Drake blinked and Emmaline knew he recognized that he’d just been delivered a set-down. She rushed on. “I felt compelled to visit your box and discuss your thoughts on the opera. It has come to my attention from the papers that you have a great affinity for the opera, in particular the capable Mezzo-Soprano Signora Nicolleli.” She furrowed her brow, feigning deep contemplation. “In my honest opinion, I have a preference for the light, airy quality of a lyrical soprano.”
She detected Lord Sinclair’s shoulders rising and falling in what, she felt safe to assume, was mirth, while poor Sophie scoured the theatre.
To Lord Drake’s credit, or perhaps the better word would be discredit, he did not so much as flinch. His only telltale reaction was a slight arching of a golden brow as he met her stare. Emmaline glanced away.
“My dear, Lady Emmaline,” In Emmaline’s honest estimation, the words hardly sounded like an endearment. “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”
A subtle reproach coated his hard words. Double blast the man. How dare he make her feel uncomfortable? He was after all the one who’d abandoned her for two—approaching three—years. And that wasn’t counting the fifteen years that had lapsed in their near lifelong betrothal.
Her lips set tightly. “La, sir, but how else am I to find out about my betrothed’s likes and dislikes? But I do know you have a preference for mezzo-sopranos, so that is something, no? I look forward to meeting the great Signora Nicolleli and securing an autograph for you. I will be sure to tell her you are an ardent admirer, my lord. We’ll call it something of a wedding gift.”
The lights dimmed and the crowd bustled about, returning to their seats.
Sophie cleared her throat. “Em, I rather think we should return, lest mother worry about our absence.”
Emmaline smiled and favored Lord Drake with an impudent wave. “I’m certain she won’t fret when she learns we were with my intended. You would hardly allow harm to befall us, my lord? I’ve heard such stories of your heroics on the Peninsula, I could hardly feel anything but safe in your company.”
His eyes grew shuttered. “You should never let your guard down regardless of whose company you are in, Lady Emmaline.”
“You are far too modest, my lord. Alas, I must bid you good evening and await our next meeting.” She favored Lord Sinclair with a smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”
“Likewise, Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters.” He bowed and nudged Drake until he followed suit.
“Now we must return to our box,” Emmaline said. “If you’ll excuse us.” She gave a jaunty wave and quite deliberately shoved the curtains back with enough force to send them flapping, and took her leave.
War had been declared.
Chapter Six
Dearest Lord Drake,
My brother has been most stringently critiquing my efforts at painting. He has informed me of the following: I’m terrible at watercolor, awful with pastels, and deplorable with oils. I’ve taken to addressing him as Your Grace. To my amusement, it annoys him quite a bit.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake sputtered around another mouthful of red velvet curtains as Lady Emmaline made her dramatic exit from his opera box. Cursing under his breath, he violently slammed the drapes down, back into place.
He wanted to throttle her. Nay, he was going to throttle her. He counted to three. When he still felt the same way, he counted to ten, and because he couldn’t direct his anger at Lady Emmaline, who’d since taken her leave, he leveled a black glare at Sin, whose broad smile indicated he was far too amused by the turn of events.
“Stuff it,” Drake said.
Sin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“This does not bode well.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Sin concurred.
With the intrusive eyes of the ton on them, Drake and Sin could not comfortably escape the theatre without Society taking note. To do so would only fuel gossip about what had transpired in the box, which would result in a lengthy write up in the gossip columns.
They reclaimed their seats.
Drake fixed his gaze on the stage below. He’d be damned if he fed any more into the rabid curiosity of the ton who continued to stare at him.
The little termagant. How dare she corner him in his box, and call him out for his behavior? They were not married. It made his cravat tighten painfully around his neck just imagining what married life would be like with Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh. Over the years he’d avoided run-ins with his betrothed. He’d taken deliberate pleasure in refusing to attend any and every formal function his father had requested he attend. The last event he’d gone to at his father’s entreaty had been more than seven years ago, when Emmaline had been a bright-eyed girl.
Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.
This evening had proved, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.
He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had that detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.
His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.
The meddling gazes of the ton swiveled his way.
Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”
“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.
His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.
He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the overflowing Royal Opera House. The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.
“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”
Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.
He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.
He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.
Christ, where had that thought come from? He gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” H
e acknowledged with a sheepish smile.
Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.
Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.
Chapter Seven
My Dearest Lord Drake,
Feeling confident you can keep a secret, I can admit my insatiable curiosity. Father and Sebastian are often availing themselves to brandy. I wonder…what is the appeal? I am therefore planning my own secret experiment…
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
“Well, this has been a disaster,” Emmaline groused beneath her breath.
She slipped out of the Viscount Redbrooke’s box. Sophie trailed along at her side. This time a diligent maid followed right on their heels.
The thrum of the orchestra blended with the chorus filled the auditorium. The haunting melody echoed throughout the theatre and lent a dramatic feel to their movements.
The high E belonging to a particular soprano, Emmaline decided, was largely flat. It rent the opera house, muffled only slightly by the chatter of the ton. Her opinion had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the high E came from the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress.
Sophie’s brow furrowed. She glanced over her shoulder toward her brother’s box. “Mother is going to be livid.”
The Viscountess had not made one mention of the ladies’ visit to Lord Drake’s box. Her erect form and snapping eyes had conveyed the extent of her displeasure. It also explained why Sophie’s maid dogged their movements.
Beset by an onset of guilt, Emmaline bit the inside of her lip. “She might not have noticed.”
Sophie wrung her hands. “She would be the only one in the theatre, then.”
On the heels of that statement, Emmaline imagined Sebastian and Mother’s displeasure the following morning. She groaned aloud. In the end, it would appear the first battle had been won by Lord Drake.
“I do believe I have lost the first round, Sophie.” It chafed to admit defeat of any kind. To be defeated by Lord Drake, however was not to be countenanced.
Sophie paused and directed her attention to her maid. “Leave us.” The maid’s mouth set in a mutinous line, but one more look from Sophie and she slipped away.
When the maid was no longer in sight, Sophie returned her attention to Emmaline. “You couldn’t have expected it would be easy?”
Emmaline’s gaze wandered to a point over Sophie’s shoulder. “No, I didn’t, but I…I…”
Apparently she took pity on her friend. Sophie claimed Emmaline’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “From what you told me, Lord Drake had been so impressed by your showing with Whitmore. I just don’t understand.” Sophie tugged her hand. “Now, come.”
Emmaline allowed her friend to drag her forward. She didn’t understand it, herself. Any of it. She could only speculate as to Lord Drake’s disinterest in her over the years. “Mayhap I was wrong. Mayhap I was ruminating fantasies about what Lord Drake felt that day. He is such a gentleman, he would have come to any lady’s rescue.”
A tall, solid figure stepped into their path. Sophie managed to step out of the way even as Emmaline collided into a hard muscled chest. She gasped. She might as well have hit a wall—a large, immoveable wall.
Emmaline faltered, and would have fallen if Sophie didn’t grab her arm just as the gentleman reached out to steady her.
“My lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair said.
“Goodness, you startled me, my lord.” Sophie nudged her in the side. Emmaline frowned. “He did startle me.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t say as much in front of him.”
The gentleman’s lips twitched with what was assuredly amusement.
Emmaline glanced over his shoulder, seeking out…
“He left,” Lord Sinclair said.
Emmaline’s eyes snapped forward. “I don’t know whom you are talking about,” she said, a touch too quickly.
“I’d say it is rather obvious,” Sophie muttered.
Emmaline gave a pointed nod in Sinclair’s direction. “You still shouldn’t say as much.”
“ ’Tis no different than you stating how startled you were when Lord Sinclair gracelessly bowled you over.”
Lord Sinclair bristled. “I beg your pardon?”
Emmaline and Sophie promptly fell silent.
“Our apologies,” Emmaline said. This time it was she who nudged Sophie.
“Uh, yes, our apologies, my lord.”
He bowed his head. “Think nothing of it.”
They each dipped a curtsy and made to move around him, but he held up a hand. “Might I beg a word alone with you, my lady?” He extended his arm to Emmaline.
Sophie’s shocked gasp split the awkward silence.
Emmaline traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. After a momentary pause, she tucked her hand into the fold of his arm, and allowed him to lead her several paces ahead. Sophie trotted along at a discreet distance, muttering loud enough for the both of them to hear just what she thought about the impropriety of their actions.
“I must admit, my lord, I’m intrigued.” She stole a peek up at him from the corner of her eye.
Sin’s lips twitched. “I would like to speak to you about Lord Drake.”
Emmaline missed a step, and with his assistance, righted her footing.
Sinclair led them to a vacant alcove and drew back the curtain. She hesitated for the slightest moment, and then followed him inside. He dropped the curtain into place and turned to face her.
He spoke without preamble. “I want you to marry Drake.”
She smothered a laugh with her hand. “Well, then that makes two of us, my lord. If only the decision was yours to make.”
The curtains rustled at Lord Sinclair’s back and Emmaline would wager her entire dowry that Sophie had her ear pressed to the fabric.
He folded his arms across his chest. “How well do you know Drake?”
Silence stretched between them. Unbidden, her mind tripped along a forgotten memory. She was five. Seated in her father’s library. An angry little boy had stared mutinously across at her.
Lord Sinclair cleared his throat. “Uh-my lady?”
Emmaline gave her head a shake. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children, my lord,” she said with deliberate vagueness.
His gaze skimmed a path across her face. “Do you know much about him?”
Emmaline arched a brow.
“I am not saying you should not desire a marriage to Lord Drake. I’m…I’m…”
“Just what are you saying?” The recipient of enough discomfort this evening, it was someone else’s turn to grapple with the emotion.
An awkward stretch of silence descended like a funeral pall, but Emmaline wouldn’t feel guilty for it.
She didn’t know Lord Sinclair enough to confess the particular details of her relationship with Drake. Why, Sophie wasn’t even privy to half the memories she’d buried in her heart. Sinclair may be close friends with her intended, it did not, however, grant him carte blanche to ask intimate questions and expect answers. Nor for that matter would she ever reveal just how she’d come by her knowledge of Lord Drake. To do so would open her to pity, and she was not keen on the rather useless sentiment.
“My lady, forgive me. I know this questioning is far from conventional,” he said, filling the void of quiet. He tugged his ear. “Were you aware I’ve been friends with Drake since we were just thirteen?”
She started at the admission. “I wasn’t aware.” She should have known that. How strange to think two of Drake’s most significant relationships had been cemented when he’d been a boy of thirteen.
Sinclair continued. “He’d always been a fun boy, though angry when I met him because…” A dull flush stained h
is cheeks, “Because….”
“Because?” It didn’t take much to gather thirteen-year-old Drake had assuredly been upset because of his betrothal to her five-year-old self.
Sinclair rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking himself like a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been caught pouring ink in his tutor’s tea. “Any young boy would be less than thrilled at being betrothed to a young girl.”
She decided in that moment she liked Lord Sinclair a great deal. He did not feel inclined to mince words, and for that she respected him.
“We don’t have much time, so might I be candid, my lady?”
Emmaline giggled. She raised a hand to muffle the sound. “Oh dear, you haven’t been up to this point?”
Sinclair ignored the question. “May I ask if you are interested in marriage to Lord Drake because he is heir to a dukedom?”
If she weren’t so amused by the question, she was certain she’d have been insulted. “Are you asking whether I am interested in his fortunes? Whether I aspire to the role of duchess?”
He didn’t back down under the directness of her question. “My lady, Drake has been pursued the better part of his life for his title. Forgive me for being leery of any woman’s intentions.”
She sighed. “My lord, my life has been dictated for me since the moment I was born. Yes, Lord Drake was betrothed to me when he was thirteen, but might I remind you, I was only five. A mere babe. I have been as trapped by this betrothal as Lord Drake.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I don’t aspire to a status, Lord Sinclair, I aspire to happiness.”
Sinclair ran a probing, hazel-green stare over her.
“Do you believe Drake can bring you happiness?” he asked with a bluntness that made her flinch.
Emmaline forced a smile. “I certainly hope so.” All Emmaline knew was she’d waited years for Drake. Had attended more balls and soirees than she could count, and even several masquerades. It had always been known that she was unmarriageable. During her first Season, she’d sat on the fringe watching all the young ladies who’d had their Come Out being courted, the recipients of poetry and flowers. Emmaline had received nary a flower. Not even one sonnet praising the hue of her hair or the glow in her eyes. She would have settled for even a poorly written poem.
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