by Lisa Torquay
“Please.” This came silky, as silky as the voice he used when he told her what he meant to do to her when they were alone.
In all the time she’d spent with him, she’d never heard him utter the word. Even less in this tone. Seduction and that innate certainty that the world would do any of his biddings drove his actions. He didn’t force people into doing what he wished; they fell at his feet to please him. She’d been no exception. And that had been a mistake because it got him used to having things his way. Worse, got her used to the steamy rewards he bestowed on her in the dark. Who would deny that he kept her coming for more?
When her gaze travelled back to him, he stood three feet from her with that same intensity in his gaze, tinted with another hue that resembled expectation.
It was too much to resist.
In the end of the day, what harm a few hours entertaining their mutual friends could do? Hester held more will-power than that. Or so she hoped. She filled her lungs deeply and gave a curt nod.
His side-smile felt more rewarding than all those steamy nights in his bed.
Hester chose the sky-blue dress.
She touched the doorknocker on Worcester House, her heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird. Lights from inside spilt out from between the curtained windows. The last time they had one of their soirees must have been about three months ago if she remembered right.
The previous evening, Bruce had arrived for his night watch balancing a big box on his brawny arms, saying Lord Worcester sent it. As she opened it, she discovered a few of the best dresses he had had made for her and their matching accessories. The simple cut of this blue piece of art allowed for the finest silk she’d ever seen to shine through. A golden ribbon cinched the high-waist and the fabric fell to mould her narrow waist and feminine hips. Golden lace rimmed the décolletage a tad too daring for her taste. Her light-brown locks were loosely rolled on the top of her head with wisps framing her face. With her hands, she checked everything was in place as she filled her lungs to brace for the evening.
“Miss Green.” The butler startled her out of her apprehension.
Her attention went to him. “Wakefield.”
She’d taken a hackney here, Bruce on her heels. The footman stood in the shadows somewhere in the garden.
The butler widened the door, giving her passage. "Lord Worcester is in the drawing-room with a few of the artists he invited." Wakefield used to treat her like any other visitor to the house, displaying perfect politeness.
“Thank you,” she said as she allowed him to accompany her to the appointed room. He’d taken her cloak and gloves before he did so.
As everything else connected with Worcester, the interior possessed that discreet elegance of old money. Hester had spent long hours admiring the paintings, sculptures and fine objects scattered around the townhouse.
She entered the vast drawing-room, the one they usually had their soirees in as opposed to the smaller one where they spent their cosy nights in. Five people stood in the centre, one of them Flynn. Brandy and green gazes collided with the predictable effect on her.
Drake clad his giant frame in lead-grey finery, pristine shirt, and cravat, standing out as the tallest and the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. The memory of their last mindless kisses was not far from her. At that moment, reliving the way he dwarfed her on the floorboards caused a ripple of awareness to run down her spine.
And she knew she’d made a foolish decision to fall for his charm and accept to come here tonight. But to be able to simply look at him transformed it in a sweet, sweet mistake.
His closest friends made their entrance. The Thorntons, the Darrochs, and the Brunswicks. Drake looked at her and extended his hand for her to near him to receive the guests. And the sense of the past coming back became stronger. Hester didn’t want this to happen. It ate at her, caused her to miss him so much more than she already did. But there’d be no refusal in front of everyone. Her sole option was to rest her gloved hand on his and stand by his side with a brittle smile on her face. The three couples greeted them affably as usual. Apparently, no one had got word of her vacating her mistress position.
“Hester, how good to see you!” Philippa, the Duchess of Brunswick, neared her and took her hands.
She and her husband, Titus, had visited Hester and Drake in the Worcester's country seat soon after their wedding. Titus and Philippa had been to a house party given by the Marchioness of Worcester years ago and didn't hide that the house held fond memories for them.
“Philippa.” Hester cheered. “I hadn’t heard you were in town.” The Brunswicks came to town for a few brief weeks a year as they preferred the country.
“Luckily we are and can enjoy one of your delightful soirees.” The duchess smiled at her, and Hester wondered at her friend’s open-minded disposition to treat an actress as an equal.
“And I’m happy to see you,” Hester answered.
“Not as happy as I am to see her every day.” The tall and dark Duke of Brunswick had come to his wife and put a possessive hand around her back. “Good evening, Miss Green.”
Hester smiled. “Your Grace.” She curtsied.
“You know we don’t like our friends to treat us with such formality.” The duke scolded playfully before they went to greet the others.
"Your soiree beat our luncheon together," Amelia Bolton said, making Hester turn to see her enter. "But I haven't forgotten about it."
“Miss Bolton.” Hester greeted. “You’ll gift us with your brilliant astronomical expertise, I hope.”
“Indeed.” And mocked a secretive tone. “Lord Worcester threatened not to invite me again if I don’t.”
“I can’t disagree with him.” Hester followed in the jest.
After the footmen served Champagne and canapes, everyone started moving to take their seats to listen to a violin player recently arrived from Germany.
A commotion at the door attracted Hester’s attention. She rounded her head to witness the Marchioness of Worcester coming in with no more and no less than Lady Millicent. A wave of coldness washed over Hester. She should have predicted that the dowager lady would close ranks with his intended, as she wouldn’t miss the opportunity to make a point and shame Hester in one skilled blow.
Drake neared them, a livid glare to his mother, even if he behaved impeccably towards the ladies. And swiftly joined Hester to offer his arm to accompany her.
“You didn’t tell me you’d invited your mother.” Anguish threatened to dominate her.
“I didn’t.” He growled in an arctic tone. “But she has the bad habit to make herself comfortable in any situation.”
“Should I leave?” She started to think it’d be a good idea.
“Absolutely not!” His rugged features crumpled. “I’m surprised Lady Millicent accepted to be part of it.” He added. “Her father wouldn’t be amenable to his daughter being in a soiree that started with a bad reputation in town.”
Hester agreed. When they first engaged in these functions, she felt much more at home. The artists and scientists attending had a progressive view of their metier. Few lords or ladies dared come, and she felt in her element. With time, though, more and more aristocrats joined, after the first few ones disabused the others of the scandalous nature of the gatherings. While their ranks increased, Hester’s discomfort also increased.
As she sat beside Drake to listen to the violinist, that anguishing feeling spread in her. These people from the ton didn't hesitate to use their power and influence to obtain whatever they wanted, right or wrong. At the time she had been a mistress, many targeted her because of her connection to a marquess. There were those courtesans that envied her position. The same who hurried to tell her the rumours about his intended. Other lords, thinking they might tempt her, propositioned if they caught her alone in the street. The elderly matrons wrinkled their noses in distaste at her if she walked by. Her fellow actors often showed disdain for thinking she'd
used her visibility on stage to aim higher.
People judged. All the time. Because you did something, or because you didn’t do it. And they gave themselves the right to call you on it even if they had nothing to do with that.
London’s upper crust was a horrible environment to live in. To have any contact with those whimsical lords and ladies threatened your peace of mind. And, listening to that magnificent Mozart’s music, she celebrated the fact that she’d go back to her tiny, humble home and have nothing to do with this world any longer. More than that, she promised herself not to have anything to do with it ever again.
Applause erupted around her, telling her the violinist had ended his recital. The guests dispersed to help themselves to refreshments as Hester excused herself and went in search of a little reprieve under Drake’s quizzical scrutiny. With a glass of Champagne, she wandered through the people.
But it was not to be. Before she could even locate a corner to use as a breathing room, Lady Worcester caught up with her.
“Miss Green.” She uttered in such a haughty way one would imagine her to be the Empress of France.
Napoleon's own massive war machine wouldn't cower Hester, however. She liked to think she was made of sterner stuff than that. "My lady." And curtsied with a soft smile. She would forever be thankful for her acting training. It came useful in an artificial world like this one.
Hester wondered how this small woman gave birth to that powerfully tall man that was her son. Her grey hair elegantly made, her dark green gown displayed the finest velvet, and the only thing that signalled her connection with Drake was the eyes. Whereas Drake's invariably looked at her with that steamy intent, hers dressed in a glacial expression.
“You do know that London is abuzz with my son’s choice of wife.” Hester had to admire her unfaltering obstinacy in seeing the next generation of Worcesters before her time.
“I doubt anyone is talking about it in St Giles.” She mentioned the poorest part of town. How typical that these people thought only the West End counted as London.
In the poor slums and shantytowns, the miserable souls who supported the city with their underpaid work would be more worried about what they would eat in their next meal—if they were lucky enough to have one.
The glare she received from the elderly lady said it all. That Hester didn't belong in this glittering drawing-room even as a servant.
“I might think my son would tidy up his affairs before he stepped into the next stage in his life.”
“He didn’t.” And looked right in the lady’s eyes. “I did.”
That seemed to deflate Lady Worcester’s phlegmatic stance a bit. “And you’re here because…”
“As a favour.” Which was what Drake implied. “My fellow actor, Flynn, and I will recite a few lines of our next play.” That was the reason Flynn came tonight, too.
Honora looked her from top to bottom, taking in her expensive dress. “See that you go back to your due place after that.” Meaning her own rank, her own insignificance.
Before she could reply, she sensed a giant frame looming by her side. "Mother," Drake uttered with contained fury. "I won't tolerate you mistreating someone in my house."
She looked upwards to her son, her haughty demeanour crumbling into a defensive one. “I’m not—” But he must have been hearing the exchange not far from both women.
“Yes, you are. And I have no choice but to ask you to leave.” His brandy glare shot anger at his mother.
“Lady Millicent.” She started, looking at where the debutante talked with Lady Thornton.
“I’ll ask Lord and Lady Thornton to drive Lady Millicent home.” He added stonily.
Hester lamented being the witness of mother and son in a conflict, but there was nothing she could do about it. And both engaged in a battle of wills that told of their similarities rather than differences. Nearby, people who followed the exchange had a surprised look on them. Despite a dowager's shenanigans, few lords dared invite their mothers out of their homes. The juicy gossip would raze the ton.
The lady looked at her, spine straightening, chin tilting higher. “Farewell, Miss Green.” And Hester had time only for a brief curtsy before the lady whirled and walked out of the room.
“You’re all right?” he asked, turning his intense attention to her.
“Of course.” She replied. “I was doing rather well without a knight in shining armour.” She preferred to fight her own battles, thank you very much!
“I’ll be him, whether or not you want it.” He rumbled only for her ears.
Her gaze clasped on his, both swarming with undercurrents. Suddenly, the entire world reduced to brandy eyes full of a thousand messages. Hester’s insides curled in more thousands of sensations, none of them confessable.
She felt just like that first night he sought her out after the play. As soon as he showed up in the dressing room, the entire world disappeared. She'd noticed him in his box the previous nights but was ashamed to ask someone his name. That night, he stood before her in the chaotic place full of people preparing to leave, her eyes widened on him as he towered over her. Never had she imagined that his giant frame would impress her so much. Later, she wondered if she didn't have some sort of fascination for big men, because whenever her eyes rose all the way to his something flipped in her, warmed her core. To this day he did that to her, and after this whole time, she concluded it was him, for no other tall man did that to her.
That first encounter had felt more like a collision as both locked their eyes on each other as though the universe would shift if they didn’t. And it shifted as they did. Just like now. They stood mere two feet apart, his head bent down, hers bent back, and this frisson of energy vibrating between them like a million violin cords. Her ears buzzed, her skin tingled and seemed so sensitised, that even air awoke it in eager goosebumps. His eyes darkened as though he and she were about to explode in the most cataclysmic peak they ever had.
Good gracious! They were nearly ravishing each other in the middle of a crowded drawing-room. The insidious thought wormed through her mushy brain as a means of survival, possibly. She blinked, striving to surface from that murky sea of sensuality into a semblance of properness. She wrenched her gaze from his by lowering it and murmuring an excuse before she forced her even mushier legs to move.
This time, she didn’t talk to anyone as she finally made a beeline to a solitary bay window on the corner, hoping the drapes would conceal her for a few minutes. She took the chance to inhale deeply several times. This evening was proving taxing, sprouting a myriad of emotions in her.
“Lady Worcester asked me to accompany her here, if you must know.” Her neck rounded to see Lady Millicent standing by her side. Willowy and in possession of black hair, she’d be a beauty in a few years, when she shed her girly looks. She couldn’t be yet twenty, Hester imagined.
Astounded, Hester stood quickly. “My lady.” She curtsied, unsure how a girl with such poise could have a father like hers. It went to prove that expensive finishing schools were very, effective.
“She offered to chaperone me to the new Countess of Bradford and her much older husband’s dinner. Only to plead indisposition and drag me here.” The lady had a placid stance, hands joined in front of her. If her interlocutor paid detailed attention, they would find a mere drop of discomfort under her layers of perfect manners.
"I'm not surprised," Hester admitted. "Lady Worcester is a seasoned Admiral." The older lady seemed to regard her quest as nothing less than a military campaign.
A hint of mirth came to her weary eyes. “I suppose we could call her that.”
“I’m sure she strategized every single move beforehand.” Hester jested.
“No doubt.” The girl eyed Hester with a mild admiration. “First, she spread rumours about a match. Now she’s manoeuvring right into it.”
Hester gazed at her and had to make a conscious effort not to gape. What Drake said about the rumour
s was true. “And she’ll certainly succeed.” Hester blurted for lack of a better reply.
“Not if I have a say in it.” The lady stated adamantly. “At my request, Lord Worcester agreed to keep the ruse. There’ll be no betrothal, however.” And waved an elegant hand dismissively.
The information made Hester speechless. Come from a debutante, it sounded impossible though the girl’s eyes focused directly on hers. Her message came loud and clear. The gossip possessed no real basis, and Hester had nothing to worry about. Lady Millicent might be rarefied ton, but with this, she showed consideration for other people’s feelings, even if they were lowly born into a theatre company.
“But—” She blurted and was interrupted before she could conclude.
“Excuse me.” Duff neared the women and bowed to the debutante. “Hester, it’s our turn.” He alerted they should do their part in this soiree.
“Let us take tea sometime, Miss Green.” The girl invited.
With time for a brief nod, Hester curtsied again and took Flynn's stretched arm.
The last thing she’d expected from this lofty lady was an invitation for tea, even if she must have said it out of politeness rather than the real intention of doing it.
Worcester observed as Flynn helped Hester up the small dais where they’d deliver the lines from the play. The actor had a besotted smile on him, and with a flourish and a sweet glance, he helped her sit on one chair before he took the other. They wouldn’t be acting the play in earnest since they weren’t in costumes.
The sour taste that the sight of both on the dais gave him nearly caused him to call it off. And worse, call the Irishman into the garden and practice some boxing on him. It proved to be difficult enough to see them together during the rehearsals. Drake harboured no doubt that, given the chance, the actor would try his luck with his woman. While Flynn might be the right actor for the play, he was the wrong man for Hester. Any man on this planet was wrong for her. And he’d call all of them out if they so much as looked at her.
