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“Say yes, it’s simple.” He coaxed gruffly.
To make it simpler, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, wishing to tear the fabric standing in the way. He pressed her closer, her nails dug on the skin of his hand. He could hear her breath as ragged as his. Her nipple strained; his cock strained. He was going to die if they didn’t find a bed soon. And then he was going to die in earnest. Because he wouldn’t stop until his last breath.
“Drake.” Her voice aired crystalline.
“Yes,” he answered, about to nuzzle behind her ear.
“Please, ask Wakefield to call me a hackney.” This came as a block of ice. “I’m going home.” A pause. “Alone.”
He stepped back from her, looking at the light-brown bun on the top of her head. “As you wish.” And pulled the bell with more force than necessary.
CHAPTER SIX
Hester entered her tiny home in a state. She barely managed to say goodnight to Bruce before she closed the door and vented her distress.
What had she almost done back there, for pity’s sake? All Drake had to do was put his warm, big hands on her and she’d gone ha
ywire, up in flames with the mere sound of his voice and the memory of that long-ago night. Let’s not even mention his expert hands roaming the silk bodice in a call for surrender only a saint could ignore. The heat of him, his giant frame glued to her, his scent of rosemary and man. He’d come an inch from seducing her. The need in her jumped sky-high, to the point her body was about to convince her to throw everything to the blazes and just find a darned relief.
She tore off her cloak, threw her gloves on the table, and reached to the hidden tiny buttons on her side. The skilled seamstress had ample knowledge that a mistress possessed no lady’s maid to help with dressing.
Drake hadn’t lied, she admitted as much. His mother started the gossip of his match. Lady Millicent asked for his help, heaven knew why. But this meant nothing.
It didn't discard the fact that he would be hard-pressed to settle down. Whoever he chose for the task, Hester wouldn't amount to more than a passing distraction in his life.
Stay the night.
Yes, yes, yes! Her hazy mind had screamed. Especially as he’d reminded her of the other soiree, and what they did after it. What they did the entire night after it.
But when he said it was simple, the sensible side of her, the one crushed by the demands of her clamouring flesh, rebelled, even if with a timid voice. It helped to steel herself against his calamitous seduction.
Free from the confining clothes that hadn’t been enough to press down her starved senses, she prepared a bath with the water she’d collected earlier for that purpose. And hoped to wash her near surrender with the cheap soap she could afford. But no. Her head wouldn’t stop repeating the last moments of the evening over and over.
Until she fell in bed, alone and feverish, but also exhausted after an entire evening fighting herself. She dived into a restless sleep that brought no reprieve from her inner battle.
Oliver had called off the rehearsals for the next day, as the theatre would present two sessions of the play that was on. Which gave Drake the day to stew in his frustration. More than he had during his sleepless night, that is.
He left his empty house for the club, hoping to divert his mind from a certain petite woman that occupied too much room in it despite her diminutive size.
Thornton and Darroch sat on one table with newspapers and brandy. They greeted him as he approached them. Late afternoon, the place swarmed with lords.
“We thought you’d be…busy at this hour.” Darroch taunted meaningfully.
Before Darroch fell for domestic life, he had been the most infamous libertine in town, and they had enjoyed a few debauched nights in the same bawdy establishments. But then his friend married and he, well, got distracted with a certain woman with mesmerising green eyes.
“Or going about with the future marchioness.” Thornton contributed.
Worcester hadn’t told his friends of his latest incursion in theatre play production. Not yet anyhow. He sat at the table and signalled for a glass of brandy.
“There’s no future marchioness.” He bit out. His peers would benefit from minding their own business instead of believing in rumours.
“Still running from the parson’s noose, I see.” Edmund, the Earl of Thornton jested.
“My mother spread false gossip.” He explained before tossing the drink down.
“Why am I not surprised?” The earl wondered.
“And you’re proving your mother’s son. Both headstrong.” Darroch contributed.
