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Long after they’d returned to Worcester House that night, Hester languished in her chamber remembering the ball. As much as she felt reluctant to admit, she enjoyed herself. She rearranged her nightgown and dressing gown as she sat on an armchair by the fire, hair unbound. True, the night wouldn’t have been so pleasant were it not for the ladies who kept her company. The same ones who refused to be ground out by the ton’s unfair standards. There was hope in this world, at least.
But the descriptor ‘pleasant’ lost its meaning when the images of her and Drake dancing the waltzes lit in her mind. It had been rapturous. Being in a real ballroom, under those magnificent chandeliers, twirling in his arms, comprised a memory she’d treasure to her last day on this planet. A few years ago, the theatre had presented an operetta full of music and dance, for which they brought in a dance tutor to polish the actors’ skills. That had been why she felt so at home dancing with Drake, almost as if it were a dream come true. Confessing it to herself didn’t seem too comfortable, her, the woman who disregarded nobility, who believed in a fairer dealing between people, a fairer place for women, revelling at the epitome of aristocracy itself. But she’d keep this little dirty secret to herself, nobody needed to know. A smile pulled her lips at the notion. If for nothing else, she could use the experience for her roles on the stage.
Restlessness filled her. The night had brought surprising feelings, and she wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while yet, if at all. Her eyes alit on the jewel box where she’d placed the emeralds carefully. In an impulse, she stood up and took it before she left her room.
In the year they shared, Hester knew Drake used to work in his study before retiring for the night. Without a conscious decision, her feet led her there. A faint rap on the door allowed her in. Inside, the view of Drake sitting behind his desk blustered her with the force of a gale. Loose cravat, shirt half-unbuttoned, half-rolled sleeves, no waistcoat, no coat, the man lounged laid back, a glass with a golden liquid in his hand, those brandy eyes arrowed at her so intense she nearly turned and ran for her life.
For interminable moments, their gazes locked as she sank into something akin to a trance, waves of awareness crisscrossing her body.
“Sleepless too?” he asked in a diamond voice. Not much drink as yet, though she’d never seen him three sheets to the wind since they met.
Her lips huffed a little grin. “You’ll agree with me it’d be a difficult task after the throngs we’d been in.”
“You enjoyed yourself,” he drawled and took a swig from his glass before resting it on the desk. His Adam’s apple bobbed while he directed a heated look at her. The heated look rose her temperature.
Her shoulder lif
ted in a shrug. “Let’s just say that even the ton has its honey traps.”
His sensuous lips twitched at her wry humour. “You might take the honey but not the trap, I suppose.”
“That’s always the idea, yes.” Suddenly, she remembered herself, her eyes lowering to the box in her hands. “I came to give this back.” Slowly, she strode to his desk and put the jewels there.
His stare focused on the box and back to her. “I gave them to you. No need to return them.” If she were a ninny, she’d say he looked almost offended.
Her head tilted to the side. "I can't very well wear them for the rehearsals." His scrutiny caused her to wrap her dressing gown tighter, not out of modesty, but to protect herself from the effect he had on her. "There's no point in keeping something I won't wear."
“Sometimes you could be a tad keener on baubles.” It didn’t sound like a criticism, more like something he’d wished her to do.
“You once told me that the Egyptians were so attached to their riches, they took them to their graves.” The matter-of-fact ring in her voice didn’t hide her opinion on the subject. “What good do they do to cloth-wrapped corpses now?”
“Oh, yes, the transient nature of our existence.” He declared arms spread as though he stood on a stage.
She nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”
“Hence, you’d conclude that my rank will one day be gone and forgotten.” He derided.
“The past generations have been teaching it to us over and over.” Her tone implied it was clear.
For long heartbeats, his eyes dissected every inch of her face, raising even more the heat coursing through her. “So,” his silky rumble didn’t help douse her yearning one bit, “if everything is that ephemeral in your reasoning, what is it you want?”
The question dissolved her insides like sugar in hot tea. The myriad of images and ideas that sprouted in her head came so tangled that she didn’t feel capable of answering. Obviously, what lay between the lines was his marriage proposal so promptly refused. That mesmeric sense that arose at her entrance here unfolded in its full depth. Their eyes locked again, and she tried to disguise the heaving movements of her chest. With little success, she had to admit.
She never realised her feet moved until she stood by his chair. This very want of him she had no forces to suppress anymore. Bunching the fabric of her gowns, she placed one knee on each side of his thighs, straddling him. “That’s a good question.” This came too silky.
His head lifted to meet her, undisguised fire in the depths of his irises. Her index snuck between his spread legs and traced his crotch from deep bottom to top, only to register he was already hard. His hands moulded to her hips as his nostrils flared with an intake of air.
Gazes merged his hands slid up to her neckline to undo the bows shielding her from him. Tantalisingly, he undid one by one, imprisoning her in endless wait. Her breasts crested with the mere expectation of his touch. Breathless, she watched his unhurried progress. Until his palm crept inside to cup one eager swell. She bit her lower lip to prevent a moan from snitching her melting state, though her fingers closed on him more firmly, making him harder.
Ruddy colour covered his cheekbones. “You want this then,” he growled, enduring her shameless rubbing.
The verb seemed too tame for what really coursed through her. Crave, starve, lust would fit better. “Reciprocated, I suspect.” She taunted with the scarce air in her lungs.
His cock twitched while his head advanced for his mouth to take possession of one nipple with his patent gusto. The caress surrendered her with a sigh, and her head fell backwards. He shifted breasts as his hand found the moisture between her legs. She relished his attack on all fronts that made her impatient and lost all at once. She’d heard a man couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time, but he showed to be an exception. Whereas she was the one unable to do anything other than moan.
If she needed more, though, she’d have to get it herself. Enlisting her willpower, she forced her fingers to grope for his breeches’ flap to unbutton it. With him distracting her with his mouth and fingers, the task dragged, but she managed it at last. His rock-hard erection popped right on her palm as it closed around him and set an up-and-down rhythm. This time, his head fell on the chair back, eyes closed with a groan.
Touché.
