by Lisa Torquay
He well understood that in the play Hester and Flynn had to act according to their parts. Keeping it in mind all the time though took a toll on him. Especially when the distance between him and his woman became a torment that he had to endure every hour of the day.
The sight of his mother treating her with less than the respect owed to another human being made fury burst in Drake. It had been beyond him not to join them and put his mother in her place. He had no qualms in inviting her to leave. He would have overseen the fact she came uninvited. That she treated Hester badly was unacceptable. His venerable mother comprised the cause Hester shunned him and remained irreducible. His parent's meddling went beyond the reasonable. Perhaps he should banish her to the country and be done with it, though he thought it cruel to take away the life in town which she enjoyed so much. If she overstepped the boundaries again though, he’d have to take action.
Drake made it a point to stand and go fetch Hester himself when she finished the reciting, which had elicited enthusiastic applause. He held her hand as she stepped down the dais and offered his arm to accompany her to their seat before Miss Bolton took the stand for her talk on comets.
Intent on staking his claim over Flynn, Worcester didn’t think people might read this as an affront to Lady Millicent sitting by the Thorntons. Tongues would go wagging regardless.
As the evening drew to a close, Drake and Hester wished the guests good night one by one. After Amelia Bolton, a painter exposed a few of his paintings and explained the new techniques he used. The last had been a French medical student explaining a very recent invention across the Channel, the stethoscope.
“That went well,” he said as they bid farewell to the last one.
She turned to him, eyes wide as she worried her cushiony lower lip, causing his guts to react. Her head gave a tense nod. “I’ll call Bruce and—”
“Shall I offer you sherry before you leave?” He didn’t want her to go so soon.
“I—sure.” She accepted as her tongue darted out nervously to lick those tormenting pieces of delicacy.
Damn it all to blasting hell! He’d been kissing her for a year, and it invariably felt like the first time. He might kiss her for the next hundred generations, and he didn’t imagine he’d tire of it.
“Have a seat.” He invited as he strode to the sideboard for the drinks.
Her presence here reminded him of the times they stayed in after the soirees and conversed about the artists and scientists who gave their contributions.
He brought the sherry and a brandy for himself and sat by her side on the settee. She’d taken the corner, straight spine and laced fingers on her lap. Reluctantly, she extended a hand for her drink.
The glass travelled to her mouth for a brief sip, her eyes veiled and away from his. He watched mesmerised as the liquid gained the access he craved. He rummaged for something to say as his head seemed to have gone blank while other parts of him stood to attention.
“This stethoscope thing doesn’t sound very effective.” He commented.
“The medical student, Louis Verdun, appeared hopeful.” She opined.
“What good can it bring if doctors already hear patients’ chests?” He insisted.
“As far as I understood, the device can make a doctor hear more and better to discover several other ailments.” She defended.
“You’re probably right.” He compromised.
And the conversation died away. Her chest lifted for a deep intake of air and Drake’s eyes filled with her beauty. This was one of his favourite dresses for her. The delicate silk induced him to feel it with his hands and explore her perfect curves. Over the high waist, the fabric outlined her plump breasts to a mouth-watering point. It was pure torture.
“Lady Millicent said the courtship is a ruse.” Her voice snapped him out of his reverie, and his eyes flipped to hers.
“Yes.” He confirmed. “She asked me to go along with it.” The circumstances were not his to tell, so he didn’t elaborate.
“Kindly of you to help, whatever her reasons.” She placed the delicate glass nearly full on the side-table.
“I couldn’t deny her even if it caused me some…loss.” An understatement if his craving was anything to go by.
Another silence fell, filling the air with everything the words didn’t say. Their attention on each other, they froze as though their bodies also locked away their secrets.
Suddenly, Hester left the settee. “I’ll take my leave.” And started walking to the door.
Quicker than her, he stood and neared her. “It’s early.” He rasped, his hands on her upper arms.
She stalled, her back to him, her shoulders rolled with her intake of air. But she didn’t shrug off his light touch.
His hands firmed on her as he inhaled her scent of roses and lemon, and he lowered his head to take more of it, ending up nuzzling her nape. Her head moved one degree to the right. It was a miserable degree, barely a move at all. It evinced a response though.
Resisting her at this moment would tear at him as if a butcher cut one of his arms. He pulled her to him, and her head fell on his chest. She was so petite; it felt like he dominated her and protected her at the same time. When they were in bed, this sent his self-control to Hades, and he'd lose himself in her heat.
“Do you remember us plastered to that wall?” He taunted.
It’d also been a soiree. One they’d been devouring each other with their eyes for hours on end. The last guest hadn’t even reached the front door, and Drake had caught Hester by the waist and put her spine up against the wall, kissing her as if it were the last day of his life. They’d consumed one another as if it was the last day of the sun.
“Yes.” She breathed, arching on him.
“We went insane that night.” His lips teased the sensitive skin, extracting a muffled moan from her.
His lips moved to the curve between her neck and shoulder where a pulse leapt frantically. He didn't kiss it. He nibbled on it, then suckled on it feather-like. One of his hands slid down her side, moulding to her ribs, her tiny waist, the flare of one hip, the silk miming poorly the smoothness of the skin beneath.
“Stay the night,” He rumbled as his mouth glided to the other side.
His fingers advanced to her thigh, splaying to take in its feminine shape.
“I-you—" She started.
His hand made the journey back upwards.
And then he cupped her breast. She gasped, seemly forgetting what she would say. His thumb teased the hardened crest over the blue silk.
“Drake,” she called while she pushed her chest into his hand.
“Hm.” His other arm held her by her waist, pulling her to cradle his mad erection.
She put one arm over his, fingers tangling with his. “I-I—” She tried again.
“Say yes, it’s simple.” He coaxed gruffly.
To make it simpler, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, wishing to tear the fabric standing in the way. He pressed her closer, her nails dug on the skin of his hand. He could hear her breath as ragged as his. Her nipple strained; his cock strained. He was going to die if they didn’t find a bed soon. And then he was going to die in earnest. Because he wouldn’t stop until his last breath.
“Drake.” Her voice aired crystalline.
“Yes,” he answered, about to nuzzle behind her ear.
“Please, ask Wakefield to call me a hackney.” This came as a block of ice. “I’m going home.” A pause. “Alone.”
He stepped back from her, looking at the light-brown bun on the top of her head. “As you wish.” And pulled the bell with more force than necessary.
CHAPTER SIX
Hester entered her tiny home in a state. She barely managed to say goodnight to Bruce before she closed the door and vented her distress.
What had she almost done back there, for pity’s sake? All Drake had to do was put his warm, big hands on her and she’d gone ha
ywire, up in flames with the mere sound of his voice and the memory of that long-ago night. Let’s not even mention his expert hands roaming the silk bodice in a call for surrender only a saint could ignore. The heat of him, his giant frame glued to her, his scent of rosemary and man. He’d come an inch from seducing her. The need in her jumped sky-high, to the point her body was about to convince her to throw everything to the blazes and just find a darned relief.
She tore off her cloak, threw her gloves on the table, and reached to the hidden tiny buttons on her side. The skilled seamstress had ample knowledge that a mistress possessed no lady’s maid to help with dressing.
Drake hadn’t lied, she admitted as much. His mother started the gossip of his match. Lady Millicent asked for his help, heaven knew why. But this meant nothing.
It didn't discard the fact that he would be hard-pressed to settle down. Whoever he chose for the task, Hester wouldn't amount to more than a passing distraction in his life.
Stay the night.
Yes, yes, yes! Her hazy mind had screamed. Especially as he’d reminded her of the other soiree, and what they did after it. What they did the entire night after it.
But when he said it was simple, the sensible side of her, the one crushed by the demands of her clamouring flesh, rebelled, even if with a timid voice. It helped to steel herself against his calamitous seduction.
Free from the confining clothes that hadn’t been enough to press down her starved senses, she prepared a bath with the water she’d collected earlier for that purpose. And hoped to wash her near surrender with the cheap soap she could afford. But no. Her head wouldn’t stop repeating the last moments of the evening over and over.
Until she fell in bed, alone and feverish, but also exhausted after an entire evening fighting herself. She dived into a restless sleep that brought no reprieve from her inner battle.
Oliver had called off the rehearsals for the next day, as the theatre would present two sessions of the play that was on. Which gave Drake the day to stew in his frustration. More than he had during his sleepless night, that is.
He left his empty house for the club, hoping to divert his mind from a certain petite woman that occupied too much room in it despite her diminutive size.
Thornton and Darroch sat on one table with newspapers and brandy. They greeted him as he approached them. Late afternoon, the place swarmed with lords.
“We thought you’d be…busy at this hour.” Darroch taunted meaningfully.
Before Darroch fell for domestic life, he had been the most infamous libertine in town, and they had enjoyed a few debauched nights in the same bawdy establishments. But then his friend married and he, well, got distracted with a certain woman with mesmerising green eyes.
“Or going about with the future marchioness.” Thornton contributed.
Worcester hadn’t told his friends of his latest incursion in theatre play production. Not yet anyhow. He sat at the table and signalled for a glass of brandy.
“There’s no future marchioness.” He bit out. His peers would benefit from minding their own business instead of believing in rumours.
“Still running from the parson’s noose, I see.” Edmund, the Earl of Thornton jested.
“My mother spread false gossip.” He explained before tossing the drink down.
“Why am I not surprised?” The earl wondered.
“And you’re proving your mother’s son. Both headstrong.” Darroch contributed.
“She’ll not decide about my future for me.” Drake’s incisive tone seemed to convince his friends.
“I can’t blame you when you have that delectable actress hidden in your dressing room.” Harris Darroch jested.
That made the blood boil in his veins for no apparent reason. He directed a threatening glare to the Scott. “Watch your tongue, Darroch, or I’ll call you out.” He spat. Harris was almost as tall as he and would offer very satisfying fisticuffs.
Thornton and Darroch looked at each other but said nothing. And Drake didn't like what passed between them.
“What?” he asked the other men.
"You seem a tad…attached," Thornton replied carefully.
Drake scoffed. "Don't worry about that." He expected to have delivered it nonchalantly but doubted it. "She left me because of my intended.”
“You don’t say.” Darroch marvelled.
“A mistress with a twist.” Ventured Edmund.
The daggers Drake cast with his eyes made the earl lift his hands in a sign of peace. “All right, I take it back.”
“That’s better,” Drake said darkly.
The Earl of Thornton was the one man who couldn't mock Drake. He'd tried to coax Otilia into a mistress position. A move that backfired spectacularly when she left him for employment. Having learned his lesson, the earl married her.
After the mood dispersed, they went on a lengthy discussion about politics and parliament bills.
On his way out, Drake crossed paths with Haddington coming in. The duke’s expression dripped with rage as he halted before Worcester.
“Your vulgar soiree is in everybody’s mouth.” He hurled.
Drake was not about to show he would trouble himself with it. “You don’t strike me as someone who listens to hearsay.” A sarcastic comment since the duke had bought in the rumours about his daughter’s intended.
“My daughter and your mistress in the same house are nothing short of a provocation, Worcester.”
Drake shrugged as though he had no worries in this world. “You should take it with my mother in this case. She chaperoned Lady Millicent.”
“You dragged my daughter into a scandal.” Haddington accused without minding to even answer Drake’s information.
“I don’t think so.” He refuted. “You’ve been dragging her from scandal to scandal since she was a little girl.”
The older man distilled such hate it might poison the whole of Europe. “You fix this, Worcester. Or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“After you fix yours, Haddington.” Drake rebuked.
The duke’s glare burned on Drake for long seconds before he turned and entered the club.
“You must come and stay at Worcester House for a few days.” Drake stood before Hester’s open front door.
As soon as he left his club, he headed here, something squeezing his guts with emotions he had no name for. The simple notion of Hester being harmed erupted a tangled mixture of fury, fear, and protectiveness he was having a hard time dealing with.
If Haddington had targeted her before, now that he was fuming with the stories about the soiree, Drake was absolutely sure the other man would direct his ire at Hester, the weaker part, coward that he was. And Drake preferred to die than to allow anything to happen to her.
Her delicate brows pleated, her green eyes gleaming with refusal. “Of course not!” The diminutive woman posted in front of him wouldn’t make this easy.
He’d sent Bruce to a nearby tavern to fetch something to eat while he talked to her. “That is serious, Hester.” He said with a hint of urgency.
Her green orbs widened on him. “What happened?”
With crumpled features, he asked, “Can I come in?”
She studied him for several heartbeats before she gave him passage and closed the door.
He halted in the middle of the small drawing-room, hands bracing his tapered hips as he fixed his stare on her. "I met Haddington at my club."
“What does this have to do with me?” Arms crossed, she lifted her head to meet his gaze.
“He heard the gossip about last night and isn’t happy about it.”
She breathed a disdainful laugh. “Intrigue seems to be the favourite pastime of idle lords.”
His nostrils flared with impatience. “Stop making light of it. My carriage awaits.”
“Have a nice return home in that case.” The casual reply chipped away much of the hold on his temper.
“He targeted
you before and will surely do it again. Don’t you see?” One large hand raked his chestnut locks.
“But he doesn’t know where I live,” she said confidently.
“Something easily corrected by having you followed.” The prospect sent a chill through him.
“And there’s Bruce too.” She argued.
“I’m not giving you a choice.” His tone brokered no argument. “Either you come on your feet or on mine. Your choice.”
At that, her glare fulminated him as her spine went straighter and her chin tilted up. “Damn you!” She cursed under her breath as she moved towards her bedchamber.
“No need to pack anything,” he started, hiding his relief. “I didn’t send away the clothes you left behind in your dressing room.”
He’d assigned her a bedchamber with a dressing room more as a formality since he’d made it a point to have her with him night or day if they found themselves at Worcester House.
Still fuming, she followed him outside where Bruce talked to the coachman. The servants sat at the front while Drake helped Hester inside.
Upon entering his house, Wakefield informed of a visitor in the study. Drake caught Hester's arm and guided her there lest she decided to leave.
Inside, Mrs Walters, the housekeeper for the house he’d bought for Hester, paced the carpet with a dreadful expression on her round face.
“Oh, Lord Worcester! Thank goodness you arrived.” Her hands clawed together. “You won’t believe what happened.”
“Mrs Walters” Hester greeted the older woman as she neared and took those clasped hands.
“The Duke of Haddington came to your house, Miss Green.” And turned to Drake who’d gone stock still. “With two footmen, my lord.” She squeezed Hester’s fingers to the point of hurting them. “They were looking for you, miss. I said you weren’t at home, but they forced their way in and searched anyway.”
The fury that overtook Drake at the housekeeper’s report was beyond description. “When did they do it, Mrs Walters?” he asked in a too controlled voice.
