The peddler’s chin fell to her chest as if she tried to make herself as small as possible.
Unable to remain silent any longer, Emmaline took a step toward the young fop. “Stupid, Lord Whitmore?” Passing a cursory glance over his frame, Emmaline shook her head. She nudged a tomato with the tip of her already ruined ivory satin slipper. “First of all, a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. Secondly,” it was her turn to gesture at the garment in question. “those breeches were ruined long before this incident.”
Whitmore frowned. “I don’t understand, my lady.”
Lord Drake’s chuckle tugged her attention momentarily in his direction. His lips quirked upward in a devastating smile that quickened her heart’s pace. “I believe that is the lady’s point, Whitmore,” Lord Drake drawled.
Whitmore’s gasp forced Emmaline’s attention away from her betrothed.
Enraged awareness dawned in the dandy’s eyes. “You witch.”
Emmaline took a step closer to Lord Drake.
A single black look from the marquess forced Whitmore to an ignoble halt. Drake leaned down close to the man and whispered something intended solely for the dandy’s ears.
All color leached from the brute’s cheeks. His head tipped up and down like a bobbing ship caught in a squall on the Channel. “M-my a-a-apologies, my lady.”
Drake dropped Whitmore’s wrist and wiped his hands back and forth as though he’d been sullied by the other man’s skin. His lethal glare froze the coward in his spot.
Whitmore cleared his throat. “What I’d intended to say, my lady, is that your rich beauty robbed me of any sense.” He looked to Lord Drake as he recited each word, indicating they were by no means original thoughts belonging to the jackanapes.
“One more thing,” Drake said.
With obvious reluctance, the humiliated dandy reached into the front of his elaborate, violet-hued floral jacket. He withdrew a bag of coins, stared at it forlornly, and then offered it to the peddler. “Here.”
The peddler’s eyes widened.
“Take it,” Drake said. There was an underlying warmth to his gruff tone.
With downcast eyes, the woman reached out and accepted the bag.
Drake returned his steely gaze to Whitmore. “I suggest you leave.”
When the other man continued to eye the bag in the woman’s hands with a blend of longing and bitter rage, Drake added, “Now.”
Whitmore reached down, scooped up the remnants of his short whip, and then clambered into his phaeton. He shot one last black look at the peddler and Emmaline, before striking his white mount with a piece of his crop. His phaeton resumed its reckless path down the street. Emmaline stared after the carriage, glad to be free of Whitmore’s loathsome company.
When Whitmore had gone, she turned back to the peddler. “Are you hurt?”
“No, my lady,” the woman whispered. Fat teardrops filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffed and dashed a hand across her nose. “My lady, my lord, oi thank you.”
Drake stepped out into the street. The heels of his gleaming black Hessian boots sank into a pile of rotten produce as he effortlessly righted the upended cart. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a bag of coins, and returned to the old woman’s side. “Here.” He gently placed the bag in her dirt-encrusted fingers.
“Oi-Oi, thank you, my lord. Many blessings to you both.” She dipped an awkward curtsy and pushed her nearly emptied cart down the road.
Emmaline watched after her until she’d disappeared from sight.
With the excitement now over, Oxford Street and its passersby returned to their daily humdrum. Lord Drake turned his focus to Emmaline. “Have you been hurt, Lady Emmaline?”
She blinked. Then sighed. Maybe not in that order. Her mind seemed a bit…muddled. Yes, it was muddled. And her heart beat an oddly rapid rhythm in her chest—thumpthumpthumpthump. She tried to catch her breath but failed miserably.
And then realized what had happened. “Oh dear,” she said.
The earlier rage she’d seen in Lord Drake’s jade eyes faded to warm concern. He took a step towards her and Emmaline backed up a step. “My lady?”
“Oh dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. She’d read a fair number of poems and gothic novels to recognize certain telltale signs of that which ailed her. The books all indicated one’s heart would race; one would be at a loss for words, and one would forget to breath. Yes, Emmaline knew what the onslaught of symptoms she’d been besieged by indicated—she’d gone and fallen in love.
“My lady?” Lord Drake and her maid repeated in unison.
Emmaline crashed back down to reality. The first thing she became aware of was that her toes were exceedingly chilly. She glanced down into the muddy puddle her slippers now called home and wrinkled her nose. A rather odd-smelling puddle of filthy water, crushed tomatoes, cabbage, and Lord knew what else.
With the tip of her right foot, she pushed aside the stray purple leaf clinging to her other slipper.
“My lady?” Lord Drake interrupted her musings.
Her head snapped up. What did he say? Her mind tried to drag up his recent question so she might form a suitable reply.
“Just splendid.” There, that seemed like a perfectly, splendid response.
A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh, well you may find the stench of that puddle splendid but I must insist it is foul. Regardless of who is correct, might I offer you my arm?”
Emmaline wished said puddle were about five-feet-one inch deeper so she could sink beneath its surface.
She stared at his outstretched hand until her maid cleared her throat, and jerked her back to the moment. Emmaline placed her fingers in his. He tucked them into the fold of his elbow and carefully guided her away from the remnants of the cart.
“Thank you, my lord.”
That was the best I could come up with—just thank you? She grimaced and stole a peek from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction to her less than stimulating repartee. Couldn’t she have offered some witty banter, as so many other ladies would have managed?
His expression may as well have been carved from granite.
Emmaline had never been a flirt, so she settled for honesty. “What you did for that peddler…and me, was—heroic.”
If she hadn’t raised her gaze at that precise moment, she would have missed the way his strong, square jaw tightened.
“I would hardly call it heroic, my lady.” His words sounded curiously flat.
Emmaline dug her heels in, and forced him to stop. She motioned to the sea of preoccupied lords and ladies. “Look around, my lord. Look how busy the street is. There are ladies and gentlemen rushing about, and not one of them stepped forward.”
He gently steered her ahead. “That isn’t quite true.”
Emmaline looked at him askance.
“You placed yourself between the peddler and the dandies,” he said.
She beamed.
“What would possess you to do something so reckless?”
An errant lock of hair escaped her chignon and fell across her eye. She blew it back, but it fell right back into place. Forgetting the recalcitrant strand, she again dug her heels in and forced him to a stop.
Emmaline looked up at Lord Drake. “What would you have had me do? Allow them to beat the poor woman?”
A growl lodged in his throat. “I would rather you hadn’t placed yourself in harm’s way.”
If he hadn’t sounded so surly about it, Emmaline would have sighed like a debutante at her first ball. Instead, “I couldn’t just let them hurt her. What kind of person would I be if I’d allowed that?”
The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He motioned for Emmaline to continue walking. “A safe one.”
“Ahh, but what is safety without honor?”
He looked at a point over her shoulder. “Honor is an oftentimes overestimated word with little meaning, my lady.”
A frisson of distress
traveled along Emmaline’s spine, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, gooseflesh dotted her arms. She hadn’t failed to miss the bleakness in Lord Drake’s distracted stare, and found herself, yet again, at a loss.
“Might I see you home, Lady Emmaline?”
A cowardly sense of relief that she’d been saved from replying to his previous, baleful statement assailed her. Lord Drake wanted to escort her home? Had he asked, she would have taken tea in the muddy puddle he’d rescued her from. Still, it wouldn’t do to come across as too eager. “I would be grateful, my lord.”
They walked along in silence and Emmaline mourned the passing of each block that brought her closer to home.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and searched her mind for something to discuss. The weather…? What clever young lady would discuss something as mundane as the weather?
“Your earlier actions were brave, Lady Emmaline—and I respect them.”
She blinked. “Well, I really hadn’t been expecting that from you, my lord.”
He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “But still foolish.”
“Now, that I expected.”
A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I’ve been boorish today. Forgive me.”
“Yes, yes, I say you have,” she said, under her breath.
He raised a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”
Emmaline nodded. “Very well, since you are begging.” His brow furrowed. “I’m teasing, my lord,” she said. She shook her head. “You’ve been nothing but honorable, brave, and heroic—a true gentleman.” The effusive praise spilled from her lips with all sincerity and she willed herself to silence. Alas, she’d never been one to dissemble.
“We’ve arrived,” he said.
Emmaline shook her head, but Lord Drake gave a slight nod.
She looked up at the white finish of her brother’s townhouse and groaned.
Lord Drake’s gaze snapped to her. “Are you certain you were not injured earlier? Did you turn your ankle?”
He had a look as if he were about to draw her skirts back and peek for himself, which sent her heart sputtering wildly.
If she’d been brazen or clever, she would have feigned an injury blocks ago. But alas… “No, no. I assure you, I’m fine.”
Her brother’s aging butler pulled open the front door. Emmaline jumped, and pressed a hand to her breast. Goodness, the man could shock a ghost.
Lord Drake took a step away from her and offered a deep bow. “I am glad you were uninjured. I bid you good day, my lady.”
Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and continued down the street. Emmaline stared after him until his figure faded from sight, and then entered the townhouse.
She’d been betrothed to Lord Drake for fifteen years. In that time, their contact had been limited to passing greetings and letters she’d written to him—letters which she’d never bothered sending. This, could therefore, be considered the first real interaction she’d had with him…and in a heroic fashion, he’d come to her aid. Perhaps he’d been so captivated by her act of bravery, as he’d called it, that he, too, had fallen madly in love with her. Even now, he might very well be strolling down the streets, unable to formulate a coherent thought, unable to think about anything other than the sight of her.
Emmaline sniffed. “What is that smell?” She looked down and her nose scrunched at the stench clinging to her skirts. Why, he surely failed to even note the rotten fruit smattered all over her beautiful ivory gown.
Yes, she was certain Lord Drake would begin courting her.
Any day.
Chapter Two
My Dearest Lord Drake,
I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake weaved in and out of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.
He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.
“What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.
Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”
Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.
“Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”
Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in.”
“Sinclair?”
“Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”
Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”
Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”
Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.
Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”
Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.
Drake kicked him under the table.
“Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”
“My boots.”
“Why do—”
“Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”
“Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first water. She’s barely an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”
Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”
“Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.
Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”
“I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.
Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”
Drake forced himself to take a casual sip. He thought about his chance encounter with Lady Emmaline. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, hailed in the papers as some kind of war hero, he’d gone out of his way to avoid his betrothed. He’d been tied to Lady Emmaline for more than half of his life, and yet knew next to nothing about her. As much as he wanted to find out more about the intriguing creature, he was loathe to show any outward interest, even to his friend. Oh, the fun Sin would have at his expense. “I happened to come upon Lady Emmaline this afternoon.”
Sinclair arched a dark brow. “Oh?”
Since the moment Drake had witnessed Emmaline place herself between the old peddler woman and a gentleman’s riding crop, aside from concern for her well-being, he’d been unable to think of anything but his betrothed. Before that moment, if you’d asked him if a lady of Quality would ever risk her own safety for a common woma
n on the street, he’d have scoffed at the ludicrousness of such a notion. Now, the image of Lady Emmaline, like some kind of warrior princess defending her keep, would be an image forever emblazoned on his mind.
Drake shifted uncomfortably. “For the last time, what do you know about the lady?”
Sin shrugged. “I don’t know much about her.”
“Not much? You know next to everything about everyone.”
“I know she’s a wallflower.”
Drake sat back in his chair, flummoxed. “Impossible.” A woman whose eyes could blaze with such life while challenging two men could never be a wallflower. Wallflowers were content to be dull creatures seated on the sidelines, escaping any notice. They were not clever young ladies with cheeky retorts.
Sinclair leaned forward in his chair. “Oh?”
Drake’s skin heated. Good God, he couldn’t be embarrassed. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. No, surely it was just that his cravat was too tight. “I had an encounter with Lady Emmaline a short while ago.”
When Sinclair’s brows shot up to his hairline, Drake realized his words could be mistaken for something more lascivious in nature.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.
Like a babe looking for a story from his nursemaid, Sin propped his arms on the table and stared at Drake with impatient eyes.
Drake sighed, and then proceeded to recount the events he’d witnessed. When he concluded his story, Sin sat back heavily in his chair, with arms folded across his chest. “Humph.”
“That’s it? Just ‘humph’?”
Sinclair raised one brow. “What would you have me say? Sounds like a rather dangerous thing for the lady to do.”
Discounting the fact that Drake had the very same reaction with Lady Emmaline, he took a long swallow of whiskey. “You are missing the point, Sin.”
“Oh? And what is the point?”
Drake dragged a hand through his hair. Was the point that his betrothed had bewildered him? Or was the point that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment he’d seen her challenging Whitmore and his crony?
Lords of the Isles Page 67