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She waited, straight spine, unmoving expression, eyes fixed on him. The minutes passed. He glared his dissatisfaction at her. Still, she stood there. He didn’t move, nor did she. More minutes elapsed as their eyes duelled with unyielding intent. When she almost could take no more of it, he moved.
A big, strong hand extended to pick up his hat and coat. A hand that had made her squirm, and plead and then fall in blinding release. “We’re not finished.” He said, glared some more, and marched out.
Hester used the last crumbs of energy to close the door on him, on them, on her poor decisions. And slid down to the floorboards, face in her hands.
Fuming like a man possessed, Drake burst through the Thornton ball where his mother's fearful butler had informed him she headed. Worcester had been so busy with his estates, his soirees, and his mis—former, well, Hester that he'd missed another of his mother's machinations. This time she'd gone too far, spreading rumours of his betrothal to the Haddington chit.
This hadn’t been the first of her tricks, but he’d make sure it’d be the last. For years, since Drake was a buck, soon after losing his father, the Dowager Marchioness had been trying everything under the sun to get her reluctant son to become leg-shackled. The house-party, where the Duke of Brunswick met the girl who he’d marry years later, was one of the devices Honora Aldridge used, but ineffectual as the ones that came before and after it.
He passed the footman who’d announce him like a comet in collision route with the planet. And then froze mid-step as the entire crush of the ball silenced to turn to him. As the giant he was, the crowd would easily spot him.
“Lord Worcester!” The nearest marriage-minded matron exclaimed. “We are so delighted that you have finally chosen your marchioness.”
“The daughter of a duke no less,” cooed another.
And the crush opened as though he was an arrow aiming right at the heart of a general. At the end of the spontaneous aisle stood his schemer of a mother with a tall, slender debutante. Worcester didn’t think he’d ever met this one, which led him to believe she was his intended. If he was fuming before, now he was about to open fire. And if he resembled the arrow, his mother would be the general. Honora made good on the comparison as she gave no quarter at her son’s razing look.
With the stage set for this vulgar parody, Drake strode forward with leisure he acted better than a weathered actor. His giant frame reached the woman who put him in this wretched world.
“My lady,” he bowed to her. And in a louder voice, “I don’t think I have met this charming debutante.” The Marchioness wouldn’t have it easy, desperate tactics or not. He had to show everyone that he hadn’t even been introduced to her, let alone be her future husband.
“But you have, my esteemed son.” Her countenance didn’t change an inch. “Though you’ve been so distracted of late,” she retorted since the worst guarded secret in London was the name of his mistress—former mistress damn it! “Might I refresh your memory? Lady Milli
cent, you must remember my son, Lord Worcester.”
As he met the girl’s eyes, he sensed a weariness to her that didn’t fit with her tender age. “Most certainly, Lady Worcester,” as she gave a little stiff smile. “The one I was told to keep away from.” His reputation preceded him by the looks of it.
That caught Drake's interest. The chit had a spine after all. He bowed to her while his mother seemed none too happy with that sharp tongue. "Enchanted, my lady," he replied. As the daughter of a duke, she had no obligation to curtsy and stood there more aloof than a princess.
“Lady Millicent has just told me she had only one waltz left in her dance card, a lucky evening for my beloved son.” The dowager taunted shamelessly.
And if the girl didn’t have a waltz left, the marchioness would make the orchestra play a thousand more, Drake had no doubt.
It was writing his name on the dratted card or embarrass a debutante who had nothing to do with his and the marchioness’s clash of wills. He did his duty for the girl’s sake.
Little by little, the people went back to whatever they were doing when he arrived. A gentleman whose name he didn't remember came to collect the chit for the next dance. That gave him the opportunity to have a sweet talk with his darling mother.
Worcester offered his arm, and they ambled seemingly in harmony to a corner of the ballroom. The music would muffle their voices.
“This will not work.” He said low and hard.
His mother widened her eyes innocently at him. “I couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about.”
A humourless side-smile graced his lips. “I’d wager my non-entailed estates on the fact you started the rumours as a means to pressure me.”
She shrugged with fake indifference, betrayed by the furrow in her brow. “You’d lose, naturally.”
Drake’s anger resurfaced full-blast. “I don’t care for your antics. I’m not marrying the chit, and that’s the last of it.” His glare bored into her.
The dowager’s feeble tricks had cost him today. He’d learned early in their liaison that Hester had her pride. She’d not stand meekly in the wings and take the humiliation this whole pathetic incident would cause. For which he’d go back to a cold bed tonight with blood simmering in his veins.
“But your rejection will blow her reputation to smithereens.” The marchioness nearly wailed.
His features crumpled in a way that would cause fear in a king, but not in the field-general that was his parent. “You were counting on me going along with that to avoid scandal?” He huffed a laugh. “It serves to prove how little you know me.”
“You’ll have to choose a lady eventually; this one is as good as any. And a duke’s daughter on top of that.” He wouldn’t expect any less than his mother holding her ground.
“You should have realised by now that you will not have a say in the matter.”
