Page 37 of Her Wicked Marquess

the room, leaving him to stew in her rejection.

Drake didn’t linger, however. He pivoted to follow her, not forgetting she required protection from the threat of the duke.

Next morning, Hester sat in her room in Worcester House after breakfast, still bewildered by the events in the storage room. Even after a whole sleepless—and lonely—night of musings, her head continued spinning. One minute, Drake was kissing her, the next he was talking about marriage. And she didn’t know what to make of that. It came so out of the blue that she lost her breath at the memory. Not to mention her heart thrashing in her ribs with a cauldron of emotions, surprise the least of them.

As a marquess, he belonged in his station. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him acting out of his privileged way even once. He possessed his box in the theatre; he approached her, propositioned her, settled her in a house for his convenience. And frequented his exclusive club, consorted with his exclusive friends, drinking his exclusive brandy. Typically, he also displayed the eccentricities he was entitled to. The soirees were his initiative, funding the play too. Directing it, his chief oddity, had been his idea. But lords did whatever they wished. Be it archaeological pursuits in Egypt, classic marbles collection, or exploring trips to India. Their wealth and connections bought them anything.

Drake was no different, and therein lay the trouble. Because Hester would bet her own little house on the fact she counted as one of his whims. More than that, she feared he proposed marriage like one of those insect collectors who pinned butterflies by the wings to their display panels. And used every opportunity to show them off to their illustrious guests. The comparison brought utter disheartenment.

If she told any other actress about the proposal, Hester would no doubt hear that it was every mistress’s dream. The ultimate achievement, from the mistress box to the wife box. Ha! A simple reality check would show any romantic fool that lords didn’t marry mistresses. Which indicated Drake probably proposed in the heat of the moment.

Of all the steamy kisses they shared, the one in the storage room listed as special. Something happened there. And Hester found herself unable to pinpoint what. It had been hot but also filled with intangible emotions. She'd felt it down to her bones and stood at a loss what it really represented. As he'd lifted his head, she'd been in a fog of delight and emotional confusion. Only for him to drop that cannonball of a proposal.

Her mind tried to picture herself wed to him. Domestic life would probably be close to what they'd experienced already. Evenings full of books and conversations on several artistic and scientific developments. Soirees with their open-minded friends. This included what they did themselves. There would be interactions with other people in this. Problematic since high society used to be merciless with outsiders. Added to the fact she'd insist on keeping her work, a very public work at that. No, it all seemed too complex, too straining to even contemplate.

Last night she’d remained in her own bedchamber for the single reason she felt lost. Besides, she needed to reorganise the jumble in her head before she faced Drake again. But the clock chimed the time for them to leave for the rehearsals, and she didn’t consider herself ready to face him. But face him she must.

Dressing simply, she filled her lungs for courage, opened the door and reached the stairs to the foyer. From up here, she saw Drake waiting for her, dressed in dark green finery more tempting than any sin under the sun. Their eyes clashed with a thousand unspeakable words, unnamed emotions, unconfessed sensations.

With effort, she wrenched her gaze from his and concentrated on the steps. Not looking at him, she accepted his hand to climb up the carriage and her seat, forcing herself to ignore the effect of his touch and sit poised at her corner, taking refuge in the scenery outside.

“I understand your misgivings.” His tenor caressed her ears after a long time of silence. She snapped her eyes to him. “About my proposal,” he explained.

She strove to drag air to her lungs. Being this close to him already proved tragic to her clear mind. A whole night craving him didn’t help. A whirling mind deprived of sleep helped even less.

“I regard this subject as closed.” Finality coated her tone.

“But I don’t,” he disputed.

Of course not! As a lord, his will ruled. So, she waited for him to make his case. “We should address your objections, namely, the ones about our social stand.”

“How so?” she deigned to ask for politeness’s sake.

“We could accept a few invitations together and see how it goes.” Those brandy eyes met hers with determination in them.

Her brows pleated. “Why go down the beaten path when we know where it will lead?” In public disdain clearly.

“We won’t have a full picture until we effectively try,” he defended.

“There’s no point in going through something that’s evident.” She’d have to be foolish or unutterably stubborn to do it.

“You’re saying you won’t even think about it.” This was Drake throwing down the gauntlet and goading her, calling on her sense of challenge.

But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “You’re branding me a coward?” she quipped. “No problem. Your opinion has nothing to do with me.” And made to go back to looking at the window.

That caused his gaze to boil with vexation. “You should at least stand up for what you believe.”

That got her enraged. As an actress, she made it a point to convey her concepts in her roles. She was nothing if not committed to the messages the theatre broadcast. Namely, the voices of women, or the underprivileged.

She fulminated him with her eyes. “You are a sleazy scoundrel!” she vented. Only to witness him produce one of his victorious side-smiles.

"Tonight, we'll see which invitations to accept." He ordained just before the carriage lurched to a stop in front of the theatre.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My dear Lady Millicent,

Circumstances have changed, and I consider it time for us to ‘end’ our courtship, with your agreement naturally. Please, be so kind as to inform me if you prefer to give me the cut direct or the other way round.

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