Drake handed the servant a card. “His Grace is expecting me.”
Carmichael assisted him out of his cloak and handed it to a nearby servant.
The butler motioned for Lord Drake to follow. “Right this way, my lord.” Emmaline watched him go. His boots tapped methodically on the marble floor. Then he froze, and suddenly whipped back around.
She pressed tight against the other side of the column, furtively studying his actions.
His unreadable jade stare quickly panned the foyer, before swiveling back and settling on the column that served as her hiding place.
Emmaline smothered a gasp with her hand, torn between laughter and tears. Drake had a way of doing that. Of somehow, knowing just where she was.
“My lord? This way, if you please,” Carmichael prompted.
He inclined his head and then continued on to Sebastian’s office.
When she was certain he’d gone, Emmaline dashed from behind her hiding place, and raced to her brother’s office.
Once upon a lifetime ago, Emmaline had been a little girl seated in her father’s office swinging her legs to and fro, opposite a young boy. She’d been unaware of the goings on across the room. Fifteen years later, the little girl had been replaced by a woman, now barred from that very same room. Now she stood at the fringe of a closed door.
Unlike that time from her girlhood past, Emmaline knew exactly what was being discussed between the present duke and her betrothed. And found she preferred the not knowing.
The large paneled oak door muted the voices closeted away in the office.
“Come away from that door, Emmaline,” her mother hissed from the hall.
Emmaline ignored her. Even if Emmaline was eavesdropping like a small girl, she was in fact a grown woman.
“Emmaline.”
Emmaline leveled her mother with a forceful stare. “No,” she mouthed silently.
When her mother took several steps closer, Emmaline held up a staying hand.
“By God. Mother, everything has been dictated to me since I was five years old. I’m telling you now, I need to be here. Please go, lest I be discovered.”
For the first time in her entire life, the usually eloquent Duchess of Mallen appeared speechless. With great gentleness, she took Emmaline’s face between her hands and dropped a kiss upon her forehead.
“You are right, my dear. I have imposed enough of my will on your life.” She spared another glance at the door. “Find me when it’s done.”
The seconds ticked by and the muffled sound of speaking grabbed her. “Mother,” Emmaline said urgently.
“Right, right,” she whispered and with obvious hesitancy, left Emmaline alone.
Emmaline shifted her focus to the heavy oak door, wishing it was instead a mere slip of a curtain so the exchange could be unfiltered. On the heels of that thought came a startling realization. It hit her with all the force of an unexpected summer lightning storm; the implication of the momentous proceedings on the other side of the door managed to suck all strength from her limbs.
The stoic force she’d found to face down her mother left her on a silent breath and she realized this would be the last time Drake ever entered her home. Never again would he tease her. Or stroke her body like a virtuoso, who’d been gifted a new instrument. For when Drake exited Sebastian’s library, he would cease to be a part of her life. All they’d shared, from teeth-gritting annoyance to easy companionability would fade into nothing more than a fleeting memory of a brief time she’d been close to complete and utter rapture.
After a copious amount of tears shed for her betrothed, Emmaline had risen that morning certain she couldn’t manage one more salty drop for Drake.
A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped at it with an aggravated hand. Apparently she’d been wrong.
* * *
“A drink?” Mallen offered. He gestured to the open bottle of brandy.
Drake gave a curt shake. “A bit early for a drink, no?”
One of Mallen’s dark brows arched. “Not one for social niceties, are you?”
Drake’s jaw hardened. He forced himself to unfurl his tightly clenched fist.
He would be damned if he gave in to Mallen’s attempt to draw him into a row. He’d caused Emmaline enough hurt and wouldn’t further add to it by beating her brother to a bloody pulp in her home.
Mimicking the pompous duke, Drake arched a cool, mocking brow. “Is this why you asked me here? For a social visit?”
“Sit, sit!” Mallen urged and reclaimed the seat behind his desk.
Drake settled into one of the leather winged-back chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him.
Mallen propped his chin on steepled fingers and drummed them together. “You know why you’re here,” he said at last.
Drake gritted his teeth. “Have out with it already.”
Mallen leaned forward and reached for a leather folio. He pulled out several documents, appeared to review them, and then reached for his pen. The duke dipped it in ink and scratched his signature on a series of pages.
He signed the final document and settled the pen back into its crystal well with a decisive click. “I am severing the contract between you and Emmaline.” Mallen shoved the open portfolio across the surface of his otherwise immaculate desk.
Drake had known this exchange was coming, and yet his stomach twisted with an agonized pain.
A contract.
Over the past few months, Emmaline had become so very much more than a contract. She’d become the sole reason for Drake’s every happiness. She represented all that was courageous and strong. And the bloody scraps of parchment would erase all of that from his life.
His heartbeat increased, forcing him to draw a deep, shaky breath.
Mallen’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s get on with it.”
Drake reached for the damned documents. He proceeded to read them with deliberate slowness. He turned the pages with such jerky movements he ripped one of the sheets. When he finished reading them, he set them aside.
Mallen spoke. “I’m perplexed. Based on your previous sentiments, I should think you’d be very eager to put your signature to the documents.”
Drake growled. “Sod off.”
Still, he didn’t pick up the pen. His gaze wandered off to the sconce of lit candles throughout the room. How easy it would be to cross to one of those small torches and carry it back to the bloody document and set the whole foul piece ablaze.
Mallen leaned across his desk and tapped the parchment. “Your signature, Drake.”
Drake lunged to his feet. He wrenched the pen from its crystal container, held it aloft, so that ink smattered the duke’s desk and paper. He glowered at Mallen. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?” Mallen drawled.
Rage filled Drake. He scribbled his name hastily, and again dipped the pen in the inkwell. “You have never liked me.” He could not bite back the seething hatred he felt for the other man.
“Oh, come. We both know the sentiments have been mutual.”
Drake scratched his signature on another parchment. “Whole-heartedly.”
“Can you answer me this, Drake?”
Drake paused and glanced up.
“You ignored Emmaline for fifteen years. You ran off to fight a war, and left your responsibilities behind. You’ve made it clear to Society how you felt about your betrothal. You returned and carried on with a whole host of women, you drink, you gamble.” Mallen paused, probing eyes, seemed to search out answers. “And yet, you don’t strike me as a man eager to sign the severance document. Why is that?”
Drake set the pen down, and leveling his palms on the desktop, leaned forward. “You are not betrothed to anyone, Your Grace. Why is that?” He didn’t allow Mallen to answer. “It is because you made that choice. Had you been a boy of three and ten and had that very important decision taken away from you, well, then I’m sure then you might understand some of my ration
ale.”
Mallen inclined his head. “You might be right. That is neither here nor there,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What matters is Emmaline is still my sister, and I would see her cared for.” He motioned to the documents. “Get on with it.”
Drake dropped his stare to the parchment. With the black ink, he’d made a mess of one of the sheets. He wondered if the document would even be considered legal.
“You did not answer my question,” the duke said.
Drake would be damned if he fed the other man’s curiosity. He signed the final sheet. Straightening, he threw the pen onto the desk where it landed with a thunk. “No, no I am not.”
Silence descended.
It is done.
Mallen reached his hand across the desk, and Drake stared at it blankly. He wanted to snarl at him. Tell him to go to the Devil. Sebastian shook his hand. They were after all, gentlemen.
He turned to leave.
“Drake?”
He froze, keeping his back to the other man.
“In spite of what you believe, I don’t hate you.”
Drake managed a dry laugh but didn’t answer; because if he did all he’d end up saying was he couldn’t care less about what Mallen felt for him. Instead he nodded.
“Do you know why we’ve never gotten along, Drake?”
God, the man was a termagant. Tenacious.
Like his sister. Oh God, why did that thought hurt so bloody much? Drake turned around. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” he bit out.
Mallen smiled. “We never got along because we resented each other. You resent me because I love her. And I resent you because you do not.”
He measured Mallen’s words for a long moment.
“One more thing.”
Drake froze. Waited.
“Can I ask why you didn’t want to marry her?”
He swallowed once. Twice. Then gave a jerky shake of his head.
“That is not something I’m willing to share with you, Mallen.” With a curt bow, Drake did what he’d been longing to do since he’d gotten there—he left.
He stormed out quickly and nearly stumbled upon the young woman hovering against the wall.
He froze. He eyed her, beset by a range of different emotions; agony, regret, hopelessness. She’d been the last thread holding him to humanity. What am I without you?
The moment seemed to stretch into forever.
“Goodbye, Emmaline,” he said hoarsely. “It was never my intention to hurt you. Please know that.”
Emmaline’s expressive brown eyes pooled with tears. “Goodbye, Drake.”
Then he left, knowing until he drew his last breath, he’d be haunted by the sorrowful image of her standing there.
* * *
Emmaline sank against the wall. She pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.
Sebastian opened the office door and tugged her into the room away from any potential gossipy servants and when he’d closed the door, promptly pulled her into his arms. “Shh,” he murmured against the crown of her hair.
She wept against his shirtfront. She had wanted this. So why did it hurt so much?
“I asked him, Em.”
“I-I know.” She’d heard the whole exchange.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get your answers.”
Not as sorry as I am.
Chapter 28
Dearest Lord Drake,
I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake strode down St. James Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.
News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.
The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.
Drake’s jaw twitched. Apparently not even his club would serve as a sanctuary. He looked straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the gentlemen who were as eager as the matrons at Almack’s for a juicy morsel of gossip.
His progress across the club was halted by a bold dandy attired in gold breeches and a flamboyant orange jacket. The man stepped into his path, slowing Drake’s path to the empty table in the far, far corner. Drake held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the offending hues. The candlelight flickered and bounced off the shine of the dandy’s satin fabrics. Why, with the seemingly constant rainy days in London, all they needed to do was drag out this fop to brighten the sky.
“My lord—”
“What?”
Drake’s dangerous whisper echoed around the still of the room. The gentlemen seated, drinking their traitorous French brandies and placing bets, drew in a collective, audible breath.
The color blanched from the young man’s cheeks. “Uh-I-uh…p-pardon me.” He scurried off like a rodent being chased by the house cat.
Drake deviated from his path and headed toward the famous betting book. He picked up a pen and scribbled a wager into the infamous log. Slamming the pen into the crystal inkwell, he marched over and at last reached the table furthest from the crowd of gentlemen.
A hesitant majordomo approached. He cleared his throat. “My lord is there something—?”
“A bottle of whiskey,” he growled.
With lightning speed, a bottle was procured, along with a tumbler.
Drake picked up the bottle and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor into the glass. He tossed it back and welcomed the fiery trail it burned down the back of his throat. His lips twisted up in a grimace. God, it was a foul brew. He’d hated it when he was in Oxford and he hated it even more now. But he’d be damned if he picked up a bloody bottle of French brandy. All in all, the vile stuff would serve the very same purpose. He again reached for the bottle and sloshed liquid to the rim. Before the night was through, he had every intention of getting mind-numbingly foxed.
Just then, his eyes snagged on the copy of the Times, resting on the table. The corner of his eye ticked, once, then twice. And because he’d developed a taste for self-torture, he reached for the offending paper and proceeded to skim. There it was. On the front page, in dark bold print were two familiar initials.
Lady E. F.
Why didn’t they print the entire bloody names anyways? Every last bugger in the whole bloody kingdom knew each lord or lady mentioned by initials in the scandal sheets. So why stand on ceremony?
They should have out with it already. The paper should come right out and say: The Earl of Waxham has launched a whirlwind courtship of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh.
With fingers that shook, he poured several more fingerfuls into his empty glass. God, he thought he might be sick. He wanted to blame it on the amber brew, then he tortured himself with the excerpt once again. Nausea roiled and it was all he could do to keep from casting up the accounts of his stomach right there in the middle of White’s.
Waxham hadn’t wasted any time. It had been four bloody days since Drake had signed those damned documents. Four days of regrets. Four days of despair.
In each of the four sleepless nights, he’d railed at himself for signing Mallen’s bloody papers. Why hadn’t he told the other man to go to the devil?
Because of her. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about Emmaline. Drake didn’t merely desire her. He ached for her with a pain-like ferocity. Her happiness and safety meant more to him than even his own. A bitter laugh escaped him. Who would have believed, the emotionless Lord Drake would ever come to care for the same lady he’d spent his life avoiding? Oh, it was the kind of drivel poets wrote about, the kind of nons
ense he himself scoffed at.
Until her.
He’d told himself countless times she was better off without him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. Other times he honed in on those words stuck in his mind. Drake willed himself to accept her loss so he could move forward and be free of her sorceress-like hold.
Instead his want for her grew stronger. The feelings swelled each time he read her name.
But this—thoughts of her and Waxham—it was too much. He was strong. He wasn’t that strong. He’d rather face down a line of Boney’s men than confront this horror.
Drake tortured himself with images of her married to Waxham. Waxham lifting up her skirts, pleasuring her, rutting between her thighs—giving her children. He choked on the sip of whiskey that had been sliding down his throat, nearly gagging on it.
“You look like hell.”
Drake didn’t glance up. “I’m not looking for company, Sin.”
Sin waved off the majordomo who hurried over. “Ah-yes, I assumed as much based on your wager in the books.” He hooked his boot around the leg of the chair and tugged it out. “Really, Drake? A wager on which gentlemen would be foolish enough to seek out your company? I took the liberty of having that bet crossed out.”
Drake didn’t give a damn about the wager he’d put in the books. All he cared about was getting inebriated and tamping down images of Emmaline folded in Waxham’s embrace. Emmaline laughing up at the paragon. Emmaline…
Sin snatched the paper from between his tightly clenched fingers. “Ahh, so this is about the lady.”
Drake placed his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, seething. “By the love of God, if you mention her name I will bloody your face.”
Sin threw back his head and laughed. “I swear, if I didn’t know you since we were mere boys that might alarm me.”
How wonderful that Sin could find amusement when Drake was so bloody miserable. “What do you want?”
Sin’s smile slipped. He made it a point of tugging his chair directly in front of Drake, effectively blocking him from the voyeurs present. “I want to know you are all right.”
“Why, I couldn’t be better.”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 96