Drake forced his attention away from dark remembrances and to the novel he’d thrown haphazardly to the bed where it lay untouched…staring mockingly up at him.
Just the thought of his exchange with Emmaline at the Old Corner Bookstore chased away the demons dancing about his haunted mind.
Before she’d taken her leave from the bookshop, Emmaline had wished him luck.
It had turned out he would need it. The shopkeeper had looked visibly distressed that his only two copies of Glenarvon had walked out the door with his two loyal customers, leaving Drake copy-less. So had begun Drake’s quest for the sought after, scandalous novel all the ton was fascinated by.
He’d spent hours scouring bookshops without success. He’d known whom to blame for his inability to attain a copy. At each respective establishment he’d visited, a note had been left with the shopkeeper for Lord Drake. It had contained one line. “Happy Hunting!”
Drake laughed at the memory of it and shook his head. What was it about her? She possessed a buoyant spirit that energized him in a way that reminded him he was very much alive.
In the end, Drake had prevailed and found a copy of the book. To prevent rumor of his reading-search from being bandied about Town, Drake had paid every shopkeeper a small fortune to keep his selection private.
He picked up the volume of Glenarvon and scoffed. What utter rubbish. Why the pages would be better served as kindling for a fire. He thumbed through the book, unable to stifle a smile at the caricatures of some of the tons leading members; Lady Jersey, there, plain for all to see. The patroness of Almack’s fury had been so great, she’d banished the author from the hallowed assembly hall.
Lying down, he dragged another pillow under his head and opened the book.
Only because the minx had a significant lead on him.
Drake gave his head a shake. “I cannot believe I’m reading this.” He fanned the pages, his eyes landing at a random point and read.
“She is even dangerously ill.”
“And pray may I ask of what malady?" he replied, with a smile of scorn.”
“Of one, Lord Glenarvon," she answered with equal irony,” which will never endanger your health—of a broken heart."
Drake snorted. “What rubbish.” He intended to tell his betrothed the next time he saw her.
He turned to the first chapter and began to read.
***
“Wake up, son. Wake up!”
Drake lunged up. Beads of sweat fell from his brow. He threw off his father’s grip and the energy seeped from his tightly coiled body. He studied the room through a clouded haze of horror, as he tried to sort out where his physical body was.
His gaze collided with his father’s. The Duke of Hawkridge said nothing. He never did after Drake recovered from one of his terrors.
Drake raked a hand across his face, and scrubbed it back and forth, with deliberate roughness. “I had a dream,” he said.
The Duke of Hawkridge nodded somberly. “I know.”
None would dare to believe that this man with his dressing gown rucked about his legs, kneeling at Drake’s side with tears in his eyes was in fact the Duke of Hawkridge.
Drake took care to avoid his father’s eyes. “I fell asleep. I shouldn’t have.” The last time he’d awakened from a nightmare to find his father next to him, he’d looked into the duke’s eyes and found them filled with pity, guilt, and regret—it had been too much for Drake.
“You have to sleep.” His father awkwardly patted Drake’s hand.
This is how it went when the nightmares came. Afterwards, neither of them knew what to say.
Hawkridge began slowly. “About your betrothal…”
Drake’s eyes slid closed. He braced for the lecture. His father was choosing this moment to speak to him about his responsibilities?
“I want you to know, I…I want you to be happy. I will…” the Duke of Hawkridge fumbled, seeing to search for the right word, “terminate the terms of the agreement, if that is what you so wish.”
Drake didn’t say anything. The irony of the duke’s offer was not lost on him. If those words had been spoken eight years earlier, how different would his life be? His rash decision to enlist would never have come to pass.
Oddly, the offer now left Drake with a feeling of emptiness inside. Take it, accept his offer and sever the contract. It would be the ultimate victory over his father’s will.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Then tried again.
But the words wouldn’t come.
It may have had something to do with the fact that for the first time since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he felt blessedly alive. Lying in the arms of stunningly beautiful courtesans, playing at the gaming tables, none of it had elicited anything from Drake.
Somehow Lady Emmaline had succeeded where nothing else had—she’d made him feel human again. When he was with her, he laughed, made jests. She made him feel a whole host of emotions he’d never thought to experience again.
And Drake was loath to lose the thin grasp on humanity she provided.
He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m tired.”
Hawkridge stood a little too quickly, a demonstration of his discomfort with the state of his son’s well-being. “Yes, yes, then. Please think about what I’ve said.” He held a hand up, reached out, and then swiftly dropped it back to his side.
Drake watched him leave, thinking about what his father had said, and even more, thinking about why it was so hard to consider accepting the offer.
Chapter 15
My Dearest Drake,
I have a confession. I am lonely. How odd, to have a mother, a father, a brother and frequent visitors, and yet still be lonely…I wish you’d come home soon and take me away from it all.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Somewhere amidst the crush of people who had shown up for the musical event of the Season, Lord Drake was present.
The Earl and Countess of Cranford had all daughters; five of them to be exact, which provided a sufficient number for a whole evening’s worth of musical entertainment. The young ladies, ranging from seventeen to two and twenty, were as gifted musically as they were stunning examples of golden, blue-eyed, English beauty. Each lady possessed a crystal-clear tone and broad range that would make a choir of angels green with envy. And thus, the event had become the only musicale that members of the ton looked forward to.
Emmaline scanned the hall.
Lord Sinclair had sent around a note indicating Lord Drake would be in attendance. She glanced over at her mother, engrossed in conversation with Lady Bloom, who therefore couldn’t notice Emmaline’s pointed search for Lord Drake. It was bad enough Emmaline had to deal with Sebastian’s censure over her pursuit of her betrothed. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to fend off Mother’s disapproval, as well.
Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lord Sinclair had insisted Drake would be present and yet…this wasn’t her betrothed’s usual entertainment. No, he’d far prefer balls where he could receive the attentions of scandalous, voluptuous widows. She could not even begin to speculate as to Drake’s motives in attending the annual musicale. There must be some woman in attendance who’d captured his interest.
Her mother touched the small of her back and Emmaline started. She’d not realized Lady Bloom had taken her leave.
“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,” her mother said.
Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall, to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.
Of late, Sebastian had begun to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.
Emmaline sighed. 'Twas a dark
day indeed when one's brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.
Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and her mother’s direction.
Emmaline groaned.
Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.
“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed, Mother.”
“Don’t be silly. He is not…”
Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.
As if sensing her daughter’s intentions, she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.
“My dear sister and mother! Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.
Emmaline winced. If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.
Her mother’s brows narrowed.
Emmaline dipped a curtsy and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”
“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake. He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.
A tide of guilt swept over her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”
He grinned. “Better now.”
A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.
From an objective point of view, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.
The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.
“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked.
An inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”
Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?” Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.
Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.
“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.
He laughed, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding ton.
His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed.
The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.
Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.
The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.
“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.
In the end, she settled for running into Lady Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish? For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.
Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder that one must tread carefully.”
The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.
Lady Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.
Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”
Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”
“Lady Emmaline,” Lady Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.
Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning you.” Every single member of the ton knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.
An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her blonde curls and then left on a huff.
Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh. Emmaline gave him a sly wink.
Drake’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.
“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”
Fury fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.
Sinclair leaned close and whispered back. “He does appear bothered.”
Drake took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.
His manacle like hold on her person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form, pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.
His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.
She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment. Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”
Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line. “You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”
Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck, and she felt the color leech from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you are a fool, my lord.”
His turbulent jade-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.
No words he uttered could
ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage. The lout!
She found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.
“Move,” she snapped.
Damn him.
Drake looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”
And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response, she leaned up and kissed him.
He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.
The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.
Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.
It was that same moan that seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.
Emmaline touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.
And yet…he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.
The detachedness of his response threatened to shatter her composure. How could he kiss her with such fever and then withdraw into this shell of a man? Something must have shaped him into a detached person incapable of warmth and affection.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 10