The soiree?” His question came from too close and, when her neck rounded to him, he had stood up and stridden to her.

  Her brows arched. “Presumably, the answer is clear.” And gave her back to him. It would be a trap to her threadbare emotions.