by Lisa Torquay
He admired her through the mirror with a heated gaze. “When are you going to stop punishing me for proposing marriage?” More rumble than rasp, it nearly surrendered her with a lightning reaction.
These past few nights she’d been in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions, all of them so distressing that she didn’t have to heart to go to him. And she missed those steamy nights with such fervour she might burst with their mere memory.
But she forced herself to find her voice. “I’m not punishing you.” Her head half-turned to him. “It’s just that you shocked me.” And busied herself in pinning the drop earrings.
“You should know by now that I’m not your average lord.” Their eyes met in the mirror.
At that, she turned to him. “Perhaps you are, and this is only a whim.”
His eyes narrowed at her words. “When have you seen me being whimsical?”
To tell the truth, she hadn’t, but it didn’t mean he might not start at any moment. “Never,” she admitted, not so confidently.
He followed her words by extending his gloved hand to her. “Let’s not spoil a promising night by quarrelling,” he determined.
He had the right of it. The ball ahead felt daunting enough without an argument. Which caused her to put her hand on his, and revel in his encouraging warmth.
As their carriage stopped at the ducal driveway for them to disembark, Hester’s restless eyes lifted to the bright chandeliers at the entrance hall, her teeth worrying her lower lip, her fingers fidgeting with the strings on her reticule. Drake moved to help her down, and there was no delaying the inevitable.
Philippa, the Duchess of Brunswick, opened a wide smile at the sight of her. “Hester, this is such a delightful surprise.”
“Your Grace,” she curtsied as etiquette demanded in this large gathering, “I’m honoured to be in one of your rare balls.” Hester also curtsied to the duke before he exchanged a few words with Drake.
"You are most welcome in this house," Philippa said warmly.
The marquess offered his arm, and they entered the ballroom. A thousand candles from the chandeliers dazzled her eyes and lit the crush inside. And that was all she got before people noticed them. As Drake and Hester made their way inside, matrons turned to one another to whisper behind their fans, married ladies crunched their noses, match-making mamas pulled their daughters away.
But Hester didn't wilt. Surprisingly enough, the one feeling that rose above the others was… commiseration. For the matrons who'd dedicated their entire lives to enforcing rules and morals that benefitted only the men in their ranks. For most of the married ladies who must swallow their husbands' drinking, gambling, and whoring, and gained no reward except for an indiscretion here and there. For the debutantes who'd follow on their mothers' and grandmothers' steps, and who'd probably not go against the unfairness of it all. Deep in her heart, she sensed their loneliness, the measure of the sacrifices they made in the name of aristocratic standards. Right or wrong, Hester deemed herself in a better place than those women. It wasn't arrogance or spite; it was just that she regarded herself as freer, with a broader range of reading, with more places she could go, more people she could meet. She'd choose her richer existence any day over the restrictions, the veritable social corset those women were obligated to squeeze in every hour of every day. Terribly stifling!
So, she smiled. Not as a skilled actress, but as a woman who lived a full life, and derived happiness from it.
Drake looked down at her and something akin to exhilaration came to his expression. “I suppose I need not ask if you’re all right,” he rasped only for her ears.
She directed her smile to him. "No, you don't." If it weren't for his insistence, she wouldn't be here. She probably should thank him later. "It's an experience worth having if you ask me."
“You are thinking like one of the scientists in our soirees, I gather.” His gaze caressed her with that melting intimacy they shared in the last year, causing her midriff to flip and yearn.
He must have meant that she regarded the ball as a sample of his station laid out for dissection. “You could say.” Around her, their banter and her detachment produced more disdainful behaviour.
“Hester!” Turning her head, she saw Amelia. The Duchess of Brunswick wouldn’t fail in inviting the astronomer. “Good to see a familiar face in this crush.” She neared the couple and curtsied to Lord Worcester.
“If the ladies excuse me,” Drake said. “I’ll talk to Thornton.” The earl had made eye contact with his friend and nodded as Drake weaved his way in that direction.
“Do all balls attract this throng?” Hester asked as a way to make conversation.
“Unlikely,” Amelia answered. “But the last time the Brunswicks had a ball was… why, when the old duke and duchess were still alive.” The other girl marvelled. No wonder this one attracted so many people.
“My sister and my brother by marriage like to bury themselves in the country, poor things.” Mrs Darroch, arm in arm with Otilia, the Countess of Thornton, joined in.
“The country has its allures; I’ll give them that.” The countess added. “Shall we find refreshments to ease the crush?”
Heading there, they almost collided with Lady Millicent. She must be here with her chaperone because her father was nowhere to be seen. For the first time this evening, Hester wondered if her presence here wouldn’t affect the debutante. Obviously, it would, and not positively. The group curtsied to the young lady as Hester opened her mouth to apologise.
Lady Millicent beat her to it. “Lord Worcester told me of his plans.” She whispered to Hester.
The debutante had decided blatantly to commit herself to spinsterhood, Hester concluded, hoping she knew what she was doing regarding this marriage-mart suicide, considering. Relieved, she smiled at the girl. The five women headed to the refreshments table in deep conversation.
“If you intended to dispel the rumours, you couldn’t have done it with more feather-ruffling flair.” Edmund jabbed.
"I told you there was no match," Drake stated, observing that the marriageable girls looked forlornly at him while the lords cast him admiring glances. Yes, let's talk about hypocrisy, shall we, he derided internally.
“Reluctant to join the married men ranks, I see.” Harris Darroch jested as he approached both men accompanied by the duke. The men had Champagne in their hands.
“Unless he has other plans in this regard.” Edmund pried suggestively.
“You’ll get nothing from me,” Drake defended.
Undoubtedly, he wouldn’t confess that she refused his suit irrevocably, a fact that still induced topsy-turvy feelings. A woman who refused a lord was an unheard-of creature. Drake understood her misgivings, her disregard for ranks, and her commitment to the theatre. He did and wouldn’t even blame her for them. But they’d been acquainted with each other for a year. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know each other. Her rejection fell in his guts like a rock rolling from uphill, and he hadn't digested it properly yet. That she'd regard their match as improper just as his mother would, might be ironic, if he didn't feel in such a muddy ground about it.
“Ouch,” Harris mocked, wrenching him from his musings. “He’s become more tight-lipped than Brunswick.” And dawned the content of his glass.
“Philippa has a whole different opinion on the matter.” Titus quipped smugly.
“Heaven protect me from fallen men!” Jested Worcester.
In the company of his best friends, Drake felt content. The fact Hester accepted to attend with him caused something to swell in the region where his heart should be. He ranked this possibly as the best ball of his life. Especially because Hester didn’t seem to mind what others thought of her presence here.
At that moment, the orchestra started playing, and Drake turned to his friends. “I’m afraid I must leave you. I’ve booked this dance.”
“I expect we’ll see who’s the next to fall soon enoug
h.” Edmund taunted, but Drake didn’t deign to answer that.
He sighted Hester chatting animatedly with the other ladies, glad that she didn’t become isolated. Their friends deserved the highest regards for being there.
The women saw him coming and opened the circle. With mischief in his eyes, he bowed deeply to Lady Millicent. “My lady, how fortuitous to see you here.”
“My lord,” she replied with a brief smile, her voice soft and cultured. “I’m enjoying myself in the company of these progressive ladies.” Needless to mention that the tableau was being closely watched by the surrounding guests, a fact none of the ladies or him cared to acknowledge.
He nodded at her approval. “I wonder if I might steal you, Miss Green, for a dance,” he asked, eyes on his woman.
Despite the magnificent dress and the emeralds on her, nothing would ever compare to the brilliance of her eyes. And when those irises clasped on him, the world faded away. Her gloved hand rested on his sleeve with poise before he guided her into the dance.
He hadn't even asked her if she could dance the waltz. But as they stood in front of each other, her perfect posture showed she did. Not a strange thing, as actors learned several skills to compose their characters. And she proved to be an elegant dancer while they swirled around the floor. The couples who also danced gave them a wide berth, but neither he nor his woman gave any indication that they noticed, so immersed in their world they were.
"Well, here's something I hadn't imagined I'd do in my life," she said in a light tone. "Dance the waltz in a duke's ballroom."
“How are you finding it so far?” His head bent down to read her gaze.
But she made it a point to take countless heartbeats to answer. “Unique.” She breathed at last, raising her head to him.
“Yes, unique,” he repeated, but his focus directed at her lips.
When she realised it, she blushed, and they fell silent, just revelling in this moment. They whirled at the sound of the music, under the glittering chandeliers, in a precious moment in which their worlds interconnected, and they were here together. The pride that welled in him for her poise and resilience defied description. Gratefulness for her having accepted to accompany him nearly made him forget himself and kiss her senseless. The woman had the penchant to extort the most extraordinary reactions from him. At this instant, he couldn’t care less. He just wanted to commit this dance to memory so he would bring it up to savour it until the day he died.
Too soon it ended, and he followed her to her group of friends.
Drake insisted on dancing all the waltzes with her and she didn't seem to mind it. The feat went against every etiquette for the ballroom. More than one with the same partner listed as impolite, more than two was positively scandalous. And he revelled in what must appear as a shocking behaviour to everyone here.
After the second waltz, Hester said she needed the privy, and he went in search of something to drink.
At a corner, his dear mother sat talking with the Marchioness of Mandeville, grandmother to Edwina and Philippa. Catching sight of him, she excused herself and marched to him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She hissed irritably.
Drake had known she was at the ball, but they hadn’t happened on each other yet. “Right now, I’m looking for something to drink.” He explained, understanding very well his parent referred to the person he’d brought with him.
“You scandalised the entire London with your recklessness.” Those eyes he’d inherited flamed with aggravation.
“I do think Miss Green has enlightened you as to what our town comprises.” Much bigger and much more complex than Honora’s narrow concept of it belonging to the aristocracy.
“You have shamed me beyond repair!” She said hotly.
If her animated talk with the Marchioness of Mandeville was anything to go by, this was a blatant exaggeration. “You’ll survive.” He dismissed.
That caused her to vent fire through her nostrils. “I’ll cut ties with you. I don’t want my peers to associate me with the scum you parade so inappropriately.”
Her snobbery took him out of his light mood. “Hester isn’t scum.” His voice hardened. “And if she is, we all are, because we’re humans. And equals.” Evidently, the English deeply despised these revolutionary ideas from the continent. They even went to war with Napoleon in defence of their mediaeval notions of royalty, nobility, and peasantry. Not that he was disloyal to king and country, but some things needed scaling down.
“This woman’s nefarious influence is turning you into a vulgar pamphleteer.” She jabbed.
Drake inhaled deeply to store patience in him. “Mother, it’s been a while now that we don’t agree about a few matters.” His tone aired with evenness. “I don’t begrudge you your traditional views, but times are changing, and I prefer to change with them.”
“And you probably don’t care I’ll be the social casualty in this.” She rebutted.
“You won’t be. You’re too prestigious for that.” She remained in the ball despite his and Hester’s presence, and in good company on top of it.
She eyed him from the top of her haughty nose. “Still, you tempt fate.” And turned her back to him to resume her conversation with the Marchioness of Mandeville.
Long after they’d returned to Worcester House that night, Hester languished in her chamber remembering the ball. As much as she felt reluctant to admit, she enjoyed herself. She rearranged her nightgown and dressing gown as she sat on an armchair by the fire, hair unbound. True, the night wouldn’t have been so pleasant were it not for the ladies who kept her company. The same ones who refused to be ground out by the ton’s unfair standards. There was hope in this world, at least.
But the descriptor ‘pleasant’ lost its meaning when the images of her and Drake dancing the waltzes lit in her mind. It had been rapturous. Being in a real ballroom, under those magnificent chandeliers, twirling in his arms, comprised a memory she’d treasure to her last day on this planet. A few years ago, the theatre had presented an operetta full of music and dance, for which they brought in a dance tutor to polish the actors’ skills. That had been why she felt so at home dancing with Drake, almost as if it were a dream come true. Confessing it to herself didn’t seem too comfortable, her, the woman who disregarded nobility, who believed in a fairer dealing between people, a fairer place for women, revelling at the epitome of aristocracy itself. But she’d keep this little dirty secret to herself, nobody needed to know. A smile pulled her lips at the notion. If for nothing else, she could use the experience for her roles on the stage.
Restlessness filled her. The night had brought surprising feelings, and she wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while yet, if at all. Her eyes alit on the jewel box where she’d placed the emeralds carefully. In an impulse, she stood up and took it before she left her room.
In the year they shared, Hester knew Drake used to work in his study before retiring for the night. Without a conscious decision, her feet led her there. A faint rap on the door allowed her in. Inside, the view of Drake sitting behind his desk blustered her with the force of a gale. Loose cravat, shirt half-unbuttoned, half-rolled sleeves, no waistcoat, no coat, the man lounged laid back, a glass with a golden liquid in his hand, those brandy eyes arrowed at her so intense she nearly turned and ran for her life.
For interminable moments, their gazes locked as she sank into something akin to a trance, waves of awareness crisscrossing her body.
“Sleepless too?” he asked in a diamond voice. Not much drink as yet, though she’d never seen him three sheets to the wind since they met.
Her lips huffed a little grin. “You’ll agree with me it’d be a difficult task after the throngs we’d been in.”
“You enjoyed yourself,” he drawled and took a swig from his glass before resting it on the desk. His Adam’s apple bobbed while he directed a heated look at her. The heated look rose her temperature.
Her shoulder lif
ted in a shrug. “Let’s just say that even the ton has its honey traps.”
His sensuous lips twitched at her wry humour. “You might take the honey but not the trap, I suppose.”
“That’s always the idea, yes.” Suddenly, she remembered herself, her eyes lowering to the box in her hands. “I came to give this back.” Slowly, she strode to his desk and put the jewels there.
His stare focused on the box and back to her. “I gave them to you. No need to return them.” If she were a ninny, she’d say he looked almost offended.
Her head tilted to the side. "I can't very well wear them for the rehearsals." His scrutiny caused her to wrap her dressing gown tighter, not out of modesty, but to protect herself from the effect he had on her. "There's no point in keeping something I won't wear."
“Sometimes you could be a tad keener on baubles.” It didn’t sound like a criticism, more like something he’d wished her to do.
“You once told me that the Egyptians were so attached to their riches, they took them to their graves.” The matter-of-fact ring in her voice didn’t hide her opinion on the subject. “What good do they do to cloth-wrapped corpses now?”
“Oh, yes, the transient nature of our existence.” He declared arms spread as though he stood on a stage.
She nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”
“Hence, you’d conclude that my rank will one day be gone and forgotten.” He derided.
“The past generations have been teaching it to us over and over.” Her tone implied it was clear.
For long heartbeats, his eyes dissected every inch of her face, raising even more the heat coursing through her. “So,” his silky rumble didn’t help douse her yearning one bit, “if everything is that ephemeral in your reasoning, what is it you want?”
The question dissolved her insides like sugar in hot tea. The myriad of images and ideas that sprouted in her head came so tangled that she didn’t feel capable of answering. Obviously, what lay between the lines was his marriage proposal so promptly refused. That mesmeric sense that arose at her entrance here unfolded in its full depth. Their eyes locked again, and she tried to disguise the heaving movements of her chest. With little success, she had to admit.
