Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Sophie’s eyes went round. “Oh, Em.”

  Emmaline snapped her fan shut. “I broke off the betrothal.”

  If possible, Sophie’s eyes widened even more. “You what?”

  Emmaline scrunched her fingers into the folds of her gown, crushing the lovely sea-foam creation. Madame Touseou would be livid if she saw how callously Emmaline handled one of her finest gowns.

  “I ended it. Lord Drake does not care for me. He never did. So in the end, I gave him his freedom.”

  Sophie’s brow furrowed. “I have to believe he cares for you, Em.”

  A snort escaped Emmaline. “What makes you say that?”

  Sophie stole another peek across the room. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you arrived.” She tapped her chin. “And he doesn’t appear disinterested. No man can look at a woman the way he has looked at you all night and not feel something.” Sophie sighed. “I’d give my last eye-tooth to have a man stare at me the way the Marquess of Drake stares at you.”

  Emmaline followed Sophie’s focus. Why was Sophie staring at Sebastian? Her friend must have taken note of Sebastian’s lethal black stare.

  The urge was even stronger to find Drake in the crowd, but Emmaline continued to resist. “I assure you Drake is merely annoyed by my presence.” Emmaline remembered his detachedness in Hyde Park earlier that day. He might as well have been one of the stone statues that graced her mother’s gardens. Anything else her friend read in his response was fanciful thinking.

  “Are you certain of that?” Sophie’s question jerked Emmaline back to the moment.

  “I couldn’t be more…”

  “Because he is headed this way.”

  Against better judgment, she sought him out. Drake cut a swath across the room, right to the seat she occupied.

  Oh God, why is he doing this? Didn’t he know she was going to collapse in a heap of despair at the feet of Society?

  She and Sophie scrambled to their feet and dipped matching curtsies.

  Drake bowed. “Lady Emmaline,” he said without even the pretense of niceties for Sophie’s sake. “I would like to request the next set.”

  Emmaline swallowed and attempted to muster her earlier indignation. “I’m afraid my card is full, my lord,” she lied. She clutched her card close so he couldn’t see the void of names.

  He held out his arm, as if daring her to refuse. “I am certain some gentleman would be more than willing to forgive my boldness in stealing his set.”

  What kind of weak ninny was she that she wanted to take his arm and grant his request? For in spite of what had come to pass, she wanted to be in his arms.

  A booming voice laden with false sincerity interrupted Emmaline’s musings. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”

  Emmaline and Drake turned in unison.

  Sophie jumped up.

  Drake passed a black glare over her brother. “Mallen.”

  Sophie shifted on her feet. “Your Grace.” She remembered to dip a curtsy.

  Sebastian paused and then seemed to remember the years of gentlemanly behavior drilled into him. He bowed. “How are you this evening, Miss Winters?”

  “I’m—.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer as he slung an arm around Drake’s shoulder, neatly steering him from Emmaline.

  “Well,” Sophie muttered in his wake.

  Emmaline hurried after the two gentlemen, fearing they would come to blows.

  Drake shrugged off Sebastian good-naturedly and spoke through his teeth. “If you put a hand on me again, Mallen, by God, I swear I will lay you out in front of this entire room.”

  “Sebastian, do not cause a scene,” Emmaline hissed.

  Sebastian hesitated momentarily, seeming to consider the measure of Drake’s threat and Emmaline’s words. “I want you to stay away from my sister.”

  Drake’s jaw hardened. “She is no longer a girl. She hardly needs you to dictate her actions—”

  For the tons benefit, she playfully tapped Sebastian on the arm with her fan. “I’m standing right here, gentlemen.”

  Sebastian ignored her. “Ahh, but I’m not dictating her actions. I’m dictating yours. I said stay away from her.”

  “Mallen, I faced down a squadron of soldiers firing at me. It will take a great deal more than you to intimidate me,” Drake drawled lazily. This time he thumped Sebastian between the shoulder blades. “I bid you good evening, Mallen.” He turned his attention to Emmaline as he favored her with a last, hot, lingering look.

  Emmaline’s breath caught. She would always love him.

  The moment was shattered by Sebastian. “Oh, Drake, one more thing?”

  No, Emmaline screamed silently. She wanted to take back what she’d said to both Drake and Sebastian. She wanted to find a way to start again.

  Drake raised a single, insolent golden brow.

  “I’d like to request a meeting tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock. I’m sure you have an idea as to what it’s about.”

  Emmaline’s eyes slid closed on a wave of pain and when she opened them, Drake had already left.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  My Dearest Drake,

  I have begun to fear there was merit to my parents’ suspicions that you left because of our betrothal. My brother used to tell me such thoughts were foolish. He has since stopped protesting. Regardless…I hope you do not come to harm because of me.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Emmaline stood hidden by an enormous Doric column in her brother’s foyer. She rested her forehead against the hard, cool stone and trailed a finger over the ridges. How long had she been waiting? Minutes? Hours? Days? Years?

  A loud resounding knock bounced off the front doors. Even though she’d been expecting it, she jumped. Her heart thumped wildly and she folded her arms to her chest, making herself as small as possible.

  From her hiding spot, she peeked out from behind the structure.

  The expressionless butler, Carmichael, opened the door and admitted an ever regal, handsome Lord Drake. The black flowing fabric of his elegant cloak swirled around his legs.

  Drake handed the servant a card. “His Grace is expecting me.”

  Carmichael assisted him out of his cloak and handed it to a nearby servant.

  The butler motioned for Lord Drake to follow. “Right this way, my lord.” Emmaline watched him go. His boots tapped methodically on the marble floor. Then he froze, and suddenly whipped back around.

  She pressed tight against the other side of the column, furtively studying his actions.

  His unreadable jade stare quickly panned the foyer, before swiveling back and settling on the column that served as her hiding place.

  Emmaline smothered a gasp with her hand, torn between laughter and tears. Drake had a way of doing that. Of somehow, knowing just where she was.

  “My lord? This way, if you please,” Carmichael prompted.

  He inclined his head and then continued on to Sebastian’s office.

  When she was certain he’d gone, Emmaline dashed from behind her hiding place, and raced to her brother’s office.

  Once upon a lifetime ago, Emmaline had been a little girl seated in her father’s office swinging her legs to and fro, opposite a young boy. She’d been unaware of the goings on across the room. Fifteen years later, the little girl had been replaced by a woman, now barred from that very same room. Now she stood at the fringe of a closed door.

  Unlike that time from her girlhood past, Emmaline knew exactly what was being discussed between the present duke and her betrothed. And found she preferred the not knowing.

  The large paneled oak door muted the voices closeted away in the office.

  “Come away from that door, Emmaline,” her mother hissed from the hall.

  Emmaline ignored her. Even if Emmaline was eavesdropping like a small girl, she was in fact a grown woman.

  “Emmaline.”

  Emmaline leveled her mother with a forceful stare. “No,�
�� she mouthed silently.

  When her mother took several steps closer, Emmaline held up a staying hand.

  “By God. Mother, everything has been dictated to me since I was five years old. I’m telling you now, I need to be here. Please go, lest I be discovered.”

  For the first time in her entire life, the usually eloquent Duchess of Mallen appeared speechless. With great gentleness, she took Emmaline’s face between her hands and dropped a kiss upon her forehead.

  “You are right, my dear. I have imposed enough of my will on your life.” She spared another glance at the door. “Find me when it’s done.”

  The seconds ticked by and the muffled sound of speaking grabbed her. “Mother,” Emmaline said urgently.

  “Right, right,” she whispered and with obvious hesitancy, left Emmaline alone.

  Emmaline shifted her focus to the heavy oak door, wishing it was instead a mere slip of a curtain so the exchange could be unfiltered. On the heels of that thought came a startling realization. It hit her with all the force of an unexpected summer lightning storm; the implication of the momentous proceedings on the other side of the door managed to suck all strength from her limbs.

  The stoic force she’d found to face down her mother left her on a silent breath and she realized this would be the last time Drake ever entered her home. Never again would he tease her. Or stroke her body like a virtuoso, who’d been gifted a new instrument. For when Drake exited Sebastian’s library, he would cease to be a part of her life. All they’d shared, from teeth-gritting annoyance to easy companionability would fade into nothing more than a fleeting memory of a brief time she’d been close to complete and utter rapture.

  After a copious amount of tears shed for her betrothed, Emmaline had risen that morning certain she couldn’t manage one more salty drop for Drake.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped at it with an aggravated hand. Apparently she’d been wrong.

  *

  “A drink?” Mallen offered. He gestured to the open bottle of brandy.

  Drake gave a curt shake. “A bit early for a drink, no?”

  One of Mallen’s dark brows arched. “Not one for social niceties, are you?”

  Drake’s jaw hardened. He forced himself to unfurl his tightly clenched fist.

  He would be damned if he gave in to Mallen’s attempt to draw him into a row. He’d caused Emmaline enough hurt and wouldn’t further add to it by beating her brother to a bloody pulp in her home.

  Mimicking the pompous duke, Drake arched a cool, mocking brow. “Is this why you asked me here? For a social visit?”

  “Sit, sit!” Mallen urged and reclaimed the seat behind his desk.

  Drake settled into one of the leather winged-back chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  Mallen propped his chin on steepled fingers and drummed them together. “You know why you’re here,” he said at last.

  Drake gritted his teeth. “Have out with it already.”

  Mallen leaned forward and reached for a leather folio. He pulled out several documents, appeared to review them, and then reached for his pen. The duke dipped it in ink and scratched his signature on a series of pages.

  He signed the final document and settled the pen back into its crystal well with a decisive click. “I am severing the contract between you and Emmaline.” Mallen shoved the open portfolio across the surface of his otherwise immaculate desk.

  Drake had known this exchange was coming, and yet his stomach twisted with an agonized pain.

  A contract.

  Over the past few months, Emmaline had become so very much more than a contract. She’d become the sole reason for Drake’s every happiness. She represented all that was courageous and strong. And the bloody scraps of parchment would erase all of that from his life.

  His heartbeat increased, forcing him to draw a deep, shaky breath.

  Mallen’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Drake reached for the damned documents. He proceeded to read them with deliberate slowness. He turned the pages with such jerky movements he ripped one of the sheets. When he finished reading them, he set them aside.

  Mallen spoke. “I’m perplexed. Based on your previous sentiments, I should think you’d be very eager to put your signature to the documents.”

  Drake growled. “Sod off.”

  Still, he didn’t pick up the pen. His gaze wandered off to the sconce of lit candles throughout the room. How easy it would be to cross to one of those small torches and carry it back to the bloody document and set the whole foul piece ablaze.

  Mallen leaned across his desk and tapped the parchment. “Your signature, Drake.”

  Drake lunged to his feet. He wrenched the pen from its crystal container, held it aloft, so that ink smattered the duke’s desk and paper. He glowered at Mallen. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?” Mallen drawled.

  Rage filled Drake. He scribbled his name hastily, and again dipped the pen in the inkwell. “You have never liked me.” He could not bite back the seething hatred he felt for the other man.

  “Oh, come. We both know the sentiments have been mutual.”

  Drake scratched his signature on another parchment. “Whole-heartedly.”

  “Can you answer me this, Drake?”

  Drake paused and glanced up.

  “You ignored Emmaline for fifteen years. You ran off to fight a war, and left your responsibilities behind. You’ve made it clear to Society how you felt about your betrothal. You returned and carried on with a whole host of women, you drink, you gamble.” Mallen paused, probing eyes, seemed to search out answers. “And yet, you don’t strike me as a man eager to sign the severance document. Why is that?”

  Drake set the pen down, and leveling his palms on the desktop, leaned forward. “You are not betrothed to anyone, Your Grace. Why is that?” He didn’t allow Mallen to answer. “It is because you made that choice. Had you been a boy of three and ten and had that very important decision taken away from you, well, then I’m sure then you might understand some of my rationale.”

  Mallen inclined his head. “You might be right. That is neither here nor there,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What matters is Emmaline is still my sister, and I would see her cared for.” He motioned to the documents. “Get on with it.”

  Drake dropped his stare to the parchment. With the black ink, he’d made a mess of one of the sheets. He wondered if the document would even be considered legal.

  “You did not answer my question,” the duke said.

  Drake would be damned if he fed the other man’s curiosity. He signed the final sheet. Straightening, he threw the pen onto the desk where it landed with a thunk. “No, no I am not.”

  Silence descended.

  It is done.

  Mallen reached his hand across the desk, and Drake stared at it blankly. He wanted to snarl at him. Tell him to go to the Devil. Sebastian shook his hand. They were after all, gentlemen.

  He turned to leave.

  “Drake?”

  He froze, keeping his back to the other man.

  “In spite of what you believe, I don’t hate you.”

  Drake managed a dry laugh but didn’t answer; because if he did all he’d end up saying was he couldn’t care less about what Mallen felt for him. Instead he nodded.

  “Do you know why we’ve never gotten along, Drake?”

  God, the man was a termagant. Tenacious.

  Like his sister. Oh God, why did that thought hurt so bloody much? Drake turned around. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” he bit out.

  Mallen smiled. “We never got along because we resented each other. You resent me because I love her. And I resent you because you do not.”

  He measured Mallen’s words for a long moment.

  “One more thing.”

  Drake froze. Waited.

  “Can I ask why you didn’t want to marry her?”

 
He swallowed once. Twice. Then gave a jerky shake of his head.

  “That is not something I’m willing to share with you, Mallen.” With a curt bow, Drake did what he’d been longing to do since he’d gotten there—he left.

  He stormed out quickly and nearly stumbled upon the young woman hovering against the wall.

  He froze. He eyed her, beset by a range of different emotions; agony, regret, hopelessness. She’d been the last thread holding him to humanity. What am I without you?

  The moment seemed to stretch into forever.

  “Goodbye, Emmaline,” he said hoarsely. “It was never my intention to hurt you. Please know that.”

  Emmaline’s expressive brown eyes pooled with tears. “Goodbye, Drake.”

  Then he left, knowing until he drew his last breath, he’d be haunted by the sorrowful image of her standing there.

  *

  Emmaline sank against the wall. She pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.

  Sebastian opened the office door and tugged her into the room away from any potential gossipy servants and when he’d closed the door, promptly pulled her into his arms. “Shh,” he murmured against the crown of her hair.

  She wept against his shirtfront. She had wanted this. So why did it hurt so much?

  “I asked him, Em.”

  “I-I know.” She’d heard the whole exchange.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get your answers.”

  Not as sorry as I am.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dearest Lord Drake,

  I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Drake strode down St. James Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.

  News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.

  The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.