The possibility of a child nearly doubled him over with more strange reactions. He’d protect any child of his, though if it came from her, he’d treasure it. In one year, there had had no sign of her getting with child. For an unfathomable reason, he’d not taken any precautions. Perhaps he had not, because touching her caused him to forget king, country, and his wits.
The question plunged in Hester like a boulder in a deep river. One minute, the waters ran down to the ocean already in turmoil, the other everything overflowed and whirled. There wasn’t the remotest probability of that. In all this time revelling in the joys of the bedchamber, being in the family way didn’t happen. Every month, fear and expectation had twined in her only to be disabused by the stains of her bleeding. She didn’t have the faintest idea of what she’d do if that came to pass, but the notion melted her insides with tenderness. During these months, she wondered if the cause there had not been any news on that front might be barrenness. Hers.
“No.” She blurted, trying to disguise the disappointment at a possible inability to conceive.
Drake abruptly gave her his back as she wondered if he aimed at hiding his relief. After a heartbeat of silence, he pivoted to her again. “Why this?” The quiet question came laden with how ludicrous he thought it.
Her eyes bulged on him and she would have sold her soul not to answer and lay bare how affected she’d been by the gossip. It crossed her mind to lie, say that she didn't welcome his attentions anymore. Say that she would move on and focus on the theatre. Find someone and settle down even. But the single truth, the one she didn't want out, was that he and another woman together disgusted her, unleashed so much bile, and rage, and hopelessness she possessed no words to describe it.
A deep breath gave her courage to draw slight nonchalant shrug. “The whole town is abuzz with your impending betrothal.”
Long fingers raked through his wavy brown hair and an ugly imprecation escaped his expert mouth. The memory of what that mouth had taught her, had incited her surrender until she’d begged for more, made heat course through her. “Betrothal? To whom?”
Hester would have laughed if those two laconic questions didn’t soar her rage to out-of-control heights. How could he ask when everyone knew? If he insulted her intelligence by trying to pretend he had nothing to do with it, she’d be hard-pressed not to react physically.
“Don’t fake ignorance!” She accused.
He cast her a hard gaze. “I’m not. I don’t lie as you are well aware.”
True, he didn't. He didn't lie when he approached her at the theatre after the play she acted in finished, and invited her to dine at his townhouse, to hear a blatant refusal. He didn't as, the next day, flowers in hand, renewed the invitation with a wicked glint in those luminous brandy eyes. Neither did he lie when he offered whatever she wished if only she accompanied him to one of those licentious places where everything happened.
It didn’t cross his mind to suggest a walk in the park where anyone would see them, not a ride in an open carriage for the same reason. An extended invitation for a garden party, a tea party or some such whimsical ton functions wouldn’t even cross hers. Even a remote tavern didn’t figure in the whole farce. Her role was to lurk in the shadows so his pleasure didn’t suffer shame or limitation.
Though, as he grazed his lips on the sensitive skin of her hand when they first talked, she faltered. And after a rehearsal, in the darkened hallway of the theatre, he towered over her, melted her with his scent, his breadth until she almost begged for a kiss. He lowered his head and took her to heaven. All in the dark, hidden and illicit, because that was where a simple actress belonged. He kissed her to a point after which she’d be willing to accept any terms of his proposition. How stupid!
“Lady Millicent, clearly,” she said as she held her temper by a thread.
The daughter of a duke, said lady would elevate Drake's status and connections to new heights.
Stupid she might have been, but Hester would take this as a lesson. Lords married ladies. Bricklayers married tavern wenches. Lawyers married lawyers' daughters. Actors married actresses. In this patriarchal aristocracy, ranks didn't mix. Not officially, only when the man in the higher rank wanted to bed a woman in the lower one. Because they could, and would, whether or not the woman in question had a choice. Fortunately she, Hester, did. She fell into this willingly, eyes wide open, for the first and last time.
“And you believe them?” Came Drake’s vexed rasp.
Believe? There was nothing to believe, they were facts, proven again and again by the actions of those in power, who abused the less fortunate, for those who had no voice, no chances of being heard. He’d marry a flawless lady like all the snotty ancestors who preceded him.
“A tricky choice of words to be sure,” she dismissed.
“Nothing needs to change.” The veritable eruption his words almost caused her to go on a crazed reaction.
The last thing she’d allow was for him to see how much it, he, affected her. Nothing needed to change. Ha! For him, for the ones in power to continue wielding it, using it to subjugate people, and keep their humble heads low. The pomp and circumstances of royalty justified it. The bowing of the inferiors to the superiors enacted it. The moral lessons in books and plays fed it. But she wouldn’t buy it, not any longer.
Instead of venting her fury, she put on a mask of indifference. This comedy had to end here. She had a life to begin anew, happiness to achieve. No one would hold her back, not even a peer of the realm. She'd consider this year as a one-off and build on it. Learn with it, because she was done with being the pliant woman who served merely for the urges of the moment. He could marry sodding Lady Millicent and go to hell. She'd go back to reality.
Measuredly she walked to the front door and calmly opened it herself as the inferior she should be. "I'll leave in the morning. Have a good night." It nearly killed her to keep her composure and the cold glaze in her eyes, but she did. Crumbling inside with his words and what they meant though, she would collapse at any second.
She waited, straight spine, unmoving expression, eyes fixed on him. The minutes passed. He glared his dissatisfaction at her. Still, she stood there. He didn’t move, nor did she. More minutes elapsed as their eyes duelled with unyielding intent. When she almost could take no more of it, he moved.
A big, strong hand extended to pick up his hat and coat. A hand that had made her squirm, and plead and then fall in blinding release. “We’re not finished.” He said, glared some more, and marched out.
Hester used the last crumbs of energy to close the door on him, on them, on her poor decisions. And slid down to the floorboards, face in her hands.
Fuming like a man possessed, Drake burst through the Thornton ball where his mother's fearful butler had informed him she headed. Worcester had been so busy with his estates, his soirees, and his mis—former, well, Hester that he'd missed another of his mother's machinations. This time she'd gone too far, spreading rumours of his betrothal to the Haddington chit.
This hadn’t been the first of her tricks, but he’d make sure it’d be the last. For years, since Drake was a buck, soon after losing his father, the Dowager Marchioness had been trying everything under the sun to get her reluctant son to become leg-shackled. The house-party, where the Duke of Brunswick met the girl who he’d marry years later, was one of the devices Honora Aldridge used, but ineffectual as the ones that came before and after it.