He slammed the knocker with his right hand, while holding onto the four-pound devil in his opposite arm. The pup sunk razor like teeth into the flesh of his fingers until Drake winced as a hot trickle of blood dotted his flesh.
Drake raised his fist to again pound the wood panel when the door opened.
He fished a calling card out of his pocket around the squirming mass and handed it to the blank-faced butler. “Lord Drake to see His Grace.”
The staid man studied the card, and then peered down a hawk-like nose at the yapping pup. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “Right this way.” He turned, as if expecting Drake to follow.
Drake was ushered into the Duke of Mallen’s library.
Mallen lifted his eyes from the papers he had been studying but didn’t bother to rise. “Drake, this is a surprise.” His tone said it was not a happy one.
“Mallen.” He set the pup on the floor and the little beast set to work chewing the edge of Drake’s boots. He winced. “Your sister sent me a dog.”
Mallen’s head quirked to the side. “A dog?”
Said dog scrambled up onto one of the two leather-winged chairs facing the Duke of Mallen’s enormous desk, and yapped at the befuddled peer.
“The pup seems to be a good judge of character,” Drake drawled beneath his breath.
Mallen’s brows converged in one, annoyed line. “Your dog is going to destroy my chair.”
Drake glanced down to see the mangy beast was using all his energy to dig a hole through the surface of the leather. “It’s not my dog.”
Mallen shoved his seat back, scraping the dark wood of the floor, and stood. “You barge into my home with…”
The door opened and the Duchess of Mallen sailed into the room which sliced into Mallen’s scathing diatribe. “Lord Drake, how very good to see you.” A smile wreathed her ageless face.
“Always a pleasure and honor.” Drake’s attempt at politeness was ruined by the dog that jumped off the chair and ambled back over to him. The mangy thing stood on hind legs and began to scratch at the fabric of Drake’s breeches.
“If that were true, I’d imagine we’d see you more frequently, Drake.” She glanced down at the puppy and let out a sound of happy surprise. “Oh, you’ve brought your dog.”
Drake sighed. “He’s not my dog.”
She either failed to hear him or chose to ignore his response, for in a very un-duchess-like move, the Duchess of Mallen went down on a knee and called the scruffy black dog over. The puppy yapped, and proceeded to run in circles around her. “My, you are full of energy,” she cooed, occasionally landing a pat.
The pup eventually tired of his game, and instead of sitting for the duchess, returned to Drake and plopped down atop his boots. The creature’s eyes fluttered heavily, before he emitted a contented sigh, and fell into a deep, snoring slumber.
The duchess gracefully rose and crossed over to Drake. She claimed his hands in hers and leaned up to kiss him on each cheek. “It really is wonderful to see you, Drake. How is your father?”
Drake had been raised a gentleman and was therefore able to momentarily forget the four-pound reason for his visit.
“He is well, Your Grace, thank you for asking.”
She rang for refreshments. “I must say, I’m thrilled to see you, but surely there must be some other reason for your visit?” She softened the searching question with a wide smile.
Drake started. It was Emmaline’s smile.
Mallen reclaimed his leather seat and motioned to the puppy. “He’s come to tattle on Emmaline.”
The duchess blinked in confusion, wide hazel eyes moving from her son to Drake.
“I did not come to tattle.” Drake shuffled on his feet, momentarily displacing the pup. The beast was a resolute one, for he climbed right back up onto his perch and gave what Drake swore was a disapproving look. Great now the dog is put out with me as well.
Mallen smiled. “Oh good, then. He came to thank Emmaline.”
Before Drake could disabuse him of the notion, Mallen rang again. “Have Lady Emmaline summoned immediately,” he said to the servant who entered the room.
The servant bowed and hurried to do the duke’s bidding.
“Of all the preposterous things,” Drake said under his breath, shifting the dog from his feet.
The pup’s eyes flew open at being jarred, but then he gave a high-pitched yap and found a renewed burst of energy. He began running circles around Drake, who momentarily followed him with his eyes before getting dizzy, and forced himself to look away from the pup’s display.
“Did you call me preposterous?” Mallen snapped.
“Why yes, I did.”
Mallen’s chest puffed out. “Don’t call me preposterous.”
“I’ll not take orders from…”
The Duchess of Mallen clapped her hands together once, then twice. “Gentlemen, please. Remember you are men.” She focused an overly long, disapproving look on Drake.
He resented being made to feel in the wrong. Noble young ladies did not, under any circumstances, send gifts to unmarried gentlemen—even if they were betrothed to the gentleman. It simply wasn’t done. This, however, hadn’t simply been a gift. Why, she’d sent round a dog.
You didn’t send someone a dog. You just…well, you just didn’t do it.
Emmaline sailed into the room. “You wanted m—” Her glance alighted on Drake and an enchanting smile wreathed her face. “Oh, hello, my lord!”
He bowed. “My lady.”
She wore that same silly, wide brimmed straw hat she had worn in the gardens. The same one he’d torn from her head and tossed to the ground before he…
Her whiskey-colored eyes fell to the black pup. The little devil jumped at Drake’s legs again, clearly asking to be picked up.
“You’ve met him! Isn’t he precious? Aren’t you precious?” she said in a high singsong voice. She gracefully sank to her knees, sending her pale blue skirts fluttering, similar to the way the duchess had moments ago.
Only this time, thank God, the infernal beast went gladly over. Emmaline scooped him up and allowed him to lap her face with his rough, pink tongue. Lucky fellow.
“Aren’t you sweet? Do you like your new master? I’m sure he’s taking wonderful care of you.”
Drake blinked several times. Why did he feel as though he’d stepped on the stage of a great farcical comedy of which he was the lead actor but didn’t know his lines?
“Lord Drake has come to say thank you, Emmaline,” Mallen called from behind his desk. His expression indicated he was enjoying the exchange far more than Drake.
“No, I haven’t. I have come to return him,” Drake bit out. As if understanding those hurtful words, the black puppy whimpered and flipped onto his back, sidling back and forth on the Aubusson carpet.
“Never say you are displeased with the little fellow.” Mallen pressed a hand to his chest in feigned astonishment.
“I wouldn’t say I am pleased with him,” Drake snapped.
Emmaline’s smile faded like the sun dropping from the horizon to usher in the night sky. “You cannot return Sir Faithful. Poor Sir Faithful.” She went over to the crestfallen pup and scratched his tummy. “Mean Lord Drake has hurt your feelings. Nasty, nasty man.”
Just then a tray of refreshments was delivered and set on the table at the corner of the room. Mallen chuckled. “Ahh, perfect! Refreshments to accompany this show.”
Drake glared at the other man and then Emmaline’s words registered. A loud guffaw sprung from his lips. “Sir Faithful? Surely you jest? You have named the creature Sir Faithful?”
Emmaline climbed to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. “There is nothing funny about his name.”
Drake took a step forward. “No, there is nothing funny about his name. There is everything funny about his name.”
Drake rolled his shoulders and looked helplessly to the duchess and Mallen. Finding no help there, he jabbed a finger in Emmaline’s direction. “Nor for that mat
ter can you go about simply naming other people’s dogs.”
“I thought you weren’t keeping him,” Mallen pointed out.
“Be quiet.”
Drake, Emmaline, and the Duchess of Mallen ordered in unison.
Mallen crossed the room and scanned the array of sweets artfully arranged on the tray, before settling on a cherry tart. He took two bites and then popped the remainder into his mouth. “So much for being one of the most powerful peers in the realm. I don’t even have power in my own library,” he muttered around a mouthful of treat.
The duchess folded her hands and looked from Emmaline to Lord Drake, a contemplative gleam in her eyes that Drake didn’t like in the least. Apparently smoothing over conflict was inherent in a mother’s nature.
“Emmaline, my dear, I’m afraid Lord Drake is correct. You cannot simply give him a dog. Especially if he doesn’t want it.”
Emmaline shot a look of hurt betrayal at the duchess, and Drake thought she might stick her tongue out at him.
The duchess turned to Drake. “And you, Lord Drake, it is hardly gentlemanly to return a gift.”
Emmaline’s expression turned victorious, and he gritted his teeth.
Drake could handle one small duchess. He inclined his head, his tone solemn. “Your Grace, you are indeed correct. It is an unpardonable affront to reject any gift. That was never my intention. I simply cannot bring this dog into my home.”
Emmaline and Mallen emitted matching snorts at his flowery speech.
The Duchess glared at the both of her children and returned her attention to Drake. “I’m sure there is a solution so no one’s sensibilities are hurt.”
“Yes, there is. Lord Drake can keep Sir Faithful and say thank you,” Emmaline volunteered. She crossed the room and selected a cherry tart before Mallen could finish off that particular flavor.
“I am not keeping him and that is final.”
Emmaline gave a flounce of her head.
Drake shot a hopeful glance in the duchess’ direction but it would appear her efforts at restoring civility had collapsed.
Carrying the tart on an embroidered napkin, Emmaline crossed to Sir Faithful and offered the pastry to the little black pup.
Drake’s eyes slid closed. “You cannot feed a dog cherry tarts.”
Emmaline paused mid-motion. Sir Faithful scratched at her hand, and she shifted her attention back to the pup. She popped a piece of the treat into his mouth and patted him on the head. “For someone who does not want him, you are fairly well-versed in how to handle his care.”
He took a step in her direction. “Anyone would know not to feed him dessert treats.”
“Anyone would know Sir Faithful is a perfect name for a faithful dog.” She took a step closer to him until they were a hands-length apart, both breathing heavily, the spectators in the room, once again, irrelevant to their exchange.
Emmaline’s lips parted. Drake’s emerald gaze dropped to those lips and he forgot whatever words he’d intended to speak.
He studied Emmaline’s flushed cheeks. She really was—lovely.
Even in her ridiculous, oversized hat.
Especially in that silly bonnet. It put wicked thoughts into Drake’s mind; he and Emmaline in an open field on a hot summer day. He would tug the article from her head and release the luxurious brown locks so they fanned about them…
A stream of something warm and wet snapped him from his reverie.
“Your dog is pissing on my carpet, Drake,” Mallen drawled.
Drake glared at him. “My dog is pissing on my boot.”
“Gentlemen, language,” the duchess scolded.
Emmaline clasped her hands to her chest and favored Drake with a radiant smile. “So, you are keeping him?”
Drake gave his clouded head a shake. He’d never said that.
The duchess gave a little clap of her hands. “Lovely news! Then it is settled!”
And just like that it was settled.
He had a dog.
A dog named Sir Faithful.
Whether he liked it or not.
And since he was only admitting it to himself, he could secretly acknowledge, he wasn’t altogether displeased with Emmaline’s gift.
Chapter Twenty-One
My Dearest Drake,
I am never going hunting again. It is cruel and awful. I feel as though I lost the wager after all. Sebastian felt so bad about my tears, he promised never to go hunting again.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
For all intents and purposes, it was late in the evening.
Or early in the morning. Most of the civilized members of the ton had abandoned the evening’s revelries and were safely ensconced in their beds, sleeping away too much drink and overly rich food.
Drake walked at a brisk pace through Hyde Parke, the little black pup admirably keeping stride with his steps.
Sleep—a fickle friend—eluded Drake. He supposed he should be thankful for it. At times like this, when his nerves were frayed, when his mind was exhausted, the nightmares came in their worst form.
In his dreams, he would see things: fallen friends, fellow soldiers, images of men wandering through battlefields dazed, severed limbs held in their hands.
He drew to a sudden halt and fixed his gaze out at the gardens before him. Sir Faithful, tired from his efforts, sat dutifully beside Drake’s feet.
On nights such as these, Drake often walked through the emptied streets and visited an eerily silent Hyde Park. He always managed to find some small measure of solace in the gardens. The smell of the fragrant flowers served as a reminder that he had survived.
But now, they reminded him of more than just that. Now they reminded him of Emmaline. The sight of the flowers and climbing ivy, put him in mind of Emmaline at work in her own garden. This image of her was always in stark contrast to the remembrance of charred, barren wasteland scorched by man and by war.
Sir Faithful scratched his leg and whined at him.
This time, Drake was not alone.
He bent down and scratched Sir Faithful between his ears. “She did you a great disservice, my friend,” he murmured to the black pup. “Sir Faithful, she dubbed thee, and forever you shall be.”
The pup’s tongue lolled out and he gave a happy little yelp, as if in approval of Lady Emmaline’s selection.
Drake stared out at the expanse of night sky as the creeping fingers of dawn’s purple hues edged across the horizon and pushed back the darkness. As lovely as the morning sky was, the beauty was that much greater in the country, where the air wasn’t heavy with dirt and grime.
Drake reflected on Mallen’s growing impatience with Emmaline’s unmarried state.
Mallen had gone so far as to demand Drake commit to Emmaline or else. The duke had issued the command as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
But then, perhaps to the other man, it was.
How could Mallen, or anyone for that matter, ever know what held Drake back? What would Mallen say if he knew Drake would not wed Emmaline for fear of her safety? Mallen certainly wouldn’t want an answer. Instead, he’d end the betrothal without another word and have Emmaline neatly tied to Waxham. His gut clenched at the thought of it.
He thought back to his most recent episode in Emmaline’s garden.
It had been several months since he’d last lost control as he had with Emmaline. He’d begun to believe, nay hope, that he’d put those moments behind him. He’d fooled himself into thinking that he was like any other gentleman. That afternoon with Emmaline, he’d physically assaulted her and proved he was nothing more than an animal better off committed to Bedlam.
It had been his greatest fear realized.
No waltz and a simple apology could pardon such an affront. He was foolish to think it could have.
Drake lived through too many sleepless nights, too many hellish nightmares, and too many bouts of lost self-control to ever trust that he was a good candidate for marriage.
Ultimately he would have to marry. As the only heir to the Duke of Hawkridge, Drake was aware of his obligations. It had, however, been his hope that the demons he continued to battle would diminish over the years; that time would, as they say, heal all wounds.
He now realized he’d clung to foolish optimism. This hell would always enshroud his existence. How could he marry and expose Emmaline to that.
Sir Faithful ears pricked up and he looked around as if he’d detected an interloper. The dog gave an excited barking yelp and bounded off to greet their guest.
“Drake,” Emmaline murmured softly.
Drake started at the unexpectedness of the interruption. Every muscle in his body went tight at the feel of her presence.
He no longer wondered about her uncanny ability to determine his whereabouts.
Drake turned and dipped a respectful bow. “Emmaline.”
*
Emmaline tapped her copy of Glenarvon against her thigh. “You can leave us, Grace,” she instructed her maid.
Grace nodded and then took her leave.
Emmaline bit the inside of her lower lip, the soft thread of her maid’s footsteps echoed in the quiet until they faded to silence. Emmaline and Drake were left cloaked in the privacy the shrubbery.
She took a deep breath, wishing she were more poised to hide her uncertainty from this man she’d been connected to since she’d been a babe.
Emmaline crouched down and caressed Sir Faithful.
“I’ve finished…”
“You are walking rather…”
They both stumbled to an awkward, halting conclusion, their words unfinished.
He helped her to her feet.
Silence again descended.
Emmaline drew a distracted circle upon the ground with the tip of her slipper.
Drake studied the movement. “Are you visiting the park at this ungodly hour to merely draw artwork with your slipper?” he teased.
Emmaline’s foot paused mid-circle and she grinned. “You’ve found me out, sir. I spend a great deal of time gallivanting over Hyde Park completing very fine slipper-art. It is all the thing.”
His eyes smiled at her inane response. Funny that. She’d never known one could smile with their eyes.
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