“I must say, completing slipper art in public is not the action befitting a future duchess,” he said solemnly.
Emmaline made an X over her heart. “I pledge to abandon the activity when we are wed, my lord.”
Nothing could kill the shared levity of the moment swifter than mention of their betrothal.
Drake’s eyes darkened and he directed his focus to the book in her hands.
Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as he regarded her the way he might a stranger.
“Have you come here this morning to read?”
She hated that his words came out clipped and cool. Yearned for the light, teasing warmth she’d come to know from him.
She waved her copy of Glenarvon about. “As I started to say, I have finished my copy. I am here to complete our challenge.”
His face, an otherwise blank mask, revealed a flash of surprise. Wordlessly, he held a hand out.
She gave him the novel, and watched as he thumbed through the pages. Neither of them said anything as he perused the copy, searching for his questions.
She resumed her slipper art.
Suddenly his fingers stilled and he looked at Emmaline with piercing jade green eyes.
“Calantha marries one man but is seduced by another. Who is her seducer?”
Emmaline’s foot drew to a sudden halt and she cocked her head to the side. “That is one of your questions?” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Surely Drake could have found something a good deal more challenging.
“I say, answer the question. That is, if you know it,” he challenged.
“If this is one of your questions, you do not stand a chance.”
He bristled. “If you do not answer the question on a count of three, I will determine that you do not know.”
“Glenarvon,” she answered, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Tsk, tsk, my lord…I’m afraid you are going to have to do better than that, or you are surely going to lose the challenge.”
Drake opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes dipped to her mouth and whatever he’d been about to say remained unspoken. He groaned.
“Drake, are you all right?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine, fine.”
Drake returned his attention to the book in his hands. He perused a passage. “Calantha speaks of losing all. Who does she blame?”
Emmaline tapped a finger along her jaw. In the work, Calantha was frequently alternating between a sense of guilt and no regrets for her great affair. “Can you read me the passage?”
It was Drake’s turn to issue a tsking sound. “Come, come, my lady. Who does she blame?”
Emmaline thought about it a moment, thought of her relationship with Drake. As a woman, who did she usually blame for Drake’s lack of regard?
“Herself, my lord. She blames herself.”
He nodded, before concentrating his efforts once more on the book. He leafed through the pages.
A loose strand of hair fell across her eyes. She blew it back. “Have you found your next question, my lord?” she pressed after several long moments of silence.
He didn’t bother picking his head up to look at her. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled. This light side of Drake was the one Lieutenant Jones had spoken of…and was one she’d come to love. Until just recently, he’d always been the phantom handsome figure who issued her a respectful bow and then beat a hasty retreat. To have him tease her, to furrow his brow as he rustled through a Gothic novel, was something she couldn’t have conjured in her wildest imaginings.
“Ahh,” he said, glancing up. He wore a triumphant expression. “Complete this sentence from the passage—”
“That is hardly fair,” she protested. “A question is far different from memorizing the work.”
“We did not stipulate terms of the questions, my lady.”
Emmaline folded her arms. Drat, if he wasn’t right.
“Fine,” she muttered. “What is the passage?”
“That which causes the tragic end of a woman’s life is often but a moment of amusement and folly in the history of…”
Emmaline’s chest tightened. “A man.”
Drake snapped the work shut, holding it out to her, and took a step forward.
He was so close his breath, laced with a hint of coffee, fanned her lips.
“Calantha argues Glenarvon has seduced her with what?”
Her body swayed closer to him. “The power of attraction,” she whispered.
The book slid from her fingers, to the ground where it fell indignantly open on its spine.
Then he was taking her in his arms, folding her close, covering her mouth with his, parting her lips and tasting her. She moaned, a low, husky purr that sounded wanton to her own ears.
Emmaline twined her hands about his neck and pressed her body close to his. His manhood prodded hard and angry against her belly, and her body flared with the swift, hot flood of desire. It overtook her, nearly brought her to her knees.
“Please, Drake,” she pleaded against his lips.
Drake lowered her to the ground and knelt with her cradled against the hard-muscled wall of his chest. There was something both erotic and yet sweetly beautiful, kneeling in the gardens as though they were Adam and Eve partaking in their first sinful taste of the forbidden fruit.
Through the thick haze of desire, Sir Faithful’s bark cut into their embrace. The dog hurled himself atop them and licked Emmaline’s face.
She turned away from the eager pup and laughed.
Drake paused. “Sit.” He issued the order with the same authority she was sure he had used to command his men in battle. At the brisk tone, Sir Faithful promptly laid down. He lowered his head dejectedly on his paws.
Drake returned his attention to her. “Where was I?” he asked hoarsely.
“You were touching me,” she said breathlessly.
“Was I?” He kissed the corner of her lip.
She moaned. “Yes.”
“Yes, like this or yes, you like it?”
Her head thrashed back and forth. “Stop teasing me.”
Strong fingers traced a knowing path over her body, and grasping her buttocks in his palms, he urged her closer to the length of him.
Emmaline gasped. She was going to catch fire from her need and set Hyde Park ablaze.
Her head fell back when his lips left hers. He nipped the corner of her lips, her cheek, and then he caressed her neck with his lips. The unshaven scruff of his beard tickled her skin. She giggled.
Drake didn’t even break his ministrations, his hands releasing her breasts from the bodice of her gown. The peak of her nipples hardened under his stare. “Is there something that amuses you, my lady?” he asked huskily, not waiting for a reply as his mouth lowered to her breast. With deliberate slowness he drew the ripened bud into his mouth. He gently suckled, laving the peak, and then flicked it teasingly with his tongue.
Emmaline’s head fell back.
Drake switched his attention to the tip of her other, neglected pale white mound.
Emmaline gasped aloud. She twisted her fingers into the silk strands of his golden hair. “Drake, show me more.”
The cool of the morning air slammed into her bare legs, as he slid her skirts up, higher, and higher, to her knees. His fingers skimmed over her belly, and then before she could comprehend what he was doing, his hand delved between her legs.
It was as though every last vestige of energy was sapped from her. Emmaline collapsed in his arms. He sat down, atop a bed of white cerastium, and moved her onto his lap while his expert fingers continued to work her.
Drake slipped another finger into her and began to move them; in, then out, in then out, until she bucked under his hand. “Yes,” she cried softly.
He continued to stroke her, playing with the pliable nub of her center. Emmaline supposed she should feel a sense of shame but couldn’t drum up one single rational thought about the indecency of
what they were doing and where they were doing it.
All she knew was him.
She closed her eyes and undulated beneath him, searching for more.
His lips reclaimed hers. “Come for me, love,” he urged, his voice a husky command.
Come? What on earth did he mean? Pressure built inside her, unfurling like a rapidly growing weed, taking over everything. Her cry was lost in his mouth. She frantically arched her hips as he rung every last bit of pleasure from her.
And then she collapsed, replete with the gift he’d given her.
So that was what he’d meant. She laid her cheek alongside his and felt her breath fanning his.
Drake’s fingers played with the tresses that had tumbled from her knot and covered them like a blanket. “So beautiful,” he whispered.
Emmaline’s throat worked. She knew she was no great beauty but when he said it like that, in those emotion-laden words, she believed him.
He kissed the slight birthmark just below her temple.
“What an interesting spot for a birthmark. Rather unique…just like you.”
He brought her skirts down and she finally, reluctantly, pulled back.
She looked at him through heavy eyes. “I won the challenge, my lord,” she reminded him huskily.
He laughed and kissed her once again for good measure. “Yes, my lady. You certainly did win.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
My Dearest Drake,
Does a man who is betrothed still propose to the lady he is betrothed to? I would imagine it would be more romantic if he did.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
He was going to marry her.
Drake expected to be consumed by anxiety at the thought of relinquishing bachelorhood. He’d always believed marriage symbolized the death of a gentleman’s freedom.
Yet oddly today, he had no reservations. It wasn’t obligation that drove his decision. Nor his responsibilities to the ducal line. Somewhere along the way, it had become about him and Emmaline—as it should have been.
Sir Faithful barked.
He glanced down apologetically at the pup. “No, you cannot come, my friend.” Sir Faithful dropped his head back between his paws and gave him a long, sad look.
“I’ll tell you what, Sir. Soon I’ll bring her back here as your mistress, then you can see the both of us.”
That was apparently too much for the pup to understand. He just cocked his head sideways, tongue lolling out, and continued to study Drake.
Drake returned his attention to his plans for the morning, feeling once again like a soldier about to embark upon a decisive battle. Why had he fought this? He thought of all the time he’d wasted, thought of his leaving to fight on the Peninsula, when what he’d been fleeing had turned out to be a person who made him smile more than he had in years.
He glanced down at the ring resting on the bureau top. The eight carat emerald nestled amidst a cluster of diamonds, glittered in the morning light. It had belonged to his mother, and the duchess before her, and the duchess before her. And it would be Emmaline’s. He picked it up, studied it, and then placed it in the inner fold of his midnight jacket.
His valet appeared in the doorway. “My lord, as requested, your mount has been readied.”
Drake nodded and made his way below stairs, to the foyer.
He was met by the usually staid, butler, Winchester.
This time Winchester’s weathered face was wreathed in a smile that went from one ear to the next. As if he knew Drake’s special business. Which shouldn’t really surprise him. Winchester had always managed to glean Drake’s intentions before he himself even really knew.
“My lord!”
Drake grinned back. “Winchester.”
Since he’d lain Emmaline down on the garden floor and pleasured her, he’d worn a perpetual smile. To be more precise, he’d seemed to be in a state of happiness since she’d come into his life. Emmaline’s joy had been infectious and he’d been her willing victim.
A startled shriek rent the air, punctuated by a resounding metallic crash. Servants seemed to materialize out of nowhere and hurried to the mishap. A two foot silver vase lay on its side amidst a cluster of white flowers. The young maid who’d dropped the floral arrangement wept into her hands.
Her blubbering blended with the cacophony of sound as servants rushed to clean the mess.
Drake’s eyes remained riveted on the glint of the metal urn. The maid’s cries wavered in and out of focus, until they were replaced with the agonizing shouts of his fallen men.
As if slammed by a cannon ball to the stomach, Drake’s body jerked. With a bellowing roar wrenched from deep inside his soul, he dropped to his knees and covered his ears, in an attempt to blot out the deafening sound of grapeshot ricocheting off each corner of his mind.
Drake’s eyes flitted around like that of a cornered animal. His horrified gaze landed on the earth strewn with destroyed flowers, and waited. When no bodies fell, in an attempt to flee, he darted past the horrified men around him. He willed his legs to pump faster, lest he be caught in the thick of the battle.
A powerful hand snaked around Drake’s arm. He cried out. Thrashing violently, he leveled his opponent with an elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The hiss of exhaled breath fired like kindling just about to catch. The man held onto Drake with fierce determination, but Drake refused to surrender because if he did, he’d be at the mercy of the French bastards.
“No, no, no!” Drake roared.
“Drake, I won’t hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Drake stilled. When the man’s grip lightened, Drake wrested his arm free, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairwell.
The Frenchie was on him again. He knocked Drake’s knees out from under him, tackling him to the ground. The action knocked the breath from Drake with a powerful whoosh, and something flew out from his jacket front. He heard the soft ping, ping, ping, as it skidded across the white Italian marble floor.
White Italian marble floor?
“Drake? Drake?”
“My lord?”
Drake struggled beneath the weight of the bodies that pressed him down.
Bodies. There were more than two.
Drake? My lord?
His breath was coming hard and fast on deep gulping gasps for air.
Think, Drake. Why would the French be calling me by my name? Think. Where were the echoing shots? He waited for the sounds that never came.
All energy drained from him and he rested his forehead upon the hard cool surface of the marble, which penetrated his haze of horror.
It had struck again.
He blinked down at the floor but his vision blurred, blending the surface. He wanted to cry. A trickle of wetness trailed a path from his cheek and fell upon his lips.
Nay, he was crying.
He became aware of his father helping him up, gathering him in his arms as if he were no more than a boy.
Except he wasn’t a boy. He was a battle-scarred man who would never be normal again.
His whole frame shuddered with the jarring return to reality.
“It’s fine, Drake,” his father whispered. He stroked his back. “You can leave, Winchester.”
It wasn’t fine. In fact, Drake wanted to toss his head back and rail at a nonexistent God.
He stiffened and took a staggering step away from his father and remembered. Remembered this humiliation had been witnessed by a host of servants, servants who would surely talk. Then the entire ton would know. She would know. His gut churned. He was going to be ill.
“Not one member of this household will speak on what happened here,” his father said, correctly interpreting the direction of Drake’s thoughts. There was an air of ducal confidence to the promise.
Drake took another step backward, placing much needed distance between them.
His father’s throat bobbed up and down, displaying his unease. He held an outstretched hand toward Drake. “Don’t, Drake.
Don’t turn from me.” It was an order. It was not a ducal order, but rather the words of a father demanding his child not shut him out.
Drake ignored him and, without another word, turned on his heel and climbed the last stairwell. He walked at a brisk pace down the long hall and finally reached his chambers. He shoved the door back with an aggravated force and entered, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
Drake leaned against the closed hard panels of the oak door, borrowing the strength to stand. The hum of the room’s quiet fell in cadence with the heavy sound of his breathing.
When he thought he could move again without collapsing into a heap of shame, he dropped to the floor and sat with his body flush against the door.
Sir Faithful bounded across the room, and ran excitedly about Drake’s feet. The dog climbed up in his lap, and favored Drake’s face with a coarse, pink-tipped lick.
A bitter laugh escaped Drake, which he buried in Sir Faithful’s neck. “I should have known better.”
Instead, he had deluded himself into believing this defect in him, this tendency to lose control, would not prevent him from finding happiness with Emmaline. The memory of her, the taste of her lips, the sweet sounds he had swallowed within his own mouth, had all allowed him to pretend he could be more than he was. A monster bound for Bedlam.
It hadn’t been enough that he’d lost control in front of her. Hell, that time should have been the first and last he’d allowed himself to be in her presence. But he’d persisted—because he was a selfish, filthy bastard who’d cared more about how she made him feel, how she made him forget.
Drake should be grateful this had happened. Now he could at least spare her hurt. He could take it on as his own. In fact, Drake should be glad for it.
So why wasn’t he? Why did he wish the day had continued along as he’d imagined.
He would have marched up Mallen’s steps with an armful of the white flowers he and Emmaline had lain amidst and then asked for her hand.
Her endless brown eyes would have sparkled with merriment and shock when he told her he wanted to make her his wife.
Mallen would bang his fist on his desk and glower at Drake with displeasure.
Drake dropped his head into his hands and pressed his fingers against throbbing temples, and continued to cradle Sir Faithful close. Excruciating headaches usually followed the episodes. He welcomed the pain this time for it helped dull the agonizing feeling of his heart being ripped piece by piece from his body.
Lords of the Isles Page 81