Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Read Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Online
Authors: Christi Caldwell
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #Historical Romance
Forever B
etrothed,
Never the Bride
by
Christi Caldwell
Copyright © 2013 by Christi Caldwell
Cover Art by Lily George
Copy Edits by
Lynn Crandall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes
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For more information about the author:
christicaldwellauthor
@gmail.com
http://christicaldwell.weebly.com/index.html
Table of Contents
To my two baby girls: I can’t wait to meet you! You have already shown
the tremendous strength and power that all great heroines should possess.
To all my friends fighting for their happily ever after. Thank you for being with me on a very long journey. This is going to be your year.
Tremendous thanks to my amazing critique partners who took me under their wings years ago. You have been my cheerleaders not only in my writing pursuits, but also in life. A special thanks to Aileen Fish and Samantha Grace. None of this could have happened without your support.
1817
London, England
Dearest Lord Drake
,
Though you have never directly addressed me by name, I have decided I am far too old to be called Em. I ask you to instead call me Emmaline...that is, if you ever call upon me.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Two elegant phaetons barreled along Oxford Street, bearing down on an old woman peddling her goods. The merchant paled and tried to shove her cart up on the pavement. It tipped, swayed, and then careened into the street. The two men in the phaeton pulled sharp on the reins and pitched forward in their seats. Nearby, a passing gentleman pushed the lady on his arm away from certain calamity.
A vulgar shout and frightened screams split the cacophony of mundane street sounds.
Lady Emmaline Rose Fitzhugh
paused on the pavement and raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun’s brightness. She frowned.
Lord Whitmore and Lord Cavenleigh. Two of
Society’s most dandified fops.
Lord Whitmore tugged hard at the reigns and leapt from the still moving conveyance. “You filthy cow!” He raged at the poor woman in the street.
Lord
Cavenleigh, jumped down from his carriage and muttered a string of curses.
Emmaline’s
skin heated at the rather descriptive obscenities they unleashed on the woman. Having an older brother, she’d heard her fair share of inappropriate words, but Cavenleigh’s litany was rather original even on that score.
As the street erupted
with the panicked cries of young ladies, the peddler bowed her head. Stringy gray hair straggled into her eyes. “Oi’m sorry, m-my lord.”
Cavenleigh kicked a tomato at the old woman, and smattered her skirts with the ripened fruit.
Emmaline gasped.
Her
maid, Grace, took her by the arm and attempted to steer her away. “Please, come away, my lady.”
Emmaline
ignored her efforts and rushed into the fray. “Cease, immediately.” She stepped into the street just as the assailant launched another tomato at the peddler.
The projectile missed its intended mark and
splattered onto the embroidered lace edging of Emmaline’s ivory silk skirts.
Hands squared on her hips, she glared at the two men. “How dare you?”
Whitmore, with his slickly oiled and very deliberately curled red hair, stepped around Emmaline to launch a barrage of insults at the quaking woman. He brandished his riding crop. “Sorry? You’re sorry? We could have been killed and for what? Your meaningless life and rotten vegetables?”
Emmaline threw herself in front of the aged
peddler. “What manner of gentlemen would torment a defenseless woman?”
“No, my lady,” Grace cried
.
A tall figure stepped into the fray and positioned himself between Grace and
the two assailants. Society knew the gentleman as the Marquess of Drake.
Emmaline knew him as her betrothed.
Lord Drake
wrenched the whip from the cad’s fingers, cracked the instrument in half, and tossed the two pieces aside.
Emmaline
swallowed hard. Lord Drake stood more than a head taller than her and possessed the kind of hardened masculine perfection Michelangelo would have ached to memorialize in stone. The harsh angles of his face bespoke power and commanded notice. With rugged cheeks, aquiline nose, and squared jaw, he conveyed raw vitality. The hint of a curl to his unfashionably long golden hair seemed suited to this real life David.
“You clearly have very little value for your life,”
Drake said to the two fops who’d moments ago tormented the poor old woman.
Emmaline’s stare collided with Drake’s emerald eyes. The green irises pierced through her with heated intensity; robbed her of breath.
Get a hold of yourself, Em. He is just a man.
A gloriously, stunning man—but that was neither here nor there.
S
he looked toward Whitmore and Cavenleigh. Cavenleigh had the good sense to stagger backwards and scurry from the incident like a rodent discovered by Cook in the kitchens.
Lord Drake
returned his focus to the red-haired assailant who’d wielded the weapon. He grabbed him by the wrist and applied such pressure, the man gasped.
A hiss of pain whistled past Whitmore’s lips
. “For the love of God, man…” Whitmore pleaded.
“Had your whip hit its mark, you’d be facing me at dawn.” Drake’s voice was a silken promise. “What’s your name, pup?”
Whitmore swallowed, as though he’d been forced to scrape up a rotten tomato from the grimy pavement and swallow it whole. “L-Lord W-Whitmore.”
“Beg the lady’s pardon, Witless.”
A laugh escaped Emmaline.
Whitmore glared at her.
His actions did not escape Drake’s astute gaze. Lord Drake tightened his grip and the dandy whimpered like a naughty child who’d just had a birch rod put to his person by a too stern nursemaid. “Apologize.”
The young lord turned to Emmaline. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. M-my apologies,” he croaked.
She folded her arms across her chest and nodded pointedly at the old woman. “I say, you rather owe the both of us an apology.”
Whitmore’s eyes rounded with shocked indignation. “You’re mad.”
Lord Drake squeezed again.
“M-My apologies, my lady.”
Her betrothed jerked his chin in the peddler’s direction. “Now, the woman.”
Whitmore blinked
; his pale white cheeks flamed a crimson red to match the bright hue of his hair. “Stupid old cow and her rotten vegetables nearly killed us.” He motioned down the expanse of his peacock blue satin breeches. “And look at this stain. Why, Brummell himself would have been proud to wear these.” The young man’s whining tone indicated he considered the attack on his wardrobe to be an equally grave affront.
The peddler’s chin fell to her chest as if she tried to make herself as small as possible.
Unable to remain silent any longer, Emmaline took a step toward the young fop. “Stupid, Lord Whitmore?” Passing a cursory glance over his frame, Emmaline shook her head. She nudged a tomato with the tip of her already ruined ivory satin slipper. “First of all, a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. Secondly,” it was her turn to gesture at the garment in question. “those breeches were ruined long before this incident.”
Whitmore frowned.
“I don’t understand, my lady.”
Lord Drake’s chuckle tugged her attention momentarily in his direction. His lips quirked upward in a devastating smile that quickened her heart
's pace. “I believe that is the lady’s point, Whitmore,” Lord Drake drawled.
Whitmore’s gasp forced Emmaline’s attention away from her betrothed.
Enraged awareness dawned in the dandy’s eyes. “You witch.”
Emmaline took a step closer to Lord Drake.
A single black look from the marquess forced Whitmore to an ignoble halt. Drake leaned down close to the man and whispered something intended solely for the dandy’s ears.
All color le
ached from the brute’s cheeks. His head tipped up and down like a bobbing ship caught in a squall on the Channel. “M-my a-a-apologies, my lady.”
Drake dropped
Whitmore’s wrist and wiped his hands back and forth as though he’d been sullied by the other man’s skin. His lethal glare froze the coward in his spot.
Whitmore cleared his throat. “What I’d intended to say, my lady, is that your rich beauty robbed me of any sense.” He
looked to Lord Drake as he recited each word, indicating they were by no means original thoughts belonging to the jackanapes.
“One more thing,” Drake said.
With obvious reluctance, the humiliated dandy reached into the front of his elaborate, violet-hued floral jacket. He withdrew a bag of coins, stared at it forlornly, and then offered it to the peddler. “Here.”
The peddler’s
eyes widened.
“Take it,” Drake
said. There was an underlying warmth to his gruff tone.
With downcast eyes,
the woman reached out and accepted the bag.
Drake returned his steely gaze to Whitmore. “I suggest you leave.”
When the other man continued to eye the bag in the woman’s hands with a blend of longing and bitter rage, Drake added, “Now.”
Whitmore
reached down, scooped up the remnants of his short whip, and then clambered into his phaeton. He shot one last black look at the peddler and Emmaline, before striking his white mount with a piece of his crop. His phaeton resumed its reckless path down the street. Emmaline stared after the carriage, glad to be free of Whitmore’s loathsome company.
When Whitmore had gone, she
turned back to the peddler. “Are you hurt?”
“No, m
y lady,” the woman whispered. Fat teardrops filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffed and dashed a hand across her nose. “My lady, my lord, oi thank you.”
Drake stepped out into the street. T
he heels of his gleaming black Hessian boots sank into a pile of rotten produce as he effortlessly righted the upended cart. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a bag of coins, and returned to the old woman’s side. “Here.” He gently placed the bag in her dirt-encrusted fingers.
“Oi-Oi, thank you, my lord. Many blessings to you both.” She dipped an awkward curtsy and pushed her nearly emptied cart down the
road.
Emmaline
watched after her until she’d disappeared from sight.
With the excitement now over, Oxford Street and its
passersby returned to their daily humdrum. Lord Drake turned his focus to Emmaline. “Have you been hurt, Lady Emmaline?”
She blinked. Then sighed. Maybe not in that order. Her mind seemed a bit…muddled. Yes, it was muddled. And her heart beat an oddly rapid rhythm in her chest—
thumpthumpthumpthump
. She tried to catch her breath but failed miserably.
And then realized what had happened. “Oh dear,” she
said.
The earlier rage she’d seen in
Lord Drake’s jade eyes faded to warm concern. He took a step towards her and Emmaline backed up a step. “My lady?”
“Oh dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. She’d read a fair
number of poems and gothic novels to recognize certain telltale signs of that which ailed her. The books all indicated one’s heart would race; one would be at a loss for words, and one would forget to breath. Yes, Emmaline knew what the onslaught of symptoms she’d been besieged by indicated—she’d gone and fallen in love.
“My lady?” Lord Drake and her maid repeated in unison.
Emmaline crashed back down to reality. The first thing she became aware of was that her toes were exceedingly chilly. She glanced down into the muddy puddle her slippers now called home and wrinkled her nose. A rather odd-smelling puddle of filthy water, crushed tomatoes, cabbage, and Lord knew what else.
With the tip of her right foot, she pushed aside
the stray purple leaf clinging to her other slipper.
“My lady?” Lord Drake interrupted her musings
.
Her head snapped up.
What did he say?
Her mind tried to drag up his recent question so she might form a suitable reply.
“Just splendid.” There, that seemed like a perfectly,
splendid
response.
A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh
, well you may find the stench of that puddle splendid but I must insist it is foul. Regardless of who is correct, might I offer you my arm?”
Emmaline wished said puddle were about five
-feet-four inches deeper so she could sink beneath its surface.
She stared at his outstretched hand until her maid cleared her throat,
and jerked her back to the moment. Emmaline placed her fingers in his. He tucked them into the fold of his elbow and carefully guided her away from the remnants of the cart.
“Thank you, my lord.”
That was the best I could come up with—just thank you
? She grimaced and stole a peek from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction to her less than stimulating repartee. Couldn’t she have offered some witty banter, as so many other ladies would have managed?
His
expression may as well have been carved from granite.
Emmaline had never been a flirt, so she
settled for honesty. “What you did for that peddler...and me, was—heroic.”
If she hadn’t raised her
gaze at that precise moment, she would have missed the way his strong, square jaw tightened.
“I would hardly call it heroic, my lady.” His words
sounded curiously flat.
Emmaline dug her heels in,
and forced him to stop. She motioned to the sea of preoccupied lords and ladies. “Look around, my lord. Look how busy the street is. There are ladies and gentlemen rushing about, and not one of them stepped forward.”