by Lisa Torquay
She never realised her feet moved until she stood by his chair. This very want of him she had no forces to suppress anymore. Bunching the fabric of her gowns, she placed one knee on each side of his thighs, straddling him. “That’s a good question.” This came too silky.
His head lifted to meet her, undisguised fire in the depths of his irises. Her index snuck between his spread legs and traced his crotch from deep bottom to top, only to register he was already hard. His hands moulded to her hips as his nostrils flared with an intake of air.
Gazes merged his hands slid up to her neckline to undo the bows shielding her from him. Tantalisingly, he undid one by one, imprisoning her in endless wait. Her breasts crested with the mere expectation of his touch. Breathless, she watched his unhurried progress. Until his palm crept inside to cup one eager swell. She bit her lower lip to prevent a moan from snitching her melting state, though her fingers closed on him more firmly, making him harder.
Ruddy colour covered his cheekbones. “You want this then,” he growled, enduring her shameless rubbing.
The verb seemed too tame for what really coursed through her. Crave, starve, lust would fit better. “Reciprocated, I suspect.” She taunted with the scarce air in her lungs.
His cock twitched while his head advanced for his mouth to take possession of one nipple with his patent gusto. The caress surrendered her with a sigh, and her head fell backwards. He shifted breasts as his hand found the moisture between her legs. She relished his attack on all fronts that made her impatient and lost all at once. She’d heard a man couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time, but he showed to be an exception. Whereas she was the one unable to do anything other than moan.
If she needed more, though, she’d have to get it herself. Enlisting her willpower, she forced her fingers to grope for his breeches’ flap to unbutton it. With him distracting her with his mouth and fingers, the task dragged, but she managed it at last. His rock-hard erection popped right on her palm as it closed around him and set an up-and-down rhythm. This time, his head fell on the chair back, eyes closed with a groan.
Touché.
As she sat taller than him, she took advantage of it when her mouth dived to his and they kissed voraciously. Their tongues tangled and parried, explored, and deepened, gave and took. An eternity of kissing obligated them to come up for air.
Slowly, their eyes focused on each other. “Is this where the novice bests the master?” he rasped foggily.
"Good that you consider yourself a master." She teased but had to own to him having the right of it. He never failed to surprise and wrench total satisfaction from her.
“I should say so, consid—ah!”
Her thumb stole into his slit, discovering a fountain of pre-cum that she lathered over the engorged tip. The sight of him in disarray, undone flap, cock springing from his breeches nearly undid her. She could wait no more. Her hips rose, and she put him exactly where she craved him most. As she sank on his hardness, both moaned in pleasure.
She moved on him, grinding as far as she could go. His arms banded her and helped her seek her pleasure. Her channel heated and took him on until she thought she’d die of it. But it might become worse, much worse. He brought one of his hands back between her legs to tease the nubbin going crazy there. Unable to hold it any longer, she exploded with everything in her, gasping as he thrust his hips up to intensify her orgasm. He banded her anew, his mouth latching on her breast, her core still quivering. His grinding became frantic and erratic to the point he had to let go of her breast to give way to his laboured breaths. As he shuddered in her emitting several grunts, she orgasmed for a second time.
Brow beading with sweat, he collapsed back on the chair, and she fell on him, both breathless and spent. Incapable of moving, they remained fallen on each other for several minutes. Lazily, his fingers caressed her hair, her lips grazing his neck distractedly.
“I do like this more…active side of you,” he rasped after a long time, probably meaning she’d taken the initiative.
Hester lifted her torso from his to register his features rippled with a sated hue, eyes half-mast, shoulders relaxed, body laid back. The mirror image of what she felt at that moment. "As a mistress, I felt like being put in a box and waiting for the provider to come and play with me whenever the mood struck."
A glint akin to surprise took over his gaze. “I never meant for you to feel like that.”
She toyed with a stray lock of brown hair on his brow. “No, but it’s how it’s framed.”
“And now?” he asked as his hand closed on hers on his collarbone.
“I’m freer,” she answered truthfully. “I have my house, my work, I owe nothing to anyone.”
His head tilted a degree. "I admit that at first, I intended to have a provider-mistress relationship." His head fell on the chair back as their eyes met. "But the lines blurred as we moved along."
She nodded in agreement. Undoubtedly, she’d seen it that way too. “I was still a mistress though.” Her gaze roamed over the agape shirt and the tantalising view of his muscled chest. “The rumours about your near betrothal made me realise I had to get out of that box.”
“Speaking of which, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t consider marriage.” He lifted her hand to kiss her wrist. “We’re good together.”
His bringing back the subject of matrimony caused her to study him more closely. In a way, he wasn't wrong. Their year together proved it, but there was something she had to bring forth. Detaching herself from him, she put him and herself to rights before striding around the desk and facing him.
"Another misgiving crossed my mind." She started. The hesitation gave her pause as she didn't have the slightest idea how to approach this.
“What is it?” he coaxed.
Her arms wrapped protectively around her as she inhaled deeply for courage. “In this past year, I never conceived. It may mean I’m barren.” With his mother on his back to produce an heir and the need for one if he wished to leave his legacy for the future generations, Hester envisioned a miserable future if she failed at it.
At her revelation, he sprang from his chair, fingers raking his hair, and came to stand right in front of her. “I have a cousin who’d inherit if that was the case.” His stare bore into hers. “I’m not close to him, but he’s a decent person.”
“That would make your mother go into a fit of rage.” She predicted.
His sensuous lips chuckled at the prospect. “Who’s to say you’re to blame?” he questioned. “Nobody mentions it, but it’s obvious that sometimes it’s the man’s fault. Widows who didn’t conceive with the first husband, are utterly fertile with the second, for instance.”
“But everyone blames women.” She concluded. “For everything that’s wrong in this world, I’d say.”
“Nothing will change overnight.” He estimated. “It’ll take time.” As for society’s views on women, he was right.
“I’d rather stay out of this vicious cycle anyway.” The mistress turned barren wife would be a burden bound to make both bitter, and she preferred to spare both this road to unhappiness.
He studied her for countless seconds before he gave a dry nod. “Fair enough, as long as we carry on as we have so far.” No doubt, he meant their present interaction.
Reluctantly, she agreed. “Fine, but I’ll move back to my home as soon as it’s safe.”
A knowing side smile drew his lips. “You’re too stubborn by half.” He vented as he bent and took her in his arms. “Meanwhile, we have unfinished business,” he said as he carried her out of the study.
“Do we?” she taunted playfully. “I had the impression that we’d… finished quite irrevocably.”
“We barely started, woman!” And headed upstairs while she couldn’t censor a rather nitwitted giggle.
The days that followed, they completely dedicated to rehearsals as Oliver set the opening of The Plight of Sarah Borne for the following week.
The season would be right underway then.
Hester and Drake had been working in stunning harmony since the night in the study. Their conversation seemed to have cleared the air, allowing them enough space for their theatre endeavour. Which meant the company hurried with scenarios, figurines, and the smoothing of the edges of the play itself.
Even in this hectic period, Hester couldn’t help but feel her life had made a turn for the better. No one had heard of the Duke of Haddington of late. In reality, he seemed to have vanished from the face of the Earth. Even though Bruce followed close everywhere she went, to her chagrin, and Drake’s insistence. Not that Hester was complaining at the duke’s disappearance. It brought a huge relief. She planned to return to her own home after the play premiered. Contentment summed her feelings at that moment, she rejoiced as she sat to eat her luncheon; the actors dispersed to taverns and Drake talked with Eli in his office. A tiny window of solitude didn’t go amiss with Bruce also taking his break at that hour.
“It took some time, but I finally caught you alone,” said none less than the horrid Duke of Haddington from behind her in the backstage.
Hester's blood froze in her veins as it leeched from her face. Her heart galloped in a rush of fear and anxiety. Calling again on her stage skills, Hester stood and turned to the repellent man. "Your Grace," she curtsied hopefully in an elegant manner.
He dressed impeccably in a burgundy superfine that gave the false impression that he was a real gentleman. Those dark, narrowed eyes measured her from hasty bun, to simple day dress, to worn-out boots.
"You don't show fear," he commented, looking at her from up his nose. "I do prefer my women a tad shaky."
Of course, he did, that's from where he derived his misplaced sense of power. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Except I'm not your anything." The coldness in her voice was completely fabricated. Inside, the need to flee mingled with the one to stay and finish him up in any way possible.
“Not yet, as I already stated.” He gave slow steps towards her, the predator closing on the prey. “You dared enter a place the likes of you should never even think of going.” Hester didn’t move back and eyed him full on. “Used the marquess to humiliate my daughter, transformed her in a joke. Not even my title will restore her marriage prospects.”
“Lady Millicent is a fine lady.” Unbidden admiration carried in her tone. “She won’t lack for suitors.” Though Hester understood the girl’s reticence towards marriage. With a father like this, she wouldn’t risk unhappiness.
Wrath blazed on him. “Her name isn’t for filthy mouths like yours.” This came dripping in contained rage. “Your mouth serves only one purpose.”
He halted two feet from her, and she swallowed grit with the terror that threatened to take her cool head over. With a gigantic effort, she produced a deriding smirk. “Yes, my lines on stage.”
“Little cheeky light-skirt,” he shot with utter disdain.
If he thought to insult her, he failed miserably. In her point of view, men caused prostitution. They were the ones using the power and riches they didn't share with their mothers, wives, or daughters to take advantage of vulnerable women, and then blamed these women for their own exploitation. And dared call the offspring they engendered in these exploited women whoresons, as though they had nothing to do with the making of those innocent children. How pathetic.
But Hester didn't answer, her entire body on alert for what he'd do next. She didn't have to wait long. He extended his arm and grabbed her hair bun to bend her head. She took advantage of his distraction to use her knee in a decisive, mighty kick like her brother had taught her. The middle-aged man bent, a hand on his crotch, a surprised grunt escaping his foul mouth. The momentum afforded her the chance to twist upwards the hand that had been on her hair but had slipped it. More grunts of pain echoed in the acoustic place.
The noise attracted Oliver, Eli, and Worcester who came running. At the sight of the duke and what it meant, Eli sprinted forward and grabbed the older man by his collar to discharge successive punches. The duke didn’t have a chance. He fell on the wooden planks nearly passed out. As Eli would go down for more punches, Worcester held him. A commoner would easily be thrown into prison for beating a duke. When her brother had calmed his laboured breaths, the marquess stood over the man on the floor.
"Haddington." The older man could barely open his eyes to look at him. "I advise you to take a long break in your country seat." His tone was harder than diamond and as cold. "If you come less than a hundred yards from Miss Green, I'll take legal action against you. Are we clear?"
Even though a marquess stood below a duke, they were peers of the realm, and the justice system would treat them as such.
Haddington directed a murderous glance at Worcester but nodded after several seconds.
“Eli,” Worcester called. “Help me put the rubbish out.” They took the older man’s arms and dragged him through the front entrance where several people witnessed his condition before his carriage arrived to collect him.
When they came back, Hester reported what had happened. “I’ll be forever grateful for the lessons you taught me to defend myself,” she told Eli with a faint grin. Still scared, she felt relieved to be able to put that man in his right place.
Her brother gave a curt jerk with his head. “Anytime, little sister.”
Next day, the gossip mongers were abuzz with reports about the duke.
CHAPTER NINE
“Haddington has not been attending parliament sessions,” The Earl of Thornton said to his friends in the club.
“True enough.” The Duke of Brunswick confirmed.
“I suggested he take a long break at his seat.” Provided the Marquess of Worcester.
“Why is that?” Mr Darroch asked.
Brandy glasses in hand, the four friends had been lounging for a while at one corner of the club one late afternoon.
"He threatened Miss Green for a perceived slight against his daughter," Drake informed.
“Because you took her as your guest to the ball?” Titus guessed.
Drake nodded before tossing his drink.
“What kind of asinine notion is this?” Harris made it a point to question the ton’s double standards.
“Asinine is the word,” Worcester agreed.
"The knight in shining armour and the damsel in distress," Edmund commented.
"They match," Titus added with a suggestive glance at his longstanding friend.
“Shall we warn the ladies and prepare our superfine?” Darroch contributed.
"The stubborn woman won't listen to any of it," Drake admitted, looking at the glass he rolled in his hands.
“The hell you say.” Edmund gave a surprised look at his friend.
“Perhaps she needs to warm to it,” said Brunswick. “Philippa refused my first proposal.”
“And then she accepted it because I demanded you repeat it.” Came Darroch, his brother-by-marriage.
“Just like we did to you,” Edmund and Titus reminded the Scott.
“Well, nobody’s perfect.” He jested and drank from his glass.
The four of them stood at the same time. “Dinner,” indicated Edmund.
“Same here.” From Brunswick.
“And here.” Darroch this time.
“As for me.” Revealed Drake.
“Not even married and already domesticated.” Mocked Titus, as Edmund and Harris chuckled.
“One of these days I’ll call you out.” Drake joined in the jest.
“Mind waiting for a while? Edward needs to grow a bit more,” Titus said, referring to his toddler heir. “And I intend to make a spare.” The four of them left the club in a light mood.
Late that night, Drake and Hester lay in bed, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her waist, her hand playing with the whorls on his chest. Under the coverlet, they were warm and cosy.
“I met Philippa and Master Edward afte
r the rehearsal.” Hester started.
They had just devoured each other, and Drake’s mind was still slow with satiation. “Hm,” he emitted simply, turning his head to inhale the perfume of her hair as the light-brown mass spread on the pillow.
“Lord Haddington has travelled to the country,” she revealed. The mention of the damned man got him alert.
“Good that he heeded my advice.” He turned to face her.
“I’m relieved.” And burrowed more into him. “That means I can go back to my home tomorrow.”
Her plan made him jerk his head up to direct his brandy eyes to her in the firelight. “You need not leave.”
She gazed up at him. “But I want to.”
“It’s going well as it is, why change it?” His brow crumpled.
“We’ve blurred the lines long enough, don’t you think?” And rearranged the hair falling on his temple.
“I think we should make our own rules.” He persisted.
Her eyelids closed, and she inhaled deeply. “We’ve been through this before.” Her eyes refocused on him.
His nostrils flared. “Fine, damn it!” One of his thighs came in between hers. “But tell me I can come and visit you.” His head lowered for him to nuzzle her neck.
Her mouth released a sigh. “Certainly.” She breathed. “When I don’t have work to do.”
“You strike a hard bargain.” And his mouth slid down to latch on a full breast, extracting a moan from her.
The conversation suddenly ceased.
Standing in the lit stage, in a theatre full to the brim, Hester curtsied beside Duff, to thank the standing ovation coming from the keen audience. The premiere had been a roaring success. She called all the actors to the stage, and the applause increased. Then, in came Oliver and Eli accompanied by Lord Worcester. More applause. Word of Drake's involvement had run through the ton, which made those nobs curious to see what the marquess was up to. The word-of-mouth made all the difference. Hester felt happy for everyone as the incoming assets would benefit them all.
