“As an investor, he’s entitled to make a few demands.” Eli tried to placate her.
“Of course, he is.” She rebutted, “As I have the right to refuse to be in the play.” He could act the eccentric aristocrat as much as he wished. It didn’t mean she had to go along with it.
She admitted to herself she was behaving like a temperamental diva. But how would she succeed in forgetting him, moving on, coming to terms with the fact he would marry a lady of his world to produce pure-bred heirs to his old and dusty lineage? Dealing with him daily would threaten her resolve, test it to unbearable levels.
Oliver and Eli looked at her as if she’d spoken a dialect from the confines of the Empire.
“Hester…” Eli started.
“My investment will have the highest chance of paying itself off if London’s best actress is in the play.” Drake reasoned though his eyes launched vexed shards at her.
If he meant to appeal to her vanity, he should have thought better of it. Acting came naturally to her. Drury Lane considering her the best was merely the consequence of it. It didn’t inflate her simply because she didn’t possess a single vain bone in her. Peering at him, she realised he just stated a fact.
“Look.” Her father intervened. “I understand you have history, but I trust both to keep your personal life out of this.”
“It won’t be a problem for me,” Drake said, his expression daring her to run and show everyone she wasn’t a true professional.
The damned rogue!
Hester’s eyes fulminated him as though she’d burn him to cinders before she turned to Oliver. Father deserved a break to enjoy the fruits of his work. The investment came as his chance of laying back for a while. Even if he’d not own to it, traces of weariness often marred his stance. Selfishness would get her nowhere.
With a long, audible sigh, she spoke. “When do we start?”
CHAPTER THREE
“You flatter me, Your Grace." Hester knelt at the centre of the stage in the middle of scrubbing an imaginary kitchen floor, eyeing the duke pleadingly as he stood before her. The kneeling screamed at their difference in stations. “Should you allow me a choice,” her head turned to the rows of empty chairs in the audience then back to Duff, playing the duke. “I must decline your generous offer.” The ‘duke’ gazed at her with an adoration that exceeded his role.
“The second line isn’t in the script.” Worcester cut in. He’d been sitting in the first row of chairs inspecting Hester’s every move, printed play in hand. The blasted man had instructed on starting the rehearsals the very next morning.
She'd felt like an insect in a glass jar but overcame it as she concentrated on her lines and looked at the chairs in the back to avoid his gaze. The power to blank everything out came in useful when they had a full house or royalty in attendance. Tensions rose sharply in those circumstances.
From her kneeling position, she stood up, too straight spine, while the blasted marquess climbed the wood-planked stage in large strides. He neared her, and Hester had to deal with the hot flip her stomach gave at his proximity. Dressed in grey, no coat, impeccable cravat and waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, those thick forearms begged for her touch. They'd be hard muscle, smooth skin, the peppered hair would tease her palms as she slid them up to his bunched shoulders.
Her head bent back to meet his brandy imposing gaze. “It isn’t but it must be.” She defended. Or she could convey it without a word, with only a look or a gesture.
“Do you make it a habit to change the playwright’s work?” The heat that surfaced on her cheeks was a mixture of vexation and the horrible need to take him by the waistcoat and pull him close.
Her hands bracketed her waist as she attempted to keep in mind that this should be exclusively about work. “Not when the playwright sympathises with the fact that the scullery maid is the humblest servant at the mercy of a powerful lord.” Fortunately, the director chose Duff as the duke. Both actors had a good rapport on stage.
“That’s why he doesn’t have to give her a choice.” His baritone had lowered but acquired a steely tone.
“But the scullery maid can claim the right to choose.” Hester countered, looking him straight in the eye.
Drake braced his lean hips too, his head coming down to glare at her. “You’re saying the author wrote a flawed play.” He taunted, and Hester wondered if they were only talking about the play.
“No.” Her negative held the certainty and experience of a lifetime in the theatre. “I’m saying it’s a man’s voice disregarding the maid’s ambiguous position.” Servants held no rights. Everyone knew that a woman servant held even less, and lords regarded her duties to extend far beyond cleaning or cooking.
As a whole the play brought about the nuances of the relationship between servants and lords. But undeniably, it focused mostly on the men’s side of it. Sometimes, she wished she had the skill to write so she might include women’s voices to be heard and understood. Considering anyone would accept to put such plays that weren’t comedies like Hannah Cowley’s ones on stage. Under a man’s pen name, perhaps, as many women writers had done.
“Hester’s ability to act in empathy with her characters makes her a great actress.” Duff defended her, admiration and warmth coating his words.
Worcester cut an acid look at the actor, narrowing his eyes to a threatening point. Seconds later, he latched his scrutiny back on her as though he aimed at reading her very soul.
“And what else does he have to say about your abilities?” The blasted marquess growled, though only she heard it.
“None of your damned business!” She fired back in the same tone.
Without taking his ogle from her, he spoke again. “Mr Flynn, take a break, will you.” The arrogant command didn’t escape her ears. And caused her anger to soar together with something else which she wouldn’t acknowledge but heated her insides all the same.
The actor hesitated for a moment, but soon his footsteps touched the floorboards in distancing sounds. The hour proved too early for the others to have arrived yet. The three of them had set to begin first thing in the morning.
"You and this Flynn fellow seem very familiar with each other." Drake's inflexion came dripping in malice.
Hester tilted up her chin, her gaze launching daggers at him. “What are you suggesting?” Clearly, she had a full understanding of what he meant, but she wanted to defy him to put it into words.
“You are too comfortable with him.” At that, his gaze perused her from hair tight in a bun to simple day dress, to worn boots. “Even with kneeling before him.”
The implication hit her with the full force of her fury. The dirty-minded blackguard! “You could say that. I’m familiar with kneeling, aren't I?" She defied and watched his features escalate because she meant their unbridled intimacy.
He might have reliable insights about the metier of theatre, but he'd not lived or breathed in one. He had no clue of what actors' daily life was. Repeating a kneeling scene day after day was more likely to give her a knee pain than arouse her in any way. And in fact, it did.