Page 13 of Her Wicked Marquess

It'd be useless to deny that this affair of investing in the production held any other aim than not allowing the distance between him and her. Only now did he recognise what he had with her and took for granted. The woman proved to be a hard nut to crack. Mistresses didn't question their keeper's decisions, nor did they have a say in the men's intention to marry or not. In reality, they comprised a glorified type of servant. They received their wages in jewels, dresses and living arrangements but were still bound to do the lords' bidding.

Hester subverted the standard arrangement. Threw him out of the house he himself gave her, left behind the house, the clothes, and the baubles, and ended their liaison at the mere hint of a betrothal. Blasting hell, she was a force in herself. And he never valued that, or her. Look where that left him. Alone in a bed that called only to this woman. His woman.

Said woman arrived right on the time set for t

he rehearsal to start. He watched her fairly glide on to the stage to greet the others. Today, she wore a simple dress of an uncertain shade of grey. It didn’t steal her beauty or the elegance of her movements. Straight spine, head held high, that no-nonsense air about her caused her to appear taller than she really was.

And she didn’t look at him, not for a millisecond. Not even a side glance. Regal and aloof, she ignored him so pointedly he felt his guts twist with it. She was dead serious in keeping this wretched distance between them. She’d give no quarter, the stubborn slip of a woman.

“Miss Green,” he called.

Her entire frame went stiff and tense as a tuned cello. Her head turned to him, but she didn’t deign to look at him. She looked through him, over him, somewhere over his shoulder. Her coldness hit like a blast of frost, colder than the Arctic.

Her delicate, delicious feet strode to him as though she neared the gallows, her eyes a dull moss that never met his. She halted a good five feet from him and curtsied briskly.

“My lord,” she said to the wall on his back and that frost in her voice.

Closely, he studied her, wondering at a behaviour she’d not displayed before. This was not the Hester he’d been used to, this was a shell, thick and remote. Her hair scraped back with severity underlined her withdrawn stance.

Not a word, not a glance, she simply waited. Just like the servant she embodied in this play, quiet, reserved, but not biddable, no. Restive energy swirled about her as if it would spring to life at any second if she relaxed but a single muscle.

“I expect you made the notes for the play.” The rasp came tinged with the effort not to come closer or give in to touch her. Even in this icy posture, she tempted him, drew him, infuriated him.

"I did, my lord." And reached for a bag at her side he hadn't noticed to retrieve it. Woodenly, she extended it to him. He took it, and she let her arm fall as though she wanted to avoid any contact with him. Something was afoot, and he wished they were alone to find out exactly what.

The booklet in his hands carried her scent, a mixture of roses and lemon, sweet like her mouth and tart like her tongue. A perfume he harboured no hope of ever forgetting. He’d invariably trail after it as he kissed her. Everywhere. His eyes arrowed at hers to find a lighter shade of moss a second before her lashes lowered. Her lashes might lower, but certain parts of him rebelled and thrashed to rise.

It lasted barely a ragged second. Next, Hester turned her back at the same time another actress neared him. Franny Brown, if he remembered correctly. The theatre people made their introductions in their first general rehearsal.

“My lord,” she started all dove eye and batting lashes. “You cannot imagine how delightful it is to have you in our midst.” The high-pitch of the remark made him wonder if she posed herself as a candidate to stand in for his former mistress. The possibility soured his mood. Hester was not someone he could ever replace. Just thinking about how fulfilling the past year was made him want to roar in frustration.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he answered impersonally. And to everyone swarming on the stage. “Shall we start?” He sat in the first row in the audience.

The actors and backstage hands took their positions.

It wasn’t the biggest theatre in Drury Lane; it counted half of the seats and boxes of the Royal Theatre. But they’d been lucky enough to acquire the king’s license to operate as they carefully built their reputation for alternative and consistent plays. Light came from the open windows and doors on both sides of the stage, allowing for airing and a sense of time as daylight continued.

“Mr Flynn, a step back, please. Allow Miss Green space to act.” He directed at a certain point.

Worcester watched as the scene where the duke poured his glib over Sarah Bourne unfurled on the stage. With his experience and good diction, the role fit Flynn like a glove. But the way he looked at Hester all the time got to Drake. All. The. Time. The Irishman simply couldn’t hide his personal feelings for her. His lambent eyes and captivated expression made Drake sick. Not only because of all that disgusting sweetness. The sharp, blistering emotions that roiled in his guts went much further. The murderous impulses that followed were tearing at him.

Flynn put space between him and her. But Hester didn’t acknowledge Worcester. Her head didn’t move a single angle. She started again, cool and precise. Her acting and the way she’d memorised her lines, he could only label as flawless. At this rate, they’d be ready by next week. Too soon for his taste.

Sarah Bourne was almost falling for the duke’s hollow promises. The duke neared her and held her arms with affection. The sight made the virulent feelings in Drake’s guts bite.

“Holding her arms gives the impression you’re forcing her.” Drake intervened. “Stare at her as if your victory is at hand.”

This time Flynn glared at him. “Holding her arms shows how eager he is in his conquest.” The tone of someone who explained it to a five-year-old pushed Drake to the edge.

“No, the lines you say do.” Drake countered.

Still, the woman would not turn her eyes to Drake. She repositioned and began anew. A hard intake of air from the actor prompted his repeating the lines.

The rest of the rehearsal elapsed in a similar fashion. Drake stopped it every time Flynn came less than six feet from Hester. The actors and the stagehands began to wilt with exhaustion. Flynn wasn't hiding his annoyance any longer. No one would dare confront a marquess, and Drake guessed that's what held them back. Only Hester stood wordlessly, re-doing the scene as many times as necessary, her whole attention on the stage. Her whole indifference screaming at him.

But when the scene where Sarah would finally break came, Drake had no stomach for it. “Alright, we can stop here for today.” He ordained, unable to watch as the characters would have to touch each other.

A general sigh of relief seemed to cut through the stage as everyone left without delay.

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