“Hester,” he murmured almost like a chant to the woman he came to appreciate. For everything they lived together, the fire, the talks, the lazy mornings in bed.
Her head lifted as she focused those green beacons on him. It felt like a boulder hitting right in the chest. Looking at her always did things to him. Here at that moment, everything shifted and heated.
But her expression shuttered and her eyes went mossy and withdrawn. She stood up though she remained behind the desk as a warrior in a fortress.
Her neck bent back to meet his gaze. “Lord Worcester.” Her husky voice wrapped around him at the memories of how it sounded when their bodies entwined, hot, sweaty and hungry. She curtsied in that regal way of hers, transforming him in a mere vassal begging for her favours.
He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, show her how much power she had over him. With great effort, he tamped down on the feverish reactions to her and tapped on his noble upbringing.
“I came to take you back.” And used his height to compound the authority he yielded.
Her eyes narrowed; her mouth pursed. Hell, that mouth! She had the obscenest lips he'd ever set eyes on. Both upper and lower lips were full and in a shade of red that matched her creamy skin to perfection. Just the memory of what he did to it and it did to him in return made him ready.
"You wasted your time, I'm afraid, my lord," and looked back at the sheaf of papers, moving to sit in clear dismissal.
He fisted his hands with the clashing reactions she arose in him. The crave mixed with the annoyance might prove explosive.
Before she resumed her loud indifference, he spoke. "My mother spread false rumours to force my hand." He spat drily.
Her glare slapped back on him as she froze in place. “Indeed.” It came out dripping in sarcasm as though she didn’t believe him. “And she will succeed by the looks of it.”
His features crumpled on her. “You saw me in Haddington’s box.” There was no other reason for her not to take his word for it.
“Including all of London,” her chin tilted up, her hands coming to her waist, defiant as you please. He wanted to kiss her until the defiance melted into the moans he knew would come.
“You judge my honesty on my being polite to a debutante?” He paced until he stood mere inches from the dratted desk. “I hadn’t even met her before the Thornton ball.” He’d told her about the ball days before she left.
“Well, now you do, and you can proceed with whatever lords and debutantes do to beget heirs.” The contempt for the aristocratic way of life projected in every syllable. She didn’t make it a secret of her opinions about the upper crust and how silly she thought it.
“I’ve told Lady Millicent I’m not marrying her, as I did my mother.” He stated categorically as his eyes bore into hers.
She shrugged, attracting his attention to the swell of her breasts. He’d give one of his estates just to touch them for a second. “Very well,” she answered, “If not her, someone else. Even you must admit you can’t delay this much longer.”
He could, and he would. When this madness for her cooled, perhaps he’d be able to get on with his life. For the time being, she was the only one his body responded to, hungered for.
One more of his steps and only the desk-fortress stood between them. "Look into my eyes and say you've been sleeping at night." He sounded gruff even to his own ears.
At his taunt, her eyes widened and went into that parakeet shade that simply snitched she was ready for him.
It had the effect of tinder. On their own volition, his feet moved and he rounded the desk to stand right in front of her. He looked down at her at the same time her head bent to meet his gaze, the parakeet colour flashing on him. It made him so hard it hurt. They stood facing each other as that invisible thread of awareness engulfed them. Time died; the universe lost its meaning as Drake only imagined transforming the desk-fortress into a desk-bed.
“Do you?” He repeated in a struggle to stay above water and not drawn in her eyes, in her.
Her lips parted, her breasts lifted with her intake of breath, her stare devouring him whole in the same way he fantasised her mouth doing. “W-what?” Her delicate brows pleated as if she tried hard to concentrate.
“Sleep,” he reminded her in a rasp.
Those wide beacons blinked once, she exhaled and blinked again. Her lashes lowered, trying to hide what she couldn't hide.
He took in all of her petite form, the bodice of her simple dress hugging her breasts lovingly, the narrow waist that fit in his large hands, down to her feet. And that’s when he saw it. The delicate toes bare, under her skirts.
A veritable blast of undiluted lust washed over him like waves of a stormy sea. Her feet, her wicked, delicious feet, the very ones she used with such proficiency that made rational thoughts vanish like smoke in the wind. Memory shot again of her foot travelling from his own, up to his shin, his knee, his thigh, to slide between the thighs to where they caused the most damage. And then he taught her how the second might join the first to make him weak, to make him beg, and finally defeat him in his own arena.
As an actress, she used her body to compose her roles, used it at her will and his utter disgrace. He wanted to be disgraced forever, to plunge in sin and perdition, never to resurface.
Her lashes fluttered up, and she saw where his attention lay, a flush of pure crimson invading her perfect face. With a step back, she pulled the skirts down, hiding those delicate limbs from him.
He needed a distraction, any distraction, or he’d ravish her here in her father’s office for anyone to happen on them. He eyed the sheaf of papers on the desk and took it up. “New play?” he asked.
A moment passed until she looked at his hands and identified what he talked about. “Yes, the next we’ll present.”
He read the title and the author. “Will you be in it?”
She filled her lungs with air. “My father wants me to take the role of Sarah Borne.”
“Hm.” He grunted. “You’ll be the rage of the season, no doubt.”
A small smile graced that tempting mouth, “Perhaps.”
For a fraction of a minute, it felt as though they were back in the life they led, conversing about plays, music, or science. In those days, they had decided on the soirees they became famous for. A gust of longing inveigled its way into his insides. They'd been, if not happy, content in this past year.
From the printed play, his focus shifted to her, and she responded by peering at him. “All right,” he said. “You can take the play home to study.” He didn’t mark the word ‘home’ until it was out of him.
In the past year, they'd travelled to many places. They'd stayed in his seat in Hampshire where he forbade his mother to go lest she threw another house-party—he'd banned her to the dower house in another estate. Hester and Drake often stayed in his townhouse as he'd bought one for his mother far from it. But when Drake visited Hester in the house he bought for her, he felt at home. She transformed the bare walls in a cosy place for books, painting, and a warm meal. Often, they sat in the drawing-room in the evenings, reading while she sipped on tea or sherry and he with brandy or port. Until he could stand no longer only watching her as she sat across from him, and took her upstairs to their bedchamber for the night. They wouldn't fall asleep until much later.