Her toe ceased tapping mid-movement and hovered a hairsbreadth above the ground. “I don’t want an introduction.”
Avondale straightened the lapels of his maroon jacket. “Well, I say—"
Emmaline spun to face him. “You’ll say what? You had no business destroying the flowers.”
Avondale blinked. “They are just…”
She looked back just in time to see Drake shake his head and realized…he didn’t understand, either.
They weren’t just flowers. Considered small and fragile by most, they were a good deal more resilient and important. They could survive an unexpected frost or chilling deluge and remain unscathed. In spite of their gentle strength, they were viewed as nothing more than a thing of beauty set aside for Society’s pleasure, subject to the whim and fancy of a cruel world that held them in little esteem. When in reality they were so much more. They were the lifeblood of human existence. In that regard, they were not unlike women, which is what made the men’s dismissal so infuriating. It only served as a reminder of Drake’s disinterest, his total lack of caring for her. Why, she was not very different from the bud, trampled beneath man’s place in Society.
Drake said something to Avondale. Her eyes narrowed. She took a step forward. “They are just what?” Emmaline said with lethal calm.
The two men fell silent and eyed her. Avondale had the good sense to be alarmed by her expression. He took a step back and looked to Drake, a helpless gleam in his eyes.
Apparently taking pity on the other man, Drake inserted himself between Emmaline and Lord Avondale. “I’m sure you have pressing business to attend to.”
Avondale nodded vigorously and turned back to the cluster of flowers.
Emmaline gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He scratched his head. “Collecting my cane?”
“Are they really so unimportant that you would grind them beneath the heel of your boots?” Or fail to call for years and years?
“I—”
She pointed a finger at him. “Do not answer that question. You most certainly are not trampling through this garden to retain your weapon.”
A chuckle escaped Drake.
Emmaline speared him with a look, and then returned her attention to Avondale. “I will not allow you to—"
Drake interceded. “Why don’t I purchase you a new walking stick?”
The man gave another tug at his lapels. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of others.”
Just as Drake most assuredly has other women.
Avondale gave a perfunctory bow and made his good-byes. Leaving her alone with Drake.
“Coward,” she muttered, though the rebuke wasn’t solely reserved for Lord Avondale.
“My lady—”
Emmaline swiveled on her heel and planted her hands on hips. “How could you let him leave after what he did?”
A swift surge of icy fury filled his eyes and an animalistic groan gurgled up from his throat. Emmaline froze. She’d never borne witness to such emotion and her mind numbingly tried to process what words or actions had triggered his response. She took a step back and quickly looked around for the hint of danger that had unleashed this savage creature.
“Did he hurt you?”
His words brought her up short. She cocked her head. “Hurt me? No.” She gestured dumbly to the fragile blue flowers, besieged by a sudden wave of hot embarrassment. “He hurt the forget-me-nots.”
The tension remained in Drake’s stiffly held frame. “He forgot what?”
Emmaline briefly closed her eyes, and shook her head. “The forget-me-nots.”
When he continued to eye her with puzzlement, she dropped her hand, and gestured to the ground. “The flowers.”
Drake laughed and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead as though he were trying to rid himself of a devilish headache. “What would you have me do? Make Avondale plant new ones?”
This was all a game to him. He would no more do right by those ruined flowers than he would by her. She squared her jaw. “Do you find this amusing?”
“I should think by my reaction you can deduce I’m not amused,” he said.
Emmaline bristled at the condescending edge to his words. “You did just laugh.”
Drake took a step toward her and she retreated. He continued to advance, and this time she held her ground. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. The faint hint of coffee lingered on his breath, tickled her senses. The rising sun played with the strands of his flaxen hair, and created a pallet of golden hues and a memory intruded.
He was thirteen and she five. With his blonde crown of curls, he looked like a prince. Her innocent heart had danced with excitement at the prospect, and she had wanted to ask him if it were true. Even back then, his lips had been bent in a serious frown as he ignored her completely, and the question had died on her lips.
“Is this to become commonplace, my lady?”
She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”
“As you should be. Interrupting a gentleman’s solitude.”
She ground her teeth.
Drake touched the line of her jaw. “If you continue to grit your teeth so hard you are going to give yourself a megrim.”
Under most any other circumstances she’d have delighted in her betrothed’s touch. Not, however, on this occasion. His insolence stirred her blood. She removed his finger from her person. “I was not apologizing.”
“You said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“For not understanding your question,” she snapped. “You asked if this was to become commonplace.”
A lull of silence descended. Drake eyed her with an unfathomable expression. “Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I to constantly be rescuing you from a series of scrapes?”
Emmaline fought back a wave of indignation. “I didn’t ask or need to be rescued by you.”
“My lady?” a voice called softly.
Emmaline and Drake spun to face her startled maid at the entrance of the gardens.
“We are leaving, Grace.” She gave a toss of her head. “And you, my lord, can return to, whatever consumed your thoughts before you came to my rescue.” She executed a perfectly respectable, deep curtsy. “You clearly need to work toward developing a greater appreciation for all life.”
The air left Drake’s lungs on a sudden exhale. “You are indeed correct, my lady.”
His agreement brought her up short. She quickly recovered. Giving a toss of her head, she nodded. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
Chapter 4
Dearest Lord Drake,
I attended my first play. I informed my mother and father that if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a duke, I would have had a career on the stage. Of course, that would have required I be a competent actress and singer—which sadly, I am neither. Still, I enjoy the stage tremendously. Perhaps we will one day attend the theatre together.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
One hour and twenty-five minutes, and one long walk later, Emmaline’s fury was still a palpable force with life energy. The rub of it all was that she couldn’t single out what had left her most infuriated.
Drake’s disregard for the flowers.
Or Drake’s disregard for her.
No, that wasn’t true. She knew very well the reason for her upset.
She stomped up the steps of her brother’s townhouse. Carmichael, the family butler with his uncanny ability to know when visitors had arrived, pulled open front doors and she sailed through the entrance.
“My lady, Miss Winters is here. I took the liberty of having her wait in the Yellow Parlor.”
That brought Emmaline up short. She looked at the butler and smiled her first smile since…since…
Two very arrogant males had shattered her attempt at solitude. Her smile fell.
“Thank you, Carmichael.” She marched to the parlor. A visit with Sophie Winters was just the thing she needed.
Emmaline ente
red the room.
Her friend sat on the sofa, covetously eyeing an array of pastries and various other confections Cook had prepared.
The tray rested beside an unopened copy of the London Times.
”Hullo, Sophie.”
Sophie looked up. A smile wreathed her full, heart-shaped cheeks. “Em, I hope you don’t mind my early….” Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Emmaline plopped into the seat beside Sophie. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. She could say with a great degree of certainty that in her twenty years she’d been wrong on many scores.
At this precise moment, some things stood out more than others.
She’d been confident that upon reaching the advanced age of twenty she would have at least three things settled.
Firstly, she would have a home of her own.
Secondly, there would be a dog to cuddle with on cold days.
And, lastly, a husband to also cuddle with on cold days.
As it was, sitting on the chintz sofa in her brother’s parlor, she did not have a home of her own. Nor, for that matter did she have a dog. And most of all, she unequivocally did not have a husband. What she did have, as she had for the better part of her life, was a betrothed.
“Em?”
Emmaline shook her head. “I came upon a brute cutting the heads off a bed of forget-me-nots.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “What cad would do such a thing?”
Finally, a rational person.
“Lord Avondale.” She chose not to mention Lord Drake’s involvement. Giving her fingers something to do, she snapped up the copy of the Times.
“Avondale,” Sophie muttered. “He was one of the gentlemen Mother hoped I’d make a match with in my first Season.”
“Consider yourself spared.” Emmaline scanned the front of the London Times before flipping to the next story. Her eyes snagged on a name at the center of the page and she bolted upright.
It appeared a certain Marquess of D had secured the affections of the recent Opera sensation from Italy, Signora Nicolleli. The papers reported her to be talented, vivacious, and stunningly elegant. etcetera, etcetera…
Emmaline tossed the paper aside, her eyes boring into the offensive sheets.
Thinking on it, she picked up the paper and crushed it into a sloppy ball and threw it to the floor. Since it did not make her feel better, she reached for it again.
Sophie snatched the copy, intercepting Emmaline’s efforts. “I’ll take that.” She unwrinkled the ball and ran a smoothing hand over the surface several times and read for herself. She muttered something a lady of good Quality should never think, let alone breathe aloud. “I’ve seen her. She really isn’t that beautiful.” She smiled unconvincingly at Emmaline.
Emmaline’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.” There was something disheartening in going through life being considered tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled Emmaline in her first Season. She waved a hand over herself. “It is no wonder he has no interest in marrying me.” That, and as he’d pointed out, the fact he’d had to rescue her on two separate occasions. She snorted. As though she needed rescuing. Why, with his scandalous pursuits and history, he probably needed rescuing a good deal more than Emmaline ever had or would.
Emmaline sighed. “Thank you for your support, Sophie but it isn’t necessary. I know what I look like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Em. You are utterly lovely.” Sophie spoke with such stringent confidence, had Emmaline been anyone else, she might have believed her.
Emmaline pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Come, Sophie. I’ve already come to terms with the fact I will never be considered a great beauty.”
“Why, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Leave it to Sophie to remind her of the one attribute she could not find much fault with. For all her plainness, Emmaline’s eyes were pleasing. Her father used to say they were the color of warmed chocolate, and through them, her every emotion could be revealed. As a girl, it had sounded so poetic. Now, grown up, she’d come to find such transparency was anything but positive amidst the gossiping ton.
At thoughts of her father, she sighed. He’d been gone now three years and the pain of that loss still hurt.
As she and Sophie nibbled at their pastries, Emmaline contemplated her circumstances.
Her frustration stemmed from so much more than Lord Drake’s avoidance of her. Somewhere along the way, she had begun to question her late Father’s manipulation of her future. At some moment, a time she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d grown resentful that the decision to marry had been wrested from her hands when she’d been a mere child. And yet, whether Lord Drake had been short with a baldpate or whether he was a specimen of male perfection, Emmaline felt obligated to make a go out of her circumstances. For Father.
“It’s hardly fair he should be so blasted perfect,” Emmaline muttered. “Can’t he have a flaw? A high-forehead, jiggling jowls? A paunch? Something.”
Sophie laughed. “You are the only person to complain that her betrothed is too handsome.”
“You are not helping.”
“He does seem very severe whenever I see him,” Sophie offered obligingly.
Emmaline thought to their recent exchange in Kensington Gardens and sighed. Yes, that was Lord Drake’s flaw. Except it seemed to only garner further notice from the ladies.
“And he’s a war hero to boot, Sophie. What is my great accomplishment?”
“You are a wonder in the gardens.”
Emmaline snorted. Considering Drake’s regard for flowers, that great talent would hardly bring him up to scratch. “You and I both know it’s a skill no one but my family can appreciate.” The only efforts at gardening acceptable for a young lady were the flowers she stitched on the fabric in her embroidery frame.
To the ton, Emmaline remained largely—unremarkable. Which most likely explained the efforts Lord Drake went through to avoid her.
Her betrothed may have had a grand time since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, but he’d consigned her to an odd position in Society. She’d become a bit of a conundrum. Emmaline was attached but unattached, forever betrothed but never married. For these reasons, honor dictated no other gentleman could pay her court.
“Do you know, Sophie, there are times I think I might prefer being wanted by a young lord for the size of my dowry. Then at least I would be wanted for something, which is vastly better, than not being wanted at all.”
Sophie looked up from the wrinkled paper she’d resumed reading. “You’re mad! Your betrothal is the only reason you have not been pursued. Any gentleman would be honored to wed you.”
Emmaline ignored Sophie’s defense. With a sigh, she opened her clenched fist and studied the bisecting lines traversing her palm. She ran a distracted little path over the surface of her skin. She may be betrothed, but she was not unlike Sophie, who also remained unmarried. Emmaline’s betrothal to the Marquess of Drake had always been common knowledge to the ton. Nothing more than a piece of gossip dragged out by old dowagers whenever there was a dearth of more current on dits. Neither Emmaline nor Sophie were truly sought after or cared about by any gentleman. The one difference between them being Emmaline had a scrap of paper saying someone had claims to her.
Well, that was no longer enough.
“Do you know, as much as I resent the Marquess of Drake’s deplorable treatment, I cannot help but empathize with why he’s made the decisions he has?”
Sophie sputtered around a mouthful of tart. “That is far too generous of you, Em.”
Emmaline chose not to respond to Sophie’s unspoken censure and instead grabbed another pastry and nibbled the corner. She couldn’t expect Sophie to understand, and to say as much would merely come across as insulting.
Yet, Emmaline did, to some extent, recognize the reason for Drake’s annoyance. She suspected his decision to enlist had been borne of resentment that his fate had been decided for him when he’d b
een a mere boy. Perhaps he’d wanted a say in the person he would wed and spend the rest of his days with. Perhaps he’d wanted a great beauty to arouse grand passions—like his opera singer.
Perhaps he’d felt those things because she herself felt them. Well, all those things except for the opera singer, of course.
She yearned for some control in her life, ached to know love and grand passion, too. But it was gauche to even think such thoughts.
Over her long walk home from Kensington Gardens, she’d put a great deal of consideration into her circumstances. In spite of her dreams and wishes, Emmaline had made a commitment to her father. And blast it all, she would try to make something of this betrothal—whether Lord Drake wanted it or not.
“Whatever it is the Marquess of Drake feels, I no longer care. It is time for him to grow up and honor his obligations.” She flinched at thinking of herself as an obligation, and then shoved away any self-pity. The days of woe-is-me were officially at an end. It was time for the Marquess of Drake to be brought up to snuff, and she was just the woman to do it.
“What are you thinking?”
Emmaline’s jaw set. “I am done waiting for the Marquess of Drake. I want a real marriage or nothing at all.” Emmaline ticked on her fingers. “I want to be courted. I want him to take me riding in the park. I want him to escort me to the opera.” She grimaced at the thought of Signora Nicolleli. “Mayhap not the opera, but perhaps Covent Garden for a play,” she amended. “And I want him to waltz with me. That’s not much to ask, is it?”
Sophie shook her head with such force she dislodged a golden curl from her chignon. “Hardly, the man is after all your betrothed.”
Emmaline gave an emphatic nod. “His days of bowing over my hand and beating a hasty retreat are at an end. I’m going to bring him up to scratch and if I can’t…” She paused. “I haven’t determined all the details, but what I do know is I will be speaking to my brother about this farce of a betrothal.”
Sophie gasped.
Emmaline well knew it was one thing to be displeased with the Marquess of Drake’s lack of attention, it was quite another to speak of severing the legal contract between their families. She folded her arms. “I’m not getting any younger. Why I’m already twenty years old.”
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 3