The alcove curtain stirred.
“Emmaline?”
The sound of Emmaline’s name being called from behind the fabric had the same effect as a bucket of freezing Thames water being dumped over her. She went motionless. Her gaze darted around the cloaked alcove, and collided with Drake’s. “My brother,” she mouthed.
He held a finger to his lips.
“Emmaline,” Sebastian called in a faint whisper so as to not risk discovery.
She waited with breath held for him to continue on his way—all the while knowing with one word, one whisper, even so much as a sigh, her and Drake’s intimate position would be revealed, and both of them would be forced into a union.
A marriage based on a compromising position was not what Emmaline dreamed of for herself. Other young ladies might only care about an advantageous match but Emmaline wanted more.
What might have been seconds or minutes felt like an endless stretch of time. They waited. And waited.
The soft tread of Hessian boots moved on and indicated that Sebastian had left.
“Emmaline,” Drake whispered.
She slipped out of his arms and darted out from behind the curtains, leaving him alone.
***
Drake dropped his head against the wall and shook it back and forth. For one, inexplicable moment he’d wished Mallen had thrown back the curtain and discovered him and Emmaline. It would have meant her ruin and Drake would have been forced to do right by her.
Such senseless thinking would have only resulted in a miserable existence for Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh; uncertainty, fear, danger. Drake had committed enough wrongs in his life that he wasn’t willing to add this unpardonable sin— even if he did desire her and the peace she managed to somehow bring him.
“Emmaline! Where were you?” A voice hissed.
Drake picked his head up.
He strained to hear Emmaline’s muffled response.
“I assured Mother you knew what you were about but you are making a fool of yourself over Drake. You must have some pride,” Mallen chided.
Drake's hands curled into fists at his side. How dare Mallen speak in that haughty tone to Emmaline? Just once he wanted to plant a left-handed jab into the other man’s face, just bury a fist into his nose.
“This is neither the time nor the place, Sebastian.”
Drake envisioned her with hands planted atop her gently-curved hips, a becoming flush on her cheeks, and all the desire he’d quashed earlier, came rushing back.
“You walked off on Waxham,” Mallen charged. “It was rude of you. He’s always been…”
The wicked trail Drake’s thoughts had been meandering down, meandered right over the edge of a steep cliff. Waxham? What was this about?
“Enough, Sebastian,” she bit out.
For once, Drake wanted Mallen to continue running his mouth because he wanted to know why exactly it should matter that Emmaline had walked off on Waxham and what Waxham had always been. Had Waxham always been like a brother to her? In love with her? What the hell had Waxham been? The unspoken words were perhaps worse than the not knowing. They made him gnash his teeth and want to bloody Waxham senseless.
“You need to be prepared, that is all I’m saying. Come. We’ll discuss this on the way to London Hospital tomorrow.” Mallen effectively ended the conversation.
Drake listened to the click of Mallen’s boot steps in harmony with the pad of her soft silk slippers, until they were no more. Long after they’d gone, when the concert had already begun, Drake finally moved out from behind the spot, tormented by the bloody niggling question; what the hell was Emmaline’s relationship with Lord Waxham?
He knew of the other man. Waxham was deep in the pockets. Fond of the tables but not overly fond. Kept one mistress but didn’t frequent houses of ill-repute. Had respectable stables of horseflesh, which he bred and raced. Sparred regularly at Gentleman’s Jackson’s and was quite good at it.
In sum, the other man was a bloody paragon.
And suddenly, Drake hated him for it.
He moved into view of the concert, filled with a restless fury. With the exception of a lovely lyrical soprano voice, the auditorium was silent. He spied Sinclair seated at the back of the room, the end seat next to him open and made his way over.
“There you are. Where the hell were you off to?” Sin whispered as Drake slid into the vacant seat. “It’s bad enough I’m attending these events with you, quite another to be abandoned amidst match-making mamas.”
He ignored Sinclair. From his vantage, he could appraise the entire hall. Where the hell was she?
Then he spotted auburn tresses he’d recognize amidst any crowd. He pointedly ignored Sin’s knowing chuckle. What had happened this evening? Whatever had transpired had been significant. For the life of him, he was incapable of looking at anyone but her.
He did not know what had compelled him to return her kiss and in nearly full view of the ton. And God help him, he could not rid himself of the taste of her lips or the eager way she’d sought his tutelage.
Drake tried to account for his fascination with Lady Emmaline, a woman he’d steered clear of for the better part of fifteen years. She was unlike every lady of his acquaintance. Those other women had perfected the art of coquetry. They’d fluttered their fans exactly the same, worn like serene expressions.
On the contrary, Emmaline possessed a spirit that seemed indomitable. There was no mask where she was concerned. She made it quite clear exactly how she felt and made no apologies for it.
His eyes remained fixed on her.
And he became aware of something else.
“Waxham.”
Sin cast a sideways look in his direction. “What?”
The gentleman seated beside Emmaline leaned down and whispered something into her ear. With a smile, she tipped her head up, and appeared to whisper something back before redirecting her attention to their host’s eldest daughter, who’d just launched into an aria.
Mallen and Emmaline’s discussion a short while ago replayed in Drake’s mind. His gut tightened as an emotion that felt remarkably like jealousy reared its head. Just seeing Waxham seated beside Emmaline did something to Drake; something he did not like at all. He wanted to storm the room, drag Waxham up by the lapels of his jacket, and throw him out of the bloody recital hall.
It felt—primal.
Why should he care that Emmaline’s smile was far too warm or her proximity to Waxham too close? Drake’s hands balled into tight fists as he took in the overt glances the interloper directed toward Emmaline’s too low décolletage.
How dare she flaunt herself so freely under his nose, in front of the ton, no less! His first order of business in the morning would be to pay a call on her and demand more appropriateness when they were amidst Society.
Drake focused on her flagrant display with Waxham and his own indignation at being made a fool of in front of the lords and ladies in attendance. His ferocity had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d come to care for Emmaline.
Nothing at all…
Except…
Waxham whispered something else close to Emmaline’s ear.
And the feeling of wanting to tear the man apart did not feel like nothing at all.
Chapter 16
My Dearest Drake,
When I tend the gardens, I talk to my plants. Do you find that odd? Sebastian does. He teases me mercilessly about it. I told him my plants make for far better company than him.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
“You have a visitor, my lady.”
Emmaline sat back on her heels so abruptly her elbow knocked the collection of gardening equipment she’d set haphazardly against the wrought iron bench. The array of metal shovels and hoes shifted, but managed to remain fixed to their spot.
Emmaline rubbed her injured elbow. “Can you direct my caller here?”
When the servant had left, she tugged the straw bonnet off her head, swiped her forea
rm across the sheen of perspiration that dampened her brow.
She’d not been expecting Sophie, and had planned on dedicating her day to cleaning up the weeds that had decided to infiltrate her London haven. They both had a mutual love for gardening and Sophie was usually eager to help. Emmaline set her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons underneath her chin.
Emmaline returned her attention to the lilies of the valley. She’d cultivated the sweet-smelling woodland plant several years ago. According to legend, the small, pure white buds represented a return to happiness and therefore, it was one of the flowers she liked to share with the soldiers who resided in London Hospital.
She trimmed back some of the buds, set the delicate ivory bellflowers into the basket next to her, and returned her attention to the next dainty row that needed rescuing from a cluster of weeds.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful, my dears. I’ve been busy in pursuit of my betrothed, and I feel my efforts in that score have only resulted in my neglect of you. It is unpardonable and I shan’t let it happen again.” She tugged a particularly stubborn weed that had wrapped around the base of the plant. She twisted it first left, then right, before yanking it straight up. “You are a tenacious one,” she muttered.
“I would say the same of you, Lady Emmaline,” a masculine voice drawled.
Emmaline careened backwards and landed in an inelegant heap upon her derriere at Drake’s feet. She stared overly long at the tips of his perfectly shined black Hessian boots and gave thanks for the wide brim of her flat-brimmed hat that shielded the stain of mortification that warmed her cheeks.
Sebastian had forever mocked the bonnet, but now, more than ever, Emmaline had a deep appreciation for it. The brim kept Lord Drake blessedly out of view. When her face had cooled, she tilted it back. “You are not Sophie.” The words came out faintly accusing.
Drake’s firm lips twitched at the corners. “No, I am certainly not Miss Winters.”
Emmaline toyed with the weed she still held in her hand. She could only imagine what Lord Drake thought about his betrothed working in a garden like any common servant. If he’d been scandalized by her preference for a gothic novel, well then this offense was surely tantamount to treason in his pompous eyes.
He continued to study her with that unreadable expression. The man must be a marvel at the gaming tables. She dropped the weed and scooped up a small bit of warm, moist soil, and sifted it through her fingers. A thin, slimy worm became caught between her fingers. She released the creature. It slithered off, deeper into a safe patch of ground away from prying hands—out of sight.
A sigh of envy escaped her. Lucky creature. What she wouldn’t herself give to have the ground open and swallow her deep into its hold of invisibility. She cast a hopeful gaze to the sky, willing the Good Lord to assist with a miracle.
Several moments later, Drake cleared his throat.
Emmaline sighed. Apparently the Lord was attending to more important miracles than rescuing one peculiar young lady from a healthy bout of humiliation.
She dusted her hands together. “Lord Drake.”
Drake held out a hand.
Emmaline glanced down at her mud-spattered fingernails, and then placed it in Drake’s, marveling at the strength of his long fingers wrapped so securely about hers. He effortlessly guided her to her feet, and she wondered that he should be so unaffected by the feel of their joined hands when it had sent her heart racing.
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, bemoaning the loss of contact when he removed his hand from her grasp. She dusted off her hands upon the chintz apron she’d donned for gardening. Her tools jangled in the front pockets.
“You garden.”
“I am surprised to see you.”
They spoke in unison.
“Yes, I garden.” She frowned at the pile of weeds at their feet. “Though I fear I’ve been neglecting these far too long this Season.”
A full smile turned Drake’s lips. This wasn’t the mocking grin she’d come to expect from him.
Her heart leapt erratically beneath her breast.
“Uh, yes, I overheard that as well,” Drake said.
Her toes curled with mortification. Of course he’d heard that. And of course the day he chose to pay his first visit, she would be less than presentable. She grimaced. With her stained skirts, ‘less than presentable’ was being magnanimous.
To top off this splendidly disastrous day, he’d discovered her talking to plants…about him no less.
“I have a tendency to talk to my plants.”
He said nothing and Emmaline felt all the more humiliation for the admission. Stop talking, Em.
Over Drake’s shoulder, she caught sight of Grace as she entered the gardens. The maid sat on a bench near the entrance of the portcullis.
Emmaline waited for Drake to fill the void. She’d learned over the years; nothing her betrothed did was without careful deliberation. Something had brought him round to visit today…and she didn’t think it had a jot to do with her stimulating company.
“I’ve come by for a reason.”
And direct. Lord Drake was direct.
Well, they may as well get to the heart of it. Oh, but how nice it would have been if he’d merely come for a visit. She sighed. “What brings you here, my lord?”
“About last evening,” he began. “I saw you and I must inquire as to your flirtation last evening.”
In the full light of day, memories of her brazen kiss from the evening prior made her cringe. She toed the ground with the tip of her black boot, kicking aside a soft patch of mud. Oh, if she could just dig a hole and bury herself. “I-ah—it was merely a kiss.” But it hadn’t been just a kiss. In fact, it felt blasphemous to so slight that magical union of their lips.
A vein bulged at the left corner of his neck, the only indication of his tightly suppressed control. “Just a kiss?” he asked silkily.
Now she’d gone and done it. She’d offended his male pride. Emmaline waved her hand breezily, or rather gave her best attempt at breezy. “La, sir. You’ve kissed so many ladies. I cannot imagine my kissing one gentleman would rouse such a stuffy reaction.” She cringed. Had she really just said, La sir?
“You kissed him, too?”
She scratched her forehead. “I kissed who, too?”
“Him,” he growled.
“Do you mean, you?” His convoluted questioning was beginning to give her a megrim. “And I would hardly call it a flirtation,” she added.
His eyes narrowed, the emerald deepening to a jade hue, as they were wont to do when he was irate. Emmaline had come to know Drake enough to recognize that telling reaction.
She placed her hands on her hips and glowered back at him. “How cowardly of you to blame me. I daresay you are of equal blame for what transpired last evening.”
He took a step towards her and she scrambled away from him. She didn’t believe he’d hurt her but still, gentlemen fought duels for lesser charges against one's character.
Drake’s lip pulled back in a sneer. “Are you saying I’m at fault for what transpired between you and Waxham?”
Emmaline placed her foot on a moist patch of ground and felt her boots sink into the earth. She tried to tug it free, when his words registered. “Waxham?”
“Yes, Waxham,” he bit out.
“Waxham?” Whatever was he talking about?
“You kissed him.”
What?! “I kissed Waxham?”
His nostrils flared, and she realized he’d construed her question as a statement. “You think I kissed him.” Emmaline snorted, and then she howled with laughter, hilarity shaking her frame until she doubled over with a stitch in her side. Tears of mirth smarted from behind her eyes. “A-are you d-daft?” She struggled to breathe. “I didn’t kiss him.”
Drake cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t kiss him?”
She dashed a hand over her eyes. “No, you silly man. I kissed you.”
He made a show of dusting t
he impeccable sleeve of his sapphire coat. “I saw you tilt your head, whisper, and smile up at him. I daresay I’ve engaged in enough flirtations to know the nuances of one. And I will not allow such flirtations to continue so long as we are betrothed.”
Emmaline shook her head. “Oh, you are daft.”
Had she been made of less stern stuff, the flinty gleam in his eyes would have caused her trepidation. But it would take more than that to make her run.
As if remembering they were not alone, Drake glanced over in Grace’s direction. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I saw you with Waxham. After shamelessly kissing me, you hurried over to flirt with him. Mayhap you have set your cap on him if you can’t bring me up to scratch.”
Emmaline’s hand flew out and she slapped him soundly on the cheek.
His head jerked back under the ferocity of the movement. He cradled his sore cheek. “Damn. For one so small, you can deliver quite the wallop.”
He deserved more than that slap and still, guilt filled her at the crimson stain her fingers had left on his scarred cheek. “Uh, why thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” he mumbled, his words somewhat muffled by the edge of his palm as he still held his cheek.
She jabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger.
“Ouch!”
“How dare you?” she demanded. “You come here.” Another jab that forced him backwards. “And reprimand, me?” Another jab. This time he flinched. Good! “You, who have forgotten for the better part of fifteen years that I so much as exist,” A fourth jab drove him back another step back. “dare to address my behavior?”
“Grace, will you excuse us?” She ordered, not even bothering to look back at her maid.
“Very well, my lady,” Grace called. The young woman’s tone indicated she approved of Emmaline’s outrage.
Emmaline redirected her attention on her betrothed. “How dare…?”
“I will not be subjected to another of your rants,” he muttered.
He kissed her.
***
Drake tugged the silly, too-large bonnet from Emmaline's head. The hasty movement unsettled the precarious chignon in which her silken brown tresses had been arranged, and sent the chocolate waves tumbling to her waist. Had he really ever thought the color mousy? He tangled his fingers in the luxurious strands, angling his head to better avail himself to her mouth.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 11