Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (11 page)

Chapter 15

My Dearest Drake,

I have a confession. I am lonely. How odd, to have a mother, a father, a brother and frequent visitors, and yet still be lonely…I wish you’d come home soon and take me away from it all.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Somewhere amidst the crush of people who had shown up for the musical event of the Season
, Lord Drake was present.

The Earl and Countess of Cranford had all daughters; five of them to be exact, which provided a sufficient number for a whole evening’s worth of musical entertainment. The young ladies, ranging from seventeen to
two and twenty, were as gifted musically as they were stunning examples of golden, blue-eyed, English beauty. Each lady possessed a crystal-clear tone and broad range that would make a choir of angels green with envy. And thus, the event had become the only musicale that members of the
ton
looked forward to.

Emmaline scanned the hall.

Lord Sinclair had sent around a note indicating Lord Drake would be in attendance. She glanced over at her mother, engrossed in conversation with Lady Bloom, who therefore couldn’t notice Emmaline’s pointed search for Lord Drake. It was bad enough Emmaline had to deal with Sebastian’s censure over her pursuit of her betrothed. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to fend off Mother’s disapproval, as well.

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lord Sinclair had insisted Drake would be present and yet…this
wasn’t her betrothed’s usual entertainment. No, he’d far prefer balls where he could receive the attentions of scandalous, voluptuous widows. She could not even begin to speculate as to Drake’s motives in attending the annual musicale. There must be some woman in attendance who’d captured his interest. 

Her mother touched the small of her back and Emmaline started
. She’d not realized Lady Bloom had taken her leave.

“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,”
her mother said.

Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall,
to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.

Of late, Sebastian had begun
to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.

Emmaline sighed.
'Twas a dark day indeed when one's brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.

Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and
her mother’s direction.

Emmaline groaned.

Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.

“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed
, Mother.”

“Don’t be silly. He is not…”

Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.

As if sensing her daughter’s intentions,
she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.

“My dear sister and mother!
Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.

Emmaline winced.
If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.

Her mother’s brows narrowed
.

Emmaline dipped a curtsy
and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”

“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham
said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake.  He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.

A tide of guilt swept over
her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”

He grinned. “Better now.”

A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.

From an objective point of view
, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.

The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.

“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked. 

A
n inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”

Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?”
Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.

Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.

“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.

He laughed
, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding
ton
.

His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed. 

The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.

Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why
, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.

The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.

“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.

In the end, she settled for running into Lady
Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish?
For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.

Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder
that one must tread carefully.”

The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how
graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.

Lady
Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.

Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”

Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”

“Lady Emmaline,” Lady
Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.

Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you
, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning
you
.” Every single member of the
ton
knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.

An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her blonde curls
and then left on a huff.

Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh.
Emmaline gave him a sly wink.

Drake
’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.

“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady
Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”

Fury
fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.

Sinclair leaned close and whispered
back. “He does appear bothered.”

Drake
took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.

His manacle like hold on her
person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form, pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.

His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he
seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.

She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment.
Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”

Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line.
“You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”

Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck
, and she felt the color leech from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you
are
a fool, my lord.”

His turbulent jade
-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.

No words
he uttered could ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage.
The lout!

She
found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.

“Move,” she snapped.

Damn him.

Drake
looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”

And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response,
she leaned up and kissed him.

He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms
and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.

The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.

Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.

It was that same moan that
seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.

Emmaline
touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.

And yet…
he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.