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"Hypocritical or not, it's our world." She looked at him directly in his eyes. "And you're already following in your father's steps in that you stick to your mistress no matter what."
The low blow hit its mark because a pure sulfuric reaction burned his guts. To be compared with a man who changed mistresses as he changed for dinner was demeaning. Drake had sowed his wild oats, yes, but to be likened to the fickle man the old marquess had been appeared unfair. And even if he avoided dwelling on it, he and Hester had gone beyond the keeper and mistress arrangement for the simple reason the diminutive rebel refused to buy into it any longer.
“You can think whatever you wish.” He inflicted coldness in his voice. “But I demand you visit Haddington and explain yourself.”
“Absolutely not.” Finality in her cultured tone. “I’ll not stand face to face with that man.”
A sardonic grin graced his chiselled features. “Funnily enough, you plotted a match with the man’s own daughter.”
“Her breed makes up for it.” The cynicism caused him almost to choke.
“Next time you act with such recklessness, I’ll banish you to the country and close this house for years to come.” And he meant it.
“You wouldn’t!” His mother uttered indignantly.
"Try me." And pivoted to leave but looked back at the dowager marchioness. "And by the way, forget Lady Millicent, forget every single debutante in the ballrooms. I don't care for them." And strode out of the drawing-room, intending to take a long time to return.
“Your Grace, how you… you…” Hester forgot her line for the umpteenth time that morning.
"Surprise me," Duff whispered her line for the umpteenth time that morning.
“Stop!” Drake barked for the ump—well, you know.
Concentration was nowhere to be found in Hester's mind. This counted the third morning after Drake dragged her to his townhouse. The previous two had been no better. No wonder, with sleepless nights in between, anyone would acquire a fractured mood.
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He stood from his seat on the first row and neared the stage. “What’s the matter?” He frowned. “You rarely forget your lines.”
What was the matter? Sleepless nights, feverish dreams when she managed some sleep. Having breakfast with Drake, working with Drake, confined in a carriage with Drake. Having dinner with blasted Drake. That’s what! Temptation and the strain to resist it had been skirmishing day and night. Nights! If this continued for much longer, she’d end up in rags.
But she couldn’t just vent her frustration here where the support role actors sat around bored out of their minds with waiting for their cue.
"You will agree with me, my lord," she answered, "that work hasn't been in the forefront in the last few days." Even less when she had to dress as she did today, with a day dress that might be simple for a lady but stood out in her own circles. The confection spelt 'mistress' all over it, but the blasted marquess wouldn't allow her out of his sight for a single minute for her to fetch a few of her own clothes at her home.
His nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath at her retort. “Fine.” He bit out. “Take a break while the support actors rehearse.” Relieved, her peers hastened into action, glad for having something to do.
With a thankful nod, she headed backstage for a cup of tea and took the opportunity to say hello to her father and brother. She had said nothing of what happened so as not to worry them, which made her relax a little with their chat about the theatre.
After dinner, Drake sat in his study with a report from one of his estates before him. At least he was attempting to focus on it. Only it was not working. In fact, nothing was working. Living and breathing under the same roof as Hester threatened to drive him to undiluted madness. Everything he tried to divert his thoughts—and certain parts of his body—from her ended in failure.
He tried the club. Nothing. He tried reading. Nothing. He tried riding. Nothing. His hands itched to do the job themselves. With little to no success. He wanted her, solely her.
Bloody hell! The woman was going to be his downfall.
The notion that she might go away from him left him dizzy. That felt worse than a thousand lashes with barbed wire. No, better her tormenting presence than her wrenching absence. He’d take it any day.
He could see she was distressed. Haddington lying in wait to take his revenge on what he perceived as damage to his daughter’s reputation had to be weighing on her. Even the rehearsals weren’t going as they should. And who would blame her? Not him, for sure.
The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Too late to be awake. Time to find some sleep. Scratch that. Time to find some wicked dreams in his ragged slumber.
He’d shed his coat and waistcoat in the study. His feet took the stairs in disheartened steps while he undid the knot on his cravat.
His arm pulled his bedchamber’s door open, and he froze, hand on the neckcloth. The lit fireplace cast warm, soft light in the room. In his bed, a feminine, petite form clad in sheer lace, reclined on pillows against the headboard.
He didn’t believe his eyes. Better, he didn’t believe his luck.
The door closed with a slam of his boot.
