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Applause erupted around her, telling her the violinist had ended his recital. The guests dispersed to help themselves to refreshments as Hester excused herself and went in search of a little reprieve under Drake’s quizzical scrutiny. With a glass of Champagne, she wandered through the people.
But it was not to be. Before she could even locate a corner to use as a breathing room, Lady Worcester caught up with her.
“Miss Green.” She uttered in such a haughty way one would imagine her to be the Empress of France.
Napoleon's own massive war machine wouldn't cower Hester, however. She liked to think she was made of sterner stuff than that. "My lady." And curtsied with a soft smile. She would forever be thankful for her acting training. It came useful in an artificial world like this one.
Hester wondered how this small woman gave birth to that powerfully tall man that was her son. Her grey hair elegantly made, her dark green gown displayed the finest velvet, and the only thing that signalled her connection with Drake was the eyes. Whereas Drake's invariably looked at her with that steamy intent, hers dressed in a glacial expression.
“You do know that London is abuzz with my son’s choice of wife.” Hester had to admire her unfaltering obstinacy in seeing the next generation of Worcesters before her time.
“I doubt anyone is talking about it in St Giles.” She mentioned the poorest part of town. How typical that these people thought only the West End counted as London.
In the poor slums and shantytowns, the miserable souls who supported the city with their underpaid work would be more worried about what they would eat in their next meal—if they were lucky enough to have one.
The glare she received from the elderly lady said it all. That Hester didn't belong in this glittering drawing-room even as a servant.
“I might think my son would tidy up his affairs before he stepped into the next stage in his life.”
“He didn’t.” And looked right in the lady’s eyes. “I did.”
That seemed to deflate Lady Worcester’s phlegmatic stance a bit. “And you’re here because…”
“As a favour.” Which was what Drake implied. “My fellow actor, Flynn, and I will recite a few lines of our next play.” That was the reason Flynn came tonight, too.
Honora looked her from top to bottom, taking in her expensive dress. “See that you go back to your due place after that.” Meaning her own rank, her own insignificance.
Before she could reply, she sensed a giant frame looming by her side. "Mother," Drake uttered with contained fury. "I won't tolerate you mistreating someone in my house."
She looked upwards to her son, her haughty demeanour crumbling into a defensive one. “I’m not—” But he must have been hearing the exchange not far from both women.
“Yes, you are. And I have no choice but to ask you to leave.” His brandy glare shot anger at his mother.
“Lady Millicent.” She started, looking at where the debutante talked with Lady Thornton.
“I’ll ask Lord and Lady Thornton to drive Lady Millicent home.” He added stonily.
Hester lamented being the witness of mother and son in a conflict, but there was nothing she could do about it. And both engaged in a battle of wills that told of their similarities rather than differences. Nearby, people who followed the exchange had a surprised look on them. Despite a dowager's shenanigans, few lords dared invite their mothers out of their homes. The juicy gossip would raze the ton.
The lady looked at her, spine straightening, chin tilting higher. “Farewell, Miss Green.” And Hester had time only for a brief curtsy before the lady whirled and walked out of the room.
“You’re all right?” he asked, turning his intense attention to her.
“Of course.” She replied. “I was doing rather well without a knight in shining armour.” She preferred to fight her own battles, thank you very much!
“I’ll be him, whether or not you want it.” He rumbled only for her ears.
Her gaze clasped on his, both swarming with undercurrents. Suddenly, the entire world reduced to brandy eyes full of a thousand messages. Hester’s insides curled in more thousands of sensations, none of them confessable.
She felt just like that first night he sought her out after the play. As soon as he showed up in the dressing room, the entire world disappeared. She'd noticed him in his box the previous nights but was ashamed to ask someone his name. That night, he stood before her in the chaotic place full of people preparing to leave, her eyes widened on him as he towered over her. Never had she imagined that his giant frame would impress her so much. Later, she wondered if she didn't have some sort of fascination for big men, because whenever her eyes rose all the way to his something flipped in her, warmed her core. To this day he did that to her, and after this whole time, she concluded it was him, for no other tall man did that to her.
That first encounter had felt more like a collision as both locked their eyes on each other as though the universe would shift if they didn’t. And it shifted as they did. Just like now. They stood mere two feet apart, his head bent down, hers bent back, and this frisson of energy vibrating between them like a million violin cords. Her ears buzzed, her skin tingled and seemed so sensitised, that even air awoke it in eager goosebumps. His eyes darkened as though he and she were about to explode in the most cataclysmic peak they ever had.
Good gracious! They were nearly ravishing each other in the middle of a crowded drawing-room. The insidious thought wormed through her mushy brain as a means of survival, possibly. She blinked, striving to surface from that murky sea of sensuality into a semblance of properness. She wrenched her gaze from his by lowering it and murmuring an excuse before she forced her even mushier legs to move.
This time, she didn’t talk to anyone as she finally made a beeline to a solitary bay window on the corner, hoping the drapes would conceal her for a few minutes. She took the chance to inhale deeply several times. This evening was proving taxing, sprouting a myriad of emotions in her.
“Lady Worcester asked me to accompany her here, if you must know.” Her neck rounded to see Lady Millicent standing by her side. Willowy and in possession of black hair, she’d be a beauty in a few years, when she shed her girly looks. She couldn’t be yet twenty, Hester imagined.
