And, lastly, a husband to also cuddle with on cold days.
As it was, sitting on the chintz sofa in her brother’s parlor, she did not have a home of her own. Nor, for that matter did she have a dog. And most of all, she unequivocally did not have a husband. What she did have, as she had for the better part of her life, was a betrothed.
“Em?”
Emmaline shook her head. “I came upon a brute cutting the heads off a bed of forget-me-nots.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “What cad would do such a thing?”
Finally, a rational person.
“Lord Avondale.” She chose not to mention Lord Drake’s involvement. Giving her fingers something to do, she snapped up the copy of the Times.
“Avondale,” Sophie muttered. “He was one of the gentlemen Mother hoped I’d make a match with in my first Season.”
“Consider yourself spared.” Emmaline scanned the front of the London Times before flipping to the next story. Her eyes snagged on a name at the center of the page and she bolted upright.
It appeared a certain Marquess of D had secured the affections of the recent Opera sensation from Italy, Signora Nicolleli. The papers reported her to be talented, vivacious, and stunningly elegant. etcetera, etcetera…
Emmaline tossed the paper aside, her eyes boring into the offensive sheets.
Thinking on it, she picked up the paper and crushed it into a sloppy ball and threw it to the floor. Since it did not make her feel better, she reached for it again.
Sophie snatched the copy, intercepting Emmaline’s efforts. “I’ll take that.” She unwrinkled the ball and ran a smoothing hand over the surface several times and read for herself. She muttered something a lady of good Quality should never think, let alone breathe aloud. “I’ve seen her. She really isn’t that beautiful.” She smiled unconvincingly at Emmaline.
Emmaline’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.” There was something disheartening in going through life being considered tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled Emmaline in her first Season. She waved a hand over herself. “It is no wonder he has no interest in marrying me.” That, and as he’d pointed out, the fact he’d had to rescue her on two separate occasions. She snorted. As though she needed rescuing. Why, with his scandalous pursuits and history, he probably needed rescuing a good deal more than Emmaline ever had or would.
Emmaline sighed. “Thank you for your support, Sophie, but it isn’t necessary. I know what I look like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Em. You are utterly lovely.” Sophie spoke with such stringent confidence, had Emmaline been anyone else, she might have believed her.
Emmaline pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Come, Sophie. I’ve already come to terms with the fact I will never be considered a great beauty.”
“Why, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Leave it to Sophie to remind her of the one attribute she could not find much fault with. For all her plainness, Emmaline’s eyes were pleasing. Her father used to say they were the color of warmed chocolate, and through them, her every emotion could be revealed. As a girl, it had sounded so poetic. Now, grown up, she’d come to find such transparency was anything but positive amidst the gossiping ton.
At thoughts of her father, she sighed. He’d been gone now three years and the pain of that loss still hurt.
As she and Sophie nibbled at their pastries, Emmaline contemplated her circumstances.
Her frustration stemmed from so much more than Lord Drake’s avoidance of her. Somewhere along the way, she had begun to question her late Father’s manipulation of her future. At some moment, a time she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d grown resentful that the decision to marry had been wrested from her hands when she’d been a mere child. And yet, whether Lord Drake had been short with a baldpate or whether he was a specimen of male perfection, Emmaline felt obligated to make a go out of her circumstances. For Father.
“It’s hardly fair he should be so blasted perfect,” Emmaline muttered. “Can’t he have a flaw? A high-forehead, jiggling jowls? A paunch? Something.”
Sophie laughed. “You are the only person to complain that her betrothed is too handsome.”
“You are not helping.”
“He does seem very severe whenever I see him,” Sophie offered obligingly.
Emmaline thought to their recent exchange in Kensington Gardens and sighed. Yes, that was Lord Drake’s flaw. Except it seemed to only garner further notice from the ladies.
“And he’s a war hero to boot, Sophie. What is my great accomplishment?”
“You are a wonder in the gardens.”
Emmaline snorted. Considering Drake’s regard for flowers, that great talent would hardly bring him up to scratch. “You and I both know it’s a skill no one but my family can appreciate.” The only efforts at gardening acceptable for a young lady were the flowers she stitched on the fabric in her embroidery frame.
To the ton, Emmaline remained largely—unremarkable. Which most likely explained the efforts Lord Drake went through to avoid her.
Her betrothed may have had a grand time since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, but he’d consigned her to an odd position in Society. She’d become a bit of a conundrum. Emmaline was attached but unattached, forever betrothed but never married. For these reasons, honor dictated no other gentleman could pay her court.
“Do you know, Sophie, there are times I think I might prefer being wanted by a young lord for the size of my dowry. Then at least I would be wanted for something, which is vastly better, than not being wanted at all.”
Sophie looked up from the wrinkled paper she’d resumed reading. “You’re mad! Your betrothal is the only reason you have not been pursued. Any gentleman would be honored to wed you.”
Emmaline ignored Sophie’s defense. With a sigh, she opened her clenched fist and studied the bisecting lines traversing her palm. She ran a distracted little path over the surface of her skin. She may be betrothed, but she was not unlike Sophie, who also remained unmarried. Emmaline’s betrothal to the Marquess of Drake had always been common knowledge to the ton. Nothing more than a piece of gossip dragged out by old dowagers whenever there was a dearth of more current on dits. Neither Emmaline nor Sophie were truly sought after or cared about by any gentleman. The one difference between them being Emmaline had a scrap of paper saying someone had claims to her.
Well, that was no longer enough.
“Do you know, as much as I resent the Marquess of Drake’s deplorable treatment, I cannot help but empathize with why he’s made the decisions he has?”
Sophie sputtered around a mouthful of tart. “That is far too generous of you, Em.”
Emmaline chose not to respond to Sophie’s unspoken censure and instead grabbed another pastry and nibbled the corner. She couldn’t expect Sophie to understand, and to say as much would merely come across as insulting.
Yet, Emmaline did, to some extent, recognize the reason for Drake’s annoyance. She suspected his decision to enlist had been borne of resentment that his fate had been decided for him when he’d been a mere boy. Perhaps he’d wanted a say in the person he would wed and spend the rest of his days with. Perhaps he’d wanted a great beauty to arouse grand passions—like his opera singer.
Perhaps he’d felt those things because she herself felt them. Well, all those things except for the opera singer, of course.
She yearned for some control in her life, ached to know love and grand passion, too. But it was gauche to even think such thoughts.
Over her long walk home from Kensington Gardens, she’d put a great deal of consideration into her circumstances. In spite of her dreams and wishes, Emmaline had made a commitment to her father. And blast it all, she would try to make something of this betrothal—whether Lord Drake wanted it or not.
“Whatever it is the Marquess of Drake feels, I no longer care. It is time for him to grow up and honor his obligations.” She flinched at thinking of herself as an obligation, and the
n shoved away any self-pity. The days of woe-is-me were officially at an end. It was time for the Marquess of Drake to be brought up to snuff, and she was just the woman to do it.
“What are you thinking?”
Emmaline’s jaw set. “I am done waiting for the Marquess of Drake. I want a real marriage or nothing at all.” Emmaline ticked on her fingers. “I want to be courted. I want him to take me riding in the park. I want him to escort me to the opera.” She grimaced at the thought of Signora Nicolleli. “Mayhap not the opera, but perhaps Covent Garden for a play,” she amended. “And I want him to waltz with me. That’s not much to ask, is it?”
Sophie shook her head with such force she dislodged a golden curl from her chignon. “Hardly, the man is after all your betrothed.”
Emmaline gave an emphatic nod. “His days of bowing over my hand and beating a hasty retreat are at an end. I’m going to bring him up to scratch and if I can’t…” She paused. “I haven’t determined all the details, but what I do know is I will be speaking to my brother about this farce of a betrothal.”
Sophie gasped.
Emmaline well knew it was one thing to be displeased with the Marquess of Drake’s lack of attention, it was quite another to speak of severing the legal contract between their families. She folded her arms. “I’m not getting any younger. Why I’m already twenty years old.”
Lord Drake may be a war hero, but Emmaline was prepared to fight some battles of her own. She reached over and seized the paper that had pushed her to her limits. Taking great care, she ripped out a neat square and studied it. She clenched her lips into a hard line.
Sophie had been about to take another bite from her tart. The partially bitten pastry dangled, forgotten between her fingers. With her mouth hanging open and her wide, unblinking cornflower eyes, she rather had the look of an owl. She set the treat aside, and leaned forward. “What are you going to do, Em?”
Emmaline smiled, and if her mother had been present she would have known to be alarmed. “Why, we’re going to the opera.”
Sophie blinked. “The opera…” Her mouth widened and her eyes dawned with understanding. “Ohhhh, the opera.”
Emmaline gave a tight nod. “Yes, by God, Lord Drake will notice me whether he likes it or not. There will be no more opera singers, ballet dancers, young widows, none of it. His days of carefree debauchery are officially at an end. He just doesn’t know it yet, but he will, beginning tonight. If your mother will have me, I will be joining your family in their box this evening.”
A laugh bubbled up from Sophie’s throat. “Mother will be thrilled to have the Duke of Mallen’s sister.” It was no secret Sophie’s mother, Viscountess Redbrooke, all but drooled like a pug in summer with any mention of the Mallen title.
Just then, there was only one gentleman whose marital status Emmaline cared about…and it most definitely was not her brother’s.
Sophie nodded. “I will let Mother know upon my return.”
Emmaline’s jaw hardened in anticipation of seeing Drake’s face that evening.
Lord Drake, I hope you haven’t put away your uniform, for you, sir, are headed back into battle.
Chapter Five
My Dearest Lord Drake,
For the first time in my life, I am grateful you are not here. I spent hours in the gardens and am bright as a beet. I am not a sight fit for good company. At least that is what my brother said.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Signora Valentina Nicolleli, an accomplished mezzo-soprano, had a voice with a deep, rich sultry tone that twined around each note she sang like a sea nymph clinging to the hull of a ship. The sensual quality could be felt from her soaring E sharp to her A flat, which resonated off the theatre walls. The Italian opera sensation’s musical talents, however, had not been what had attracted Drake’s notice.
Studying her from his theatre box, Drake recalled how they’d spent last evening, and his gaze narrowed. Valentina was an inventive, nubile woman, endowed in all the places a man hoped his woman would be generously curved. And yet, he watched disinterestedly as she pranced about the stage.
“I still don’t see why we have to sit through the blasted show,” Sin muttered. He occupied the seat next to Drake. “It hardly seems fair you’re the one who gets to bed the creature and I’m the one who has to sit through her infernal caterwauling.” His bored gaze surveyed the crowd, then paused, and narrowed ever so imperceptibly.
Drake didn’t bother looking to see what drew his friend’s attention. “Come, come, Sin, you’d have me believe you’d rather be escorting your mother and dear sister to some other infernal event?”
Sin gave a visible shudder. “No, no, you have the right of it. At least when this blasted opera is over I can head to the tables. Will you be joining me later this evening?”
Drake gave a short nod. What else was there to do? Lord knew he didn’t want to return to the damned townhouse and deal with his father. Or the nightmares. Restful sleep did not await him at the Duke of Hawkridge’s townhouse. Peaceful nights had eluded him since…
He shook his head, willing thoughts of war into the deep corners in which they refused to stay banished. When he’d been a young man, war had seemed like the logical escape from the stringent expectations placed on him by the Duke of Hawkridge. Drake’s life had been planned out for him since the moment of his birth. It had been ordained by his father where he would attend school, who he would wed, and Drake had chafed at the rigid order imposed upon him.
His time fighting Boney had proven there was nothing logical about war. The day he’d left the Peninsula, he’d longed to return to normalcy. He’d returned to England with a desperate urgency to slip back into the life he’d been familiar with. Consequently, he’d never given much thought to the impossibility of such a feat.
Three years ago, he’d come back from battle, a returned hero, greeted with parades and lavish balls; the recipient of public praise and countless honors. All of it had meant nothing to him. All the fanfare had served to do was emphasize his despair. It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s dark musings. Act I had concluded.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin asked.
Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies. The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.
He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.
He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in, and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.
He bolted from his seat just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.
And a hand slipped through, hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.
“My Lord, how good to see you!” One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.
Drake froze, a prickle of unease traveled up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.
Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh stood before him, her spine erect, a
determined glint in her eyes.
*
Emmaline’s smile stretched so taut she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.
Almost as one, the two gentlemen seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.
Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.
Stiff, formal, respectful deference.
It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.
Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.
She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”
Three sets of eyes swiveled to look at Emmaline.
Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she had loved about her.
Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.
“Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.
She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal farther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.
“But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her, probing, as though he knew her every secret. Blast him and his arrogance, she thought, finding the courage to finish her sentence. “Well, I would have been remiss if I failed to greet you.”
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