Drake held his father’s gaze. “It’s not your fault, Father,” he said.
His father dragged a hand through his hair. The normally steady fingers shook. “What isn’t my fault, Drake? The war? The broken betrothal? The nightmares?” he asked bitterly.
“Any of it. The decision to enlist was mine and mine alone.”
His father pressed his fingers tight against his forehead and rubbed. “Because of your resentment toward me. I—I am so sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”
Drake swallowed past a swell of emotion. “I believe at one point I did blame you. For years, in fact. It was wrong of me. Childish.”
The admission, this sudden absolution his father deserved, was freeing. It had not been his father’s fault that Drake had high-tailed it to the Peninsula. Drake had no one to blame but himself. It was also healing to take ownership of the decisions he’d made.
Silence descended upon the room, punctuated by the methodic tick of the clock.
“That blasted betrothal. Seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his father muttered. “What a disaster it turned out to be.”
Drake flinched. It struck somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, to think of the betrothal as a disaster. “Again, Father, it was only because of me. Given all the decisions I made, I could never bring myself to resent the betrothal.” It had given him months of happiness. Filled him with joy.
Sir Faithful nudged Drake’s knee. Drake rewarded him with another affectionate stroke. It had brought him Sir Faithful.
He thought of Emmaline and his gut clenched and unclenched at the pain of loss.
If only he had her…
Go to her, woo her.
“You can pursue her on your own,” the Duke of Hawkridge said into the quiet.
Drake didn’t move. “The nightmares, Father.”
“Maybe she can help you.”
“I cannot place this burden on her.” He had placed enough burdens on Emmaline, he could not, nay would not, add this one. “No matter how much I care for her, no matter how it fills me with rage at the thought of any gentleman courting her, I have to face the reality—I’m a madman.”
His father scoffed. “You are no madman. You were affected by what you saw and did. You’d be a madman if you weren’t affected by those experiences.” He arched a brow. “I made decisions that I felt were in your best interest. How much did you appreciate it? Perhaps you should let Lady Emmaline decide for herself if she would stay and fight these demons alongside you.”
Drake lurched to his feet and paced the width of the room. He’d had the same thought each morning upon reading her name in the scandal sheets. But every time he’d stepped a foot out the door, intending to humble himself at her feet, he stopped.
Could he court her? Drake paused mid-stride.
“I have never taken my son as a quitter,” his father called from behind his desk.
Drake stiffened.
It felt as though the chains of life that had restrained him all these years were at last lifted. A slow smile formed on his lips. His self-imposed exile was at an end.
Chapter Thirty
My Dearest Drake,
You have returned! I long for the day when we would again meet!
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline surveyed the crowded ballroom and upon spying Sophie, squeezed her brother’s arm, halting his movements. “I see Sophie.” She gestured subtly in her friend’s direction.
Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Sophie and then he looked back at Emmaline. “You know you do not need to sit with the other wallflowers,” he said, a frown on his lips.
Since Emmaline had severed her betrothal, she’d spent her evenings not very much different than so many others—amidst the other wallflowers.
She pinched her brother’s arm. “Hush. Sophie is not a wallflower.”
He made a non-committal sound. “I’m merely saying—”
“Don’t say anything.”
Sebastian closed his mouth and proceeded to guide her toward Sophie.
Sophie seemed to notice Sebastian first. Her eyes went wide and a small tremulous smile hovered on her lips before her gaze landed on Emmaline. She climbed to her feet and curtsied. “Em. Your Grace.”
Sebastian bowed. “Miss Winters.” He turned a wary look on the hopeful wallflowers, who eyed him with a desperate intensity, and beat a hasty retreat.
“Coward,” Emmaline muttered for Sophie’s ears.
Her friend laughed and claimed Emmaline’s hand. Just then, a swell of eager suitors converged upon them. It had been much the same way since word of her broken betrothal had become fodder for the gossips. Emmaline didn’t delude herself into believing these gentlemen cared about anything beyond her dowry and a connection with the Duke of Mallen. It might not matter to the other wallflowers who smiled almost gratefully in Emmaline’s direction, but it mattered to her.
“May I fetch a glass of punch?” Lord Abbott, one of her more erstwhile suitors, offered a desperate pitch to his voice.
The third Earl of Stanwick puffed out a broad chest, a chest Emmaline highly suspected was compliments of substantial padding provided by his valet. “I said I would fetch the lady punch.”
“Oh dear, this has the makings of an all-out fight,” Sophie murmured beneath her breath. “Why don’t you race and see who brings it back first?” Her suggestion resulted in an exodus of some of the young swains.
Emmaline turned to the expectant crowd of suitors. “Gentlemen, I fear I turned my ankle and will not be dancing any more sets for the remainder of the evening.”
The popinjays groaned in disappointment and shuffled off, earning Emmaline censorious looks from her fellow wallflowers.
“Did we ever truly want this?” Emmaline mused.
Sophie’s lips twitched. “There must be a happy in-between, no?”
A happy in-between? What exactly would that look like? One would have to actually have a care for one or any of the suitors to be happy, no?
Over the years she’d given so much thought to being courted. She’d dreamed of becoming the recipient of a man’s admiration. Oh, she’d hoped it would be her betrothed, but had yearned to know a real courtship. That had been before she’d fallen in love with Drake. Now, every gentleman she met was a pale shadow of his impressive, inspiring figure. Not a single gentleman she’d met had managed to make her heart trip a beat, or set her stomach aflutter with shades of longing.
Only one man thus far had ever prompted such a response in her…and he was gone.
Sophie claimed her hand again. “You look so sad.”
Emmaline swallowed painfully. “I ache for just one sight of him. It is as though he’s disappeared from Society. I wonder what he is doing. Wonder if he ever has any thoughts of me.”
Sophie snorted. “Of course he thinks of you.”
A thrum of whispers rose amidst the crowd. Sophie glanced across the ballroom. Her golden brows shot up to her hairline.
“Sophie?”
“Uh, what would you do if you saw Lord Drake?”
Emmaline cocked her head. “Well, I imagine I’ll eventually have to see him because we do travel in similar circles.”
“Because he’s just arrived.”
Emmaline’s heart quickened and for the first time in weeks, soft joy filled her. She told herself not to search for him, but could no more stop herself from looking about than she could stop breathing.
He stood at the top of the stairwell, greeting Lord and Lady Thompson. Attired in all black and with his halo of golden hair, he may as well have been a fallen angel. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of something Lord Thompson said, before bowing, and pressing ahead. He appeared immune to the hum of whispers, the gaping stares. His intent emerald green gaze swept over the room, searching, searching, searching.
And then finding.
Even with the distance separating them, the hot intensity of his focus as he settled his stare on her scorched her like
a noon sun.
“Breathe,” she reminded herself. Sophie nudged her in the arm but Emmaline ignored her.
“There is no way a man can look at you the way the marquess is looking at you and not feel something.”
Aware of the intrusive way in which they were being scrutinized, Emmaline forced herself to look away.
Sophie groaned. “Oh dear, your brother is headed this way.”
Sebastian rapidly crossed the room, even as the crowd parted for Drake. “What do you want me to do?” Sophie urged. “Do you want to see him?”
“I do,” Emmaline whispered. She heard the consternation in her own words.
Sophie hopped up from her seat and crossed the room, intercepting Sebastian. She held her empty dance card up to his inspection. Her boldness was met with scandalous gasps. His brow furrowed with a blend of annoyance and confusion. Sophie jabbed her finger at the card and showed him an invisible mark. Sebastian directed a pointed glare in Emmaline’s direction, before taking Sophie’s arm with seeming reluctance and leading her to the dance-floor.
Oh, Sophie. Emmaline’s eyes slid closed in gratitude.
“She is a good friend,” a quiet voice said, just over her shoulder.
She gasped, a fluttering hand covering her breast, and turned to face her former betrothed.
*
Drake claimed Emmaline’s hand and bent low over it. He placed a slow, lingering kiss on the top of her knuckles, even as his fingers caressed her inner wrist. What he wouldn’t give to remove the fabric that separated their skin.
“My lord,” she murmured.
With some difficulty, he swallowed around a swell of emotion lodged in his throat. “After all we’ve shared you might call me by my name.”
“You’d have me call you Ashton?” She traced her lips with the tip of her tongue. “In front of a room full of strangers awaiting my misstep?”
“Perhaps not by my given name, then.” He’d always quite abhorred the name. “Nor should you worry after the gossips.” He glanced around the room and pinned the peering lords and ladies with a collective glare. The crowd immediately redirected their attention. “Is that, better, Emmaline?”
Emmaline’s lips twitched but still refused to arc in a full smile. “Would that you could make them all disappear.”
He inclined his head. “I shall work on that.”
An awkward silence descended. They stood there, studying each other, like two strangers meeting for the first time.
“Will you do me the honor of this set?”
I have wanted to hold you in my arms, since the moment I walked out of your home, out of your life.
She went to place her hand in his, and then pulled it back. “I—I,” she stumbled.
His stomach tightened under the bite of rejection. “Forgive me for burdening you,” he said lamely. He should turn away. He should—
“Oh no, no,” she hurried to reassure him. She motioned down to her slippered feet. “You see, I told the gentlemen I turned my ankle and was unable to dance. How would it appear if I were to suddenly strike out the next set with you?”
A wave of relief washed over him. “That is the reason for your hesitancy?” He laughed; the sound burst from him from a place he’d thought had ceased to exist, a place full of unrestrained hope.
Without allowing her another word on the matter, he commandeered her to the ballroom floor for the current dance—a waltz. He settled his hands on her waist.
“My brother is flaying you to ribbons with his eyes.”
Drake arched a brow. “The last person I’m thinking about right now is your brother.”
Emmaline looked toward her brother. A small frown marred her lips. She continued to study the glowering duke as he waltzed Miss Winters across the dance floor. “He is not happy.”
Drake glanced at the duke and then back at Emmaline. “Really? I’m amazed you can tell. That is the only expression I’ve ever seen him wear.”
She giggled.
Drake’s lips twitched at her infectious laughter. “No, really. He must have been born with that terrific glower.”
Another giggle escaped her. “He’s practiced it since he was a young boy,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
He nodded somberly. “Of course he has. It is a requisite course for all heirs to dukedoms.” Drake narrowed his eyes and studied Emmaline down the length of his nose in his best impression of Mallen’s expression.
A gurgle of laughter bubbled up past her lips. “That is a rather impressive rendering.”
“Or there is this one.” Drake drummed up the disapproving glower his father had directed his way, many a-times when Drake had been a small boy.
“Please, s-s-stop. It isn’t seemly if I…” The floodgates opened and Emmaline’s giggle became a resounding laugh that earned a multitude of stares from the ton. The full, husky sound was hardly the simpering, stifled laugh required of a lady. Instead it conjured thoughts of naked bodies entwined in silken sheets, sated with pleasure.
“Th-they are s-staring again.”
Drake arched a brow. “Should I attempt one of your brother’s famous ducal scowls?”
Emmaline laughed even harder.
Drake stared down at her. How did I let you go? Sheer madness and rash idiocy were the only answers that made any sense. If he’d searched the world two times over, he’d never find a woman like her. And yet, she’d been his since they were mere children.
“I read your notes.” He caught her as she lost her footing.
*
Emmaline had given Drake her notes with the expectation he would read them. That had been at a time when she’d thought she would never speak to him again. But knowing he’d read all her private thoughts, left her feeling exposed.
Now that he was here, she could finally have the answer to the question that had haunted her since he’d walked out of her brother’s townhouse and out of her life. “I don’t understand. Why did you push me away?” Why did you give me up?
His hands tightened on her waist, the heat of his skin warming her even through the soft silk fabric. “If I were a better man I would leave you alone.” He nodded towards the eager gentlemen watching from the side of the dance floor. “I would be content to allow you to make a match with one of those more deserving gentlemen. I’m flawed.”
She flinched as she remembered her brother had leveled the same charge against Drake. “Don’t say that.”
He shook his head. A gold strand tumbled across his brow. “No. Listen to me. I need you to understand. The reason—”
“I’d like to dance the remainder of the set with my sister, Drake.” A voice snapped.
Emmaline jerked at the sudden appearance of Sophie and Sebastian. Somehow her brother had managed to steer Sophie across the floor and secured a spot right alongside them.
Sophie’s eyes fairly glimmered with an apology, as if to say she were sorry she’d been unable to keep Sebastian at bay.
Drat it.
With little ceremony, Sebastian handed Sophie over to Drake so that Emmaline was forced to accept her brother’s hand.
Sebastian’s eyes had gone glacial. “Stay away.”
*
Drake tore his gaze away from the sight of Mallen waltzing Emmaline away.
“You love her,” Miss Winters said, her tone very matter-of-fact.
He blinked. It was one thing for Emmaline to be so brutally direct, it was quite another when it was her dearest friend. “I beg your pardon, Miss Winters?”
Sophie gave a jaunty shake of her curls. “No apologies for loving her. I also love her.”
Drake felt as though he’d been spun in one too many dizzying circles. “Uh, n-no…for…” He let the matter rest.
Miss Winters studied him with wide, blinking cornflower blue eyes. She put him in mind of a night owl.
“You really should tell her, you know. The both of you should just end this façade.”
Of course, Emmaline would be the best of friends wit
h this opinionated, very vocal creature. “Façade, Miss Winters?”
Sophie pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “One minute you love her. The next you push her away. The next she is weepy. Then happy. It is enough to exhaust a soul.”
“I have never said I loved her,” he blurted.
Sophie gave him a wide, knowing smile. “You didn’t need to, my lord.”
Did he love Emmaline? He cared very much for her. He’d missed her when she’d been out of his life. She had brought him so much happiness. But love? Could Miss Winters be correct?
“I am indeed correct.” Sophie echoed his unspoken thoughts.
Drake was never gladder for the end of a set. He bowed over Miss Winter’s hand. “Will you deliver a message to her? Will you remind her I owe her a picnic?”
With that, he left.
Chapter Thirty-One
My Dearest Drake,
Oh, God. My father has died. Where are you? Why have you not come to me?
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Lord Sinclair perused the long, pale pink marble foyer. “A bachelor’s residence,” Sinclair murmured. He fell into step alongside Drake.
Sir Faithful trotted along at their heels.
Sinclair glanced back. “A dog, as well. My, my, you truly are a bachelor.”
“Stuff it, Sin,” he muttered, leading his friend into his new office.
Drake crossed to the drink cart in the corner of the room and availed himself to a glass of whiskey. He held the bottle up to Sin.
At Sin’s nod, Drake poured a healthy amount into a crystal tumbler.
Sin accepted the glass and he and Drake claimed a seat on the set of leather winged chairs.
They drank in companionable silence. Sin polished off his drink before he spoke. “You do know you have set the ton on its ear?” He didn’t wait for Drake’s response, instead rose, and crossed the room, helping himself to another drink.
Drake sipped his more conservatively and absently eyed Sin’s movements. “To hell with the ton.” He waited until Sin had reclaimed his seat. “I want to court Emmaline.”
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