The high E belonging to a particular soprano, Emmaline decided, was largely flat. It rent the opera house, muffled only slightly by the chatter of the ton. Her opinion had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the high E came from the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress.
Sophie’s brow furrowed. She glanced over her shoulder toward her brother’s box. “Mother is going to be livid.”
The Viscountess had not made one mention of the ladies’ visit to Lord Drake’s box. Her erect form and snapping eyes had conveyed the extent of her displeasure. It also explained why Sophie’s maid dogged their movements.
Beset by an onset of guilt, Emmaline bit the inside of her lip. “She might not have noticed.”
Sophie wrung her hands. “She would be the only one in the theatre, then.”
On the heels of that statement, Emmaline imagined Sebastian and Mother’s displeasure the following morning. She groaned aloud. In the end, it would appear the first battle had been won by Lord Drake.
“I do believe I have lost the first round, Sophie.” It chafed to admit defeat of any kind. To be defeated by Lord Drake, however was not to be countenanced.
Sophie paused and directed her attention to her maid. “Leave us.” The maid’s mouth set in a mutinous line, but one more look from Sophie and she slipped away.
When the maid was no longer in sight, Sophie returned her attention to Emmaline. “You couldn’t have expected it would be easy?”
Emmaline’s gaze wandered to a point over Sophie’s shoulder. “No, I didn’t, but I…I…”
Apparently she took pity on her friend. Sophie claimed Emmaline’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “From what you told me, Lord Drake had been so impressed by your showing with Whitmore. I just don’t understand.” Sophie tugged her hand. “Now, come.”
Emmaline allowed her friend to drag her forward. She didn’t understand it, herself. Any of it. She could only speculate as to Lord Drake’s disinterest in her over the years. “Mayhap I was wrong. Mayhap I was ruminating fantasies about what Lord Drake felt that day. He is such a gentleman, he would have come to any lady’s rescue.”
A tall, solid figure stepped into their path. Sophie managed to step out of the way even as Emmaline collided into a hard muscled chest. She gasped. She might as well have hit a wall—a large, immoveable wall.
Emmaline faltered, and would have fallen if Sophie didn’t grab her arm just as the gentleman reached out to steady her.
“My lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair said.
“Goodness, you startled me, my lord.” Sophie nudged her in the side. Emmaline frowned. “He did startle me.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t say as much in front of him.”
The gentleman’s lips twitched with what was assuredly amusement.
Emmaline glanced over his shoulder, seeking out…
“He left,” Lord Sinclair said.
Emmaline’s eyes snapped forward. “I don’t know whom you are talking about,” she said, a touch too quickly.
“I’d say it is rather obvious,” Sophie muttered.
Emmaline gave a pointed nod in Sinclair’s direction. “You still shouldn’t say as much.”
“‘Tis no different than you stating how startled you were when Lord Sinclair gracelessly bowled you over.”
Lord Sinclair bristled. “I beg your pardon?”
Emmaline and Sophie promptly fell silent.
“Our apologies,” Emmaline said. This time it was she who nudged Sophie.
“Uh, yes, our apologies, my lord.”
He bowed his head. “Think nothing of it.”
They each dipped a curtsy and made to move around him, but he held up a hand. “Might I beg a word alone with you, my lady?” He extended his arm to Emmaline.
Sophie’s shocked gasp split the awkward silence.
Emmaline traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. After a momentary pause, she tucked her hand into the fold of his arm, and allowed him to lead her several paces ahead. Sophie trotted along at a discreet distance, muttering loud enough for the both of them to hear just what she thought about the impropriety of their actions.
“I must admit, my lord, I’m intrigued.” She stole a peek up at him from the corner of her eye.
Sin’s lips twitched. “I would like to speak to you about Lord Drake.”
Emmaline missed a step, and with his assistance, righted her footing.
Sinclair led them to a vacant alcove and drew back the curtain. She hesitated for the slightest moment, and then followed him inside. He dropped the curtain into place and turned to face her.
He spoke without preamble. “I want you to marry Drake.”
She smothered a laugh with her hand. “Well, then that makes two of us, my lord. If only the decision was yours to make.”
The curtains rustled at Lord Sinclair’s back and Emmaline would wager her entire dowry that Sophie had her ear pressed to the fabric.
He folded his arms across his chest. “How well do you know Drake?”
Silence stretched between them. Unbidden, her mind tripped along a forgotten memory. She was five. Seated in her father’s library. An angry little boy had stared mutinously across at her.
Lord Sinclair cleared his throat. “Uh-my lady?”
Emmaline gave her head a shake. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children, my lord,” she said with deliberate vagueness.
His gaze skimmed a path across her face. “Do you know much about him?”
Emmaline arched a brow.
“I am not saying you should not desire a marriage to Lord Drake. I’m…I’m…”
“Just what are you saying?” The recipient of enough discomfort this evening, it was someone else’s turn to grapple with the emotion.
An awkward stretch of silence descended like a funeral pall, but Emmaline wouldn’t feel guilty for it.
She didn’t know Lord Sinclair enough to confess the particular details of her relationship with Drake. Why, Sophie wasn’t even privy to half the memories she’d buried in her heart. Sinclair may be close friends with her intended, it did not, however, grant him carte blanche to ask intimate questions and expect answers. Nor for that matter would she ever reveal just how she’d come by her knowledge of Lord Drake. To do so would open her to pity, and she was not keen on the rather useless sentiment.
“My lady, forgive me. I know this questioning is far from conventional,” he said, filling the void of quiet. He tugged his ear. “Were you aware I’ve been friends with Drake since we were just thirteen?”
She started at the admission. “I wasn’t aware.” She should have known that. How strange to think two of Drake’s most significant relationships had been cemented when he’d been a boy of thirteen.
Sinclair continued. “He’d always been a fun boy, though angry when I met him because…” A dull flush stained his cheeks, “Because….”
“Because?” It didn’t take much to gather thirteen-year-old Drake had assuredly been upset because of his betrothal to her five-year-old self.
Sinclair rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking himself like a thirteen-year- old boy who’d been caught pouring ink in his tutor’s tea. “Any young boy would be less than thrilled at being betrothed to a young girl.”
She decided in that moment she liked Lord Sinclair a great deal. He did not feel inclined to mince words, and for that she respected him.
“We don’t have much time, so might I be candid, my lady?”
Emmaline giggled. She raised a hand to muffle the sound. “Oh dear, you haven’t been up to this point?”
Sinclair ignored the question. “May I ask if you are interested in marriage to Lord Drake because he is heir to a dukedom?”
If she weren’t so amused by the question, she was certain she’d have been insulted. “Are you asking whether I am interested in his fortunes? Whether I aspire to the role of duchess?”
He didn’t back down under the directness of h
er question. “My lady, Drake has been pursued the better part of his life for his title. Forgive me for being leery of any woman’s intentions.”
She sighed. “My lord, my life has been dictated for me since the moment I was born. Yes, Lord Drake was betrothed to me when he was thirteen, but might I remind you, I was only five. A mere babe. I have been as trapped by this betrothal as Lord Drake.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I don’t aspire to a status, Lord Sinclair, I aspire to happiness.”
Sinclair ran a probing, hazel-green stare over her.
“Do you believe Drake can bring you happiness?” he asked with a bluntness that made her flinch.
Emmaline forced a smile. “I certainly hope so.” All Emmaline knew was she’d waited years for Drake. Had attended more balls and soirees than she could count, and even several masquerades. It had always been known that she was unmarriageable. During her first Season, she’d sat on the fringe watching all the young ladies who’d had their Come Out being courted, the recipients of poetry and flowers. Emmaline had received nary a flower. Not even one sonnet praising the hue of her hair or the glow in her eyes. She would have settled for even a poorly written poem.
Emmaline didn’t long for marriage because she desired a suitable match that would raise her status in Society. She wanted what all young women did, and yet would never admit—to be loved. She ached to know true love. She wanted a man to love her so helplessly, so desperately that he cared for nothing in the world but her.
Was it a fairytale she dreamed of? Perhaps. But it was what she yearned for. If it weren’t for it being her late father’s grandest wish that she wed Lord Drake, Emmaline would have tired of Drake’s disinterest years ago.
Well, the time of waiting for Drake to come up to scratch was at an end. She needed to determine if he was the man who could give her all those things she yearned for…and if not, well then she needed to move on.
Lord Sinclair didn’t say another word. Instead, he reached into the front of his black jacket and fished out a small parchment of paper. He handed the folded sheet to her.
Emmaline took it and opened the note. She glimpsed at it puzzled, and then looked up at him.
“They are the events Lord Drake is planning on attending for the next several nights.”
Emmaline’s mind was slow to process his words. Sinclair couldn’t possibly have known her intentions to pursue Drake. The only soul who knew of her plans was Sophie, and Sophie would never have betrayed her confidence.
“Should you choose to attend the events, I’m sure Lord Drake would be elated to see you.” He proceeded to fill in the details of his plan. “It is my hope that Drake can finally honor your betrothal, my lady. I believe should he take the time to know you, he will then cease….” His philandering ways. The indelicate words did not need to be spoken.
Her gaze dropped to the list. “Why are you doing this?” She raised her eyes to his.
Lord Sinclair’s expression grew veiled. “I can’t imagine you like existing in this suspended universe, my lady. You are neither wed nor pursued.”
Emmaline’s brow wrinkled. It hardly sounded flattering when stated in such a way.
“My lady, I meant no offense. I am simply providing—"
“The reason I should go along with your plans,” she finished for him. “I understand.”
A swell of applause resonated throughout the theatre, and from the other side of the curtain, Sophie nervously cleared her throat.
Lord Sinclair did not seem at all alarmed by the threat of discovery. “Lord Drake is a very different man from the boy you once knew. He has not been the same since…”
“Emmaline,” Sophie said. “Hurry.”
Emmaline wanted to curse at the interruption. Instead she dipped a hasty curtsy. It wouldn’t do to be seen emerging from a hidden alcove with her betrothed’s closest friend. “My lord, I thank you for your assistance.”
He sketched a short bow. “We shall see you tomorrow evening?”
“Emmaline,” Sophie again urged, this time her tone frantic.
She cast one more look down at the scrap in her hands, then folded it and stuffed it into the reticule dangling from her wrist. “You shall.”
He held up a staying hand. “Oh, my lady, one more thing. I thought you should know, Lord Drake was most impressed by your showing with Lord Whitmore.”
Emmaline smiled as she slipped from behind the curtain
Chapter 8
Dear Lord Drake,
I’m beginning to suspect you are avoiding me.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake filled a dish with several pieces of toast from the sideboard, and sat down across from his father at the long dining table. “Good morning,” he murmured.
His father lowered the paper he’d been reading. He appeared startled by the salutation. “Uh-good morning, Drake.”
He raised the paper back into place.
Drake picked up the silver knife beside his plate and proceeded to spread blackberry preserves upon his toast.
He looked up at the shuffling form in the doorway. The old butler, Winchester, who’d been around as long as Drake had been alive, entered. He stopped in front of Drake and held out a small, silver platter.
Drake ignored his father, who had set aside his paper, and now stared at him with blatant curiosity. Drake put his knife down and lifted both the sealed envelope and the blade presented by Winchester.
The faint scent of lemons wafted from the thick ivory envelope. Drake inserted the blade under the seal and withdrew two slips of parchment.
One was an autograph.
The other a note.
Dearest Lord Drake,
What kind of intended would I be if I didn’t keep to my word, honor a promise, and present to you that which I offered—a signature from the great Signora Nicolleli?
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
He laughed.
Who knew? His betrothed had a sense of humor.
Chapter 9
My Dearest Lord Drake,
How odd you are traveling the world when I’ve hardly been anywhere at all. With this in mind, I packed up several dresses and provisions and took a very long journey about our Leeds estate. My parents raised a hue and cry when they discovered I’d gone missing. Needless to say, I have been punished and forbidden from going anywhere for the next five years. I say that seems a rather harsh sentence.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
In May of 1811, at the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro, Marshall Massena had retreated back to Spain to find Wellington had already effectively blockaded Almeida. Though Wellington had been surpassed in manpower, he’d outnumbered the French in artillery. With the French failure at Fuentes de Onoro, Massena had been unwilling to attack because of Wellington’s strong position. Subsequently, Wellington had made the assumption that the French army of Portugal had been sufficiently weakened and discounted his enemy. The end result had been Wellington’s retreat.
Both, Wellington and Drake, had learned something very important at Fuentes de Onoro—never underestimate one’s enemy.
In this case, it wasn’t an enemy per se…but an opponent, whom he happened to be betrothed to.
No place was safe from Lady Emmaline. There was no sanctuary. When staring down the inevitable face of defeat, the only logical option had been retreat.
Drake scanned Lord and Lady Wilcox’ ballroom for the woman who’d occupied his thoughts for the better part of the evening.
From the time their betrothal contract had been signed, Drake had tried his damnedest to avoid any interaction with Lady Emmaline. Instead, he’d relegated her to the role of un-aging child, and prevented her from becoming a woman to whom he had obligations.
As a result, he knew next to nothing about her. He didn’t know her likes or dislikes. He didn’t know what made her laugh. What she read, or even if she enjoyed reading. He didn’t know if she had a personality. Until now.
Drake discovered Lady Emmaline was called Em by those closest to her. He learned her only real friend was Miss Sophie Winters. He noted Emmaline sat with Miss Winters at most events, smiling and chatting, all the while seeming oblivious to the pitying stares directed her way.
And she had a sense of humor. He thought about the note she’d sent round—the same note that had put an immediate end to his affair with the lovely Signora Valentina Nicolleli. Following the whole peculiar exchange with Emmaline, he would never have been able to carry on with the voluptuous mezzo-soprano without hearing his intended’s teasing voice.
Just then, Drake spied the brown coiffure of a young lady moving through a sea of guests. He held his breath, waiting for her to turn, then realized, upon closer inspection, that her hair did not possess the same deep chocolate hues.
“Are you looking for someone in particular, my lord?” An amused voice drawled over his shoulder.
He started, and swung around.
“Lady Emmaline.”
***
Emmaline expected to see vexation in her betrothed’s jade eyes, which is why she was struck breathless by the flash of amusement in their fathomless depths.
Her heart quickened.
“I was looking for someone, my lady.” He winked.
Winked! Oh, the insufferable bounder!
Emmaline’s heart resumed its normal cadence.
Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. She glanced around. “I see.” Her gaze locked on the imposing figure striding across the ballroom dance-floor. She cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps it is my brother?”
Drake groaned aloud as her brother, the Duke of Mallen, came to a stop before them. Sebastian’s foreboding black glare teemed with fury.
Sebastian bowed, the gesture a smidgeon shy of disrespect. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”
Drake returned the bow. “Your Grace,” he said flatly.
She studied them as they eyed one another like small boys fighting over the last pastry.
Over the years, she had learned there was no love lost between her betrothed and brother. She strongly suspected she was the cause of their animosity toward one another.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 5
