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To say she didn’t miss the varied soirees would be a blatant lie. She’d always treasured them. But a repeat would have negative effects on her emotional state, already in tatters with these changes in her life.
She shook her head. "I don't think it necessary." If she didn't know any better, she'd venture at the fact he was intent in making clear how much they lost. But that would be nonsense. As her keeper, he developed no deeper feelings for her than the physical ones he never hid.
“But I do,” he replied woodenly. “It’ll also be a good way to spread the word about the new play.”
What he implied was that by contract it would be her duty to be there. He didn’t spell it out, yet she could read it clearly between the lines. But she was not about to bend over backwards only because he said so. That he tried, gnawed at her temper. She sprang from where she sat and turned fully to him. “As far as I understand, I have no reason to accompany you to any function for the play you inveigled your way in.”
He eyed her as something flared in his brandy gaze. His torso inclined forward, elbows on his knees. “You can’t do this.” His rasp washed over her with shameless consequences.
Her brows pleated as she directed
a quizzical look at him. “Do what?”
“Spit all this fire and expect me to remain unaffected.”
It was as though a blast of heat poured on her insides. The glint in his irises, the gruff of his voice, the sheer size of him pulled at her as if he'd transformed her in a despicable puppet. He'd always known which strings to pull, but right at that moment, he didn't even have to do it. She'd go on her own. Or better, her body would acquire a life of its own and go to him, not because it wanted to, but because the void hurt, the hunger made everything in her ache for the slightest touch.
It was arduous, so damned arduous, to pretend he did not get to her, but with a huge effort, she forced herself to do it. "The way you respond is not my business." And now, the fire would be all she threw at him. "Deal with it."
One end of his sensuous mouth stretched up wryly. “I tried.” The intensity of his stare connected with hers like a tether. “But the solitary… solutions are not working.”
The mere hint of him taking himself in hand had the explosive power nearly to make her forget everything and send her cares to the blazes. Her cheeks warmed to feverish levels as her mind came to an inch from collapsing.
“Well, try harder!” She blurted out without thinking.
“Harder is definitely the word.” The growl threatened to smash the little resistance she still possessed.
To which she could grope for no answer. "Time to go back to work," she said instead and pivoted to leave.
“The soiree?” His question came from too close and, when her neck rounded to him, he had stood up and stridden to her.
Her brows arched. “Presumably, the answer is clear.” And gave her back to him. It would be a trap to her threadbare emotions.
“Please.” This came silky, as silky as the voice he used when he told her what he meant to do to her when they were alone.
In all the time she’d spent with him, she’d never heard him utter the word. Even less in this tone. Seduction and that innate certainty that the world would do any of his biddings drove his actions. He didn’t force people into doing what he wished; they fell at his feet to please him. She’d been no exception. And that had been a mistake because it got him used to having things his way. Worse, got her used to the steamy rewards he bestowed on her in the dark. Who would deny that he kept her coming for more?
When her gaze travelled back to him, he stood three feet from her with that same intensity in his gaze, tinted with another hue that resembled expectation.
It was too much to resist.
In the end of the day, what harm a few hours entertaining their mutual friends could do? Hester held more will-power than that. Or so she hoped. She filled her lungs deeply and gave a curt nod.
His side-smile felt more rewarding than all those steamy nights in his bed.
Hester chose the sky-blue dress.
She touched the doorknocker on Worcester House, her heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird. Lights from inside spilt out from between the curtained windows. The last time they had one of their soirees must have been about three months ago if she remembered right.
The previous evening, Bruce had arrived for his night watch balancing a big box on his brawny arms, saying Lord Worcester sent it. As she opened it, she discovered a few of the best dresses he had had made for her and their matching accessories. The simple cut of this blue piece of art allowed for the finest silk she’d ever seen to shine through. A golden ribbon cinched the high-waist and the fabric fell to mould her narrow waist and feminine hips. Golden lace rimmed the décolletage a tad too daring for her taste. Her light-brown locks were loosely rolled on the top of her head with wisps framing her face. With her hands, she checked everything was in place as she filled her lungs to brace for the evening.
“Miss Green.” The butler startled her out of her apprehension.
Her attention went to him. “Wakefield.”
She’d taken a hackney here, Bruce on her heels. The footman stood in the shadows somewhere in the garden.
The butler widened the door, giving her passage. "Lord Worcester is in the drawing-room with a few of the artists he invited." Wakefield used to treat her like any other visitor to the house, displaying perfect politeness.
