“I don’t know how to take the step,” he said.
Sin’s visage reflected back in the glass pane. He remained seated. “You just…do it, Drake. You tell your brain to tell your feet to move one at a time, and march up Mallen’s steps, and demand to see Emmaline. Then you read her your poem.” He picked up the poem in question and grimaced. “Well, maybe not this one, per se.”
Drake pressed his forehead against the cool window.
Could it be that simple? He glanced over his shoulder at the bouquet of cerastium and the poem still held in Sinclair’s hand.
He’d fought a bloody war…how hard could this be? In one of her notes to him, one of the notes that had never been sent, she’d called herself a coward, but it was he who was the coward.
He picked up the dreary looking flowers from his desk.
“You can’t go now,” Sinclair stuttered.
Drake paused. “Whyever not?”
Sinclair blinked several times. His eyes landed on the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantle. “It is nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Mallen is hosting an intimate dinner party with Waxham. Whyever not, indeed?”
A fiery pit of jealousy flared in Drake’s stomach. “Waxham, you say? Why, then I can’t think of a better time to pay a visit.”
“Mallen’s going to give you hell,” Sin predicted with a grin.
Drake smiled. “She’s worth it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of his office. Sir Faithful gave a yap of approval.
Sin hurried after him. “Rude leaving your friend and all. Perhaps you’d like some company along the way? Just to make certain you’ve thought through everything you are going to say when you interrupt the duke’s intimate dinner party.”
Drake growled low in his throat. “Stop calling it an intimate dinner party.” Intimate was the last word he wanted to come to mind when thinking of Waxham and Emmaline.
He flung back the front door and marched down the steps. Sin trailed after him.
“Not the thing, opening your own doors, you know. Your first order of business really should have been to set up at least a butler and housekeeper. Oh, and of course a chef. Not one of those French fellows that seem all the rage—”
Drake paused mid-stride.
It took a moment before Sin, who’d been prattling on, took note. He looked over his shoulder. “Have you forgotten something? Changed your mind?”
“You do know the last thing on my mind right now is assembling a staff for my new residence? You, of course, remember I am heading out to humble myself before the lady who severed our betrothal?”
“Yes, yes,” Sin paused. “In the middle of Mallen’s intimate dinner with Waxham.”
He growled. “Stop referring to it as…”
“I know, I know, an intimate dinner party. Really, you must do your best to hide that nasty sneer when you march into Mallen’s. It will neither win you the lady nor make you a fast friend of the duke.”
“I am not looking to make friends with Mallen.”
Sin quirked a brow. “I might remind you that you require Mallen’s approval just as much as your require the lady’s approval.”
Damn, he hated it when Sin was right. Which meant Drake needed to win over both Emmaline and the foul-tempered Duke of Mallen. He didn’t know which was going to be a greater challenge. And he only had a matter of moments to settle on a course of action.
Sin cleared his throat and motioned to the townhouse in front of them. “Here we are.”
Drake stared up at the white façade. “Already?”
“Already.”
Apparently, he’d run out of time to develop a proper plan of attack to win over Emmaline and Mallen.
Drake stood rooted to the pavement, and continued to stare up at the elegant white townhouse, its windows aglow with soft candlelight. He recalled marching up the very same steps as a boy filled with anxiety. He’d been terrified at the prospect of seeing his betrothed. It would appear, in fifteen years, not much had changed in that regard. Only now he feared rejection at her hands.
He glanced down at the sorely wilted bouquet in his hands, and froze. With his free hand, he frantically felt around his jacket.
His frenzied search was met with a beleaguered sigh from Sin, who brandished a scrap of paper and waved it about. “Here it is. I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about the poem.”
Drake took it with a word of thanks, re-reading through the terrible attempt. He grimaced. It really was quite horrendous.
“Ahem,” Sin cleared his throat. “I said, ah—”
“I heard you,” Drake bit out. He continued to stand there.
Sin tapped a finger to his chin. “I suppose you could always wait until tomorrow, say after the intimate d—”
Without a word, Drake abandoned his friend to the pavement and took the stone steps two at a time.
He’d be damned if he heard the words intimate dinner party one more time.
Chapter 32
Dearest Lord Drake,
We returned to the countryside. My brother’s friend Waxham joined us. He devoted an entire morning to helping me clear the weeds from a bed of flowers. I teased Sebastian, telling him I wish Waxham were my brother instead of him.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
With sightless eyes, Emmaline stared down at the carrot and ginger soup placed in front of her. She raised her spoon and absently stirred the parsley sprigs. What an odd soup. Who would have thought to cream carrots and…
“My lady?”
She started and dropped her spoon into the fine porcelain bowl. Liquid splattered the tablecloth made of Spanish lace. Apparently the gentleman had asked her a question.
What did he say? What did he say?
Sebastian drummed his fingers on the tabletop and glared at her. “Emmaline, Waxham asked you a question.”
Emmaline fished out the utensil, her gaze fixed on the bowl. Heat stained her neck and flooded her cheeks.
A replacement was quickly brought forward. She cleared her throat and looked over at Waxham. “My apologies, Lord Waxham, I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”
Waxham favored her with a rueful smile that said he knew she’d been woolgathering. “How was your visit to the hospital?”
She took a sip of broth. “The soldiers are always full of such stories. In spite of what they’ve seen and done, they still are capable of great laughter.”
“How could they not be joyful when you are around, my lady?”
Why couldn’t Waxham be enough? She’d known him nearly her entire life. He’d toiled alongside her many a summer’s morn in her garden. He knew her likes and dislikes. So that should be enough? But it wasn’t. She wanted the grand passion she knew with Drake. She wanted…wanted…him—the man she’d been betrothed to since she’d been a child. Would it always be this way?
“Perhaps I might join you on a visit?” Waxham’s words pulled the cloud she’d been floating on from under her, and she tumbled back to reality.
The immediate answer that sprung to her lips, which she tamped down, was an emphatic, resounding, no. The soldiers would be livid if this interloper encroached upon Captain Drake’s territory. “Uh-I…”
She dropped her spoon for the second time.
Sebastian caught her gaze and glowered at her. “That would be lovely, is the proper response,” he said.
Emmaline accepted yet another utensil, awash with panic.
“Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Emmaline?” Her mother interjected from the head of the table.
She saw the hard determination in Sebastian’s eyes. Noted the silent entreaty in her mother’s stare. Observed Waxham’s hopeful expression. Suddenly the cloying hands of pressure tightened around her throat. Breathing became difficult. Her whole life she’d been inundated with the wants and desires of everyone else. Since the moment she was born, it had never been about her. Her wishes and hopes had never once been considered.
They might not be
aware of it, but Sebastian and her mother had continued to place stringent expectations upon her shoulders, even after the severance of her betrothal.
“That would be—”
A commotion sounded beyond the closed door and the butler, Carmichael’s shout filled the hallway and filtered into the dining room. “You must not go in there. I have told you His Grace is not receiving.”
The doors flew open with such force that they bounced hard and hit the plaster of the wall. “I am not here to see His Grace.”
At sight of the imposing, virile figure in the doorway, Emmaline’s spoon clattered again, and this time it plummeted to the floor. She froze. All the breath expelled from her lungs.
Sebastian leapt to his feet. “What is this about, Drake?”
Her mother sat back in her seat and with a wide-eyed stare, took in the tableau.
Drake ignored Sebastian and held up a staying hand as if to stifle her brother’s next words. Then, Drake’s hot, jade gaze found hers, and caressed her like a physical touch.
She forgot everyone else in the room. Oh, God, he was here. He was, wasn’t he? Surely she wasn’t dreaming? Just to be sure, she snuck a hand under the table and gave her leg a little pinch.
No, this was real. Very real. The possessive gleam in his eyes heated her like a hot summer sun. Her entire life, she’d longed for him to look at her as he did now; as though she were the only person in the world.
“You owe me a picnic.” There was something faintly accusatory in his tone.
Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Emmaline. She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged. She closed it and tried again. Nothing. She shook her head.
“What’s the meaning of this? What is he talking about?”
Emmaline ignored Sebastian’s angry questions.
Her brother in turn directed his attention to Drake. “My sister owes you nothing.”
An immoveable wall of indifference and coolness, the Marquess of Drake kept a narrowed stare fixed on Emmaline.
Emmaline forced her suspicion out past dry lips. “You lied. You finished Glenarvon first, didn’t you?”
Drake’s lips twitched. “Why am I not surprised you know that, Emmaline?”
“Do not call my sister by her given name,” Sebastian said.
Drake took a step forward. “Do you know why you were a wallflower?”
A flood of humiliated heat warmed her cheeks, her chest hitched with pain.
Sebastian kicked his chair backwards with such force it tumbled to the floor. “By God, I will kill you.”
“Sebastian, no,” her mother cried.
Waxham reached a hand out to capture Emmaline’s. He gave it a faint, reassuring squeeze.
Drake’s eyes dropped to where her hand rested, entwined with Waxham’s. “I asked you a question, Emmaline.”
With alacrity in his movements, her brother advanced angrily around the long, wide dining table. “Do not make demands of my sister.”
A bitter little laugh escaped her. “I’m sure you will tell me, my lord.”
Drake moved across the room, closer to her. “Look at me,” he ordered in his Captain’s tone.
Emmaline lifted her chin and met his stare.
Drake’s throat bobbed up and down. “Because of me. It’s because of me that you sat on the bloody sidelines. You are beautiful. And you are vibrant…and the only reason gentlemen didn’t flock to your side was because of me.” His resounding words carried throughout the room and echoed off the walls.
Emmaline had fallen in love with Lord Drake two times in her life: one being when he’d rescued an old peddler woman on the street, the other being this very moment.
He devoured her with his eyes. “You are beautiful. In every way. I’ve never deserved you. I never will. Still knowing that, I have come to ask if I might court you?”
She gasped and dropped Waxham’s hand.
“No,” Sebastian barked.
Drake continued to hold up a single finger to keep an enraged Sebastian in his place.
Emmaline’s gaze fell to the bouquet of cerastium Drake held. Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them back.
Drake saw the direction of her focus. “These are for you.”
“The poor buds have wilted significantly,” she blurted.
His brow furrowed. “So I’ve been told.”
“They are still beautiful.”
A low, animalistic growl emerged from deep within Sebastian’s chest, and effectively intruded in the moment she’d shared with Drake. “I’ve watched enough of this farcical drama. I am having you physically removed. Carmichael, fetch two servants and have Lord Drake thrown into the street,” Sebastian said.
The butler hurried to do his master’s bidding.
Seeming wholly unaffected by Sebastian’s threat, Drake fished around the front of his jacket. He extracted a folded sheet of parchment, shook it out, and held it out for her to see. “I wrote you a poem.”
Her eyes went to the scrap in his hands.
A dull flush stained Drake’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and began.
“Your eyes and hair are like chocolate.
Warm. Pure. Soothing.
Your smile is like a Christmas morning.
Exciting. Unexpected. Delightful.
Your hand is like…”
Sebastian’s groan interrupted Drake’s recitation. Her brother shook his head piteously. “For the love of God, that is bloody awful. Spare yourself any further embarrassment.”
Tears blinded Emmaline. “Shut up, Sebastian.” She silently pleaded with Drake to continue.
Drake’s eyes skimmed the paper until he found the spot he’d left off on. “Your hand is like salvation. It saved me.”
Warm, salty drops spilled from her lashes and trailed a path down her cheeks. A lifetime ago she’d been a little girl sitting across from a young boy, a prince who’d rescued her from a fall. Years later, when the prince left to fight on the Peninsula, the little girl had been replaced by a whimsical young woman, who’d often ruminated about a moment just like the one she was living in her brother’s dining room.
Carmichael arrived with two burly servants from the kitchen.
Well, all of it except for the servants arriving to throw him from the room.
Emmaline shoved her seat back and jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch him.”
“Remove him,” her brother barked.
* * *
Drake had battled soldiers who’d been intent on cutting his throat. It would take more than three of Mallen’s servants to alarm him. He took a step towards Emmaline.
This was it.
In a room full of witnesses, he who had existed in this shell of himself for the past three years was going to bare himself to this woman who’d come to mean more to him than anyone. It terrified him. Seeing the unfiltered love in her eyes, however, gave him the courage to continue.
“I have wronged you. I have never treated you as you deserved. I have made more mistakes in my life than I can count. My greatest regret has been how horribly I have treated you.” He knelt beside her. “You said you wanted a choice. Well, now you have a choice. And I’m asking you to choose me. Choose me, not because you are required to, not because you have no choice. Not because I’m heir to a dukedom. Choose me because you need me as much as I need you.”
He set the bouquet down on the table beside her most likely cold soup and claimed her hands in his. He turned them over and studied them. They were so delicate. And shaking. He traced the intersecting lines of her palm with his pointer finger.
“Get your hands off my sister,” Mallen shouted.
Drake ignored him. “I don’t know if you have it in you to look past all my mistakes, but I ask that you allow me to court you?” He brushed a delicate kiss upon her knuckles. God, he’d missed…
One of Mallen’s burly staff members jerked him backward. Drake cursed. He should have been expecting that.
“Don’t touch him!” Emmaline cried, appeal
ing to the Duchess of Mallen. “Mother?”
The duchess glared at her son. “This show of force really isn’t necessary, Sebastian. For any man to bare his soul, and recite poetry in front of a hostile witness like you speaks volumes of the depth of emotion he has for Emmaline.”
“Traitor,” Mallen mumbled. He nodded to the two servants, who released Drake.
Drake returned his attention to Emmaline. “It was not my intention to interrupt your meal.”
Mallen snorted. “Then what was your intention?”
This time, he did look at Mallen. “My intention is to court your sister.”
Sister and brother spoke in unison.
“Yes.”
“The answer is no.”
Chapter 33
My Dearest Drake,
This will be the last letter I write. It is time for us to meet again.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline had hoped with a night of rest that upon waking Sebastian would be amenable to her picnicking with Drake. Standing before her brother’s desk, eyeing his stiffly held form, she now realized she’d been foolishly optimistic.
Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and glared. “I said no.”
Emmaline managed a smile. “That seems to be your new favorite phrase.”
He dropped his pen on his desktop.
Perhaps sarcasm was not her best tactic. “It is merely a picnic,” she reasoned. “There is nothing scandalous about a picnic. Why they are all the rage—”
His snort interrupted her rational explanation. “There is everything scandalous about a picnic when,” he proceeded to tick off on his fingers. “One it is with your former betrothed, two, you throw over a fine, respectable gentleman for—”
Emmaline gasped and marched across the room. “How dare you. I did not throw over Waxham. You were the one attempting to bring us together.”
A telltale vein pulsated along the edge of his temple, indicating he was doing everything within his power to maintain his self-control. “Drake isn’t worth ten Waxham’s.”
Attempting to diffuse the palpable tension emanating from his rigid form, Emmaline sighed. “I will not debate Drake’s worth with you. I love him and more than anything right now, I want to join him in on a picnic. So can’t you please, smile at me, pat me on the head, and tell me to go and have a good time? It is not marriage he is asking for.” Yet. Hopefully in time. “It is a picnic. That is it. Nothing more.”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 99