Emmaline chewed her lip. “No—no. I-I had hoped…” Her words trailed off. Because, naively, that had been what she’d hoped. Hearing it from Sophie’s lips indicated it had been no more than a fairytale constructed from balderdash.
She thought about Drake standing beside Lady Smythe, flirting shamelessly with the voluptuous widow. Emmaline glanced down at her own, less than stellar attributes, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly fair,” she muttered.
“What is?”
“Lady Smythe should be so generously endowed while I, while I…” Emmaline made a vague gesture over her own less than impressive décolletage. Leaning forward, she puffed her chest out and then, realizing how ridiculous she must look, lolled back against the cushions of the chair, throwing a dejected hand across her eyes.
A bark of laughter escaped Sophie. “Ah, here. These are just the thing!”
Emmaline dropped her hand from her eyes and watched her friend reach onto a nearby table for a stack of linens, wrinkle them into a sizeable ball, and thrust them at her.
Emmaline reached for them and made quick work of stuffing them into the front of her gown. The two women glanced down at Emmaline’s new endowments and promptly burst into laughter.
After their giggles had abated, Sophie glanced up. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “It really is a shame you’re hiding in here. He is, after all, the one who has behaved like an absolute cad.”
Emmaline blinked several times. “You know, you are right. Why should I cower behind closed doors while he enjoys a grand evening?”
Sophie shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”
Tugging the balls of linen from the front of her gown, she set them on Lady Wilcox’ table and took to her feet. “I am not going to hide.”
Sophie popped right up beside her. “Brava, my dear!”
The more Emmaline thought about Drake, the more infuriated she became. “His interest in Lady Smythe stemmed from nothing other than his desire to lash out at me.” She lifted her hand up, mimicking her betrothed’s movements. “And his mocking salute with that champagne flute. Why, he may as well have shouted ‘victory’ from across the ballroom.”
Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. “This battle has gone to Lord Drake, but it is just one battle.”
The two women marched arm in arm, through the antechamber, until Sophie placed a staying hand on Emmaline’s arm. She looked at her with somber eyes. “You must promise me something, Em.”
Emmaline inclined her head.
“The moment you feel any sadness in Lady Wilcox’ ballroom, the moment you feel the desire to flee—you simply must think of how outlandish you looked with our hostesses fine linens stuffed in your chemise.”
They erupted into laughter and then prepared to face the elegantly clad pariahs swarming the ballroom with a taste for blood. With heads held high they moved across the ballroom. Emmaline caught sight of her brother weaving through the crowd, his expression thunderous. “Great, my brother,” she muttered. She really didn’t need him to make this evening any more difficult than it had already become. “Come, this way.” She tried steering Sophie to the far left corner of the ballroom.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Sophie said, looking around.
“Lost who?”
Sophie shrieked and dropped Emmaline’s arm. “Y-your Grace.”
Sebastian sketched a bow and claimed Sophie’s hand for an absent, perfunctory kiss.
“I’ll kill him,” he muttered beneath his breath. He obviously wasn’t concerned that Sophie was privy to the conversation. Sebastian knew Sophie’s loyalty to Emmaline and was not inclined to shield his anger. He held out his arm.
Emmaline turned to Sophie, who waved her on. “Go ahead, I’ll be over there.” Sophie hurried off to claim a seat amidst the other wallflowers.
Emmaline returned her attention to Sebastian. “You most certainly will not kill him,” she admonished as he led her into the next set. They took their place in line for the quadrille. The orchestra began playing and they moved through the intricate steps of the lively dance.
“Whatever are you doing fawning over him?” His censure was tangible. “Mother is furious.”
Emmaline’s gaze sought out her mother, engaged in conversation with their hostess. Mother caught Emmaline’s eyes and frowned.
Emmaline tried not to feel hurt at her mother and brother’s obvious disappointment. Emmaline and Sebastian were parted, and she was saved from responding, until they came together.
“I am not fawning. He is my betrothed. What would you have me do? Exist in this false world for the remainder of my life? I am already twenty.”
Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but was prevented from speaking by the steps of the dance that once again separated them.
Her brother remained silent when next they came together in the line; his ducal stare quickly surveyed the room. Emmaline knew beyond a doubt who he sought out. She also knew the moment his gaze collided with Lord Drake beside Lady Perfection.
She tapped Sebastian on the arm. “Do you trust me?”
He appeared startled by the question and redirected his attention to Emmaline.
“Do I trust you?” He seemed bemused by her question. “I must be honest, Em, I’ve never given it much thought. You’ve always been my baby sister. I haven’t really seen you as anyone other than the little girl who used to dog my every step.”
Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited until they came together. “I’m no longer the child who cried in your arms when my pony fell ill and had to be put down.”
There was something melancholy in Sebastian’s eyes, as if he’d just realized Emmaline had grown up, that she was no longer a child, and, in fact, a woman. “Of course I trust you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.
“I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”
She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.
The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline, and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.
Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.
Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.
“My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Lady Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.
Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”
Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”
Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.
Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”
Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers.
Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”
Oh God, forget a whipped horse…Whitmore had landed a solid blow, right in her gut. His victorious expression said he knew it.
Sophie clamored to her feet. “You odious little creature. How dare you come over here? Why, do you know who Lady Emmaline’s brother is?"
Whitmore ignored Sophie.
“What do you want, Whitmore?” Emmaline drawled. She’d run out of patience for the "odious little creature," as Sophie had dubbed him.
He turned blood-shot yellow eyes to Emmaline. “Why, I would like an apology of course.”
Emmaline blinked. “That is all you want? An apology?”
He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.
“Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”
Chapter 11
Dearest Lord Drake,
My brother has informed me that though I’m no great beauty I’m a woman of character, which is more important than anything else. I solemnly reassured him that even though he is not the most intelligent gentleman, he is certainly the most pompous.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake was bored.
And frustrated.
And annoyed.
With himself, and the woman prattling on and on at his arm. If he’d been paying an iota of attention to whatever she was saying, he was certain there were a number of sexual innuendos buried within her words.
His eyes caught Sin’s form cutting a path through the crowd, and sighed.
He owed Sin.
Sin stopped before them, and bowed to the widow. “Lady Smythe, stunning as always!”
Her ice blue eyes, flashed with annoyance. “My lord.”
Sin smiled, clearly immune to her displeasure. “Lord Thurmond has been looking for you. I did him the courtesy of letting him know where you were. Ahh, here he comes, now,” he said with a wide smile and for good measure, nodded in the direction of the furious gentleman crossing the length of the ballroom.
Withholding any hint of society niceties for Sinclair, Lady Smythe gave him an elegant shoulder, and directed her attention to Drake. “My lord, I’m eager to continue our discussion,” she purred.
Drake offered a non-committal response and sketched a bow. The young widow gave him one last heated look. She shot a black look at Sin, and then sauntered away.
Sin rolled his shoulders in a mock shudder. “Egads, that scowl makes her hideous.”
Drake grinned. “Many thanks.”
Sin waved him off. “Think nothing of it.” He retrieved a champagne flute from a passing tray, and took a long sip. “What you should be thinking about, however, is the gossip you’ve created.”
Drake didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, he surreptitiously watched Emmaline, seated at the outskirts of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with Miss Winters, her hands spiraling animatedly, like two little tornadoes. All the hurt she’d worn earlier for the world to see, now gone. Instead, she fairly beamed. A vibrant sparkle glimmered in her eyes, like a beacon. The desire to go and bask in her unabashed joy hit him with a physical intensity so strong, he nearly staggered under the weight of it.
Then Drake became aware of certain other things. With any hint of scandal now gone, the ton had lost interest in gawking at Emmaline. And that was when he made the shocking realization—Lady Emmaline had been relegated to the inglorious fate of wallflower.
One month ago, such a revelation would have been no revelation at all. Yet having seen her challenge Whitmore, and then himself being the recipient of her saucy boldness, it baffled him that she was not sought after. The hair he’d once thought mousy was really a pleasing shade of deep, rich brown hues, which made Drake imagine just-melted chocolate cascading in rippling waves. Before the end of each night, one errant strand always managed to escape its coif, as stubborn as the lady herself. He found himself giving a very stern, albeit silent, command to his feet to stay planted and not cross the room so he could brush back that lock.
He took a step forward, then froze.
Sinclair wore a puzzled expression. “Uh…are you, all right, Drake?”
Drake ignored the question.
Either he’d been staring so long it was inevitable, or she’d felt his eyes trained on her because, just then, she looked up and the glimmer he’d spied, flickered out. The distance separating them could not dim the hurt in those amber depths, and he felt like the worst sort of bastard. She wrenched her gaze away.
“Go to her.”
Drake wasn’t sure whether the words had been uttered aloud by Sinclair or were trapped in his mind. The seductive strands of a waltz teased his consciousness. The urge to close the distance between them, draw her close into the folds of his arms, and breathe of her oddly alluring crisp lemon scent was a tangible force.
He ignored Sinclair’s stare. Though truth be told, the only way he’d be able to move his gaze from her delectable form was if somebody were to move him by sheer force. Emmaline’s sinfully delicious lips turned up at the corners, but oddly, in the course of a short time, he’d come to know what each tilt of her lips meant. He’d come to know her smile enough to know this particular one she wore for the ton was a façade—and knew he was responsible for the false show of joy she put on.
Sinclair seemed to read Drake’s disordered thoughts. “You can make it right,” he said quietly.
“Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”
Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you even know what that means?” The stinging words made Drake wince.
It wasn’t the first time that evening Drake had been appalled by his own words and actions. “My apologies,” he said gruffly.
Sin shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought.”
How could he not? Drake wondered at what point he’d lost the veneer of humanity that had once allowed him to fit in this world. What had happened those four years on the Peninsula that he now didn’t know how to be civil to his betrothed or best friend? Emmaline’s and Sin’s glaring disappointment in him was just one more stark reminder that he no longer fit in with civilized society—that he was better with vipers like Lady Smythe.
His gaze swallowed Emmaline. But, if he didn’t crave an emotional entanglement, why couldn’t he look away from her?
She desired love. She spoke of a family. God help him, when she’d spoken of her desires in that far-away husky whisper, she made him want to scale the walls, climb through a window, into the sky and retrieve the moon and a handful of stars for her.
Unlike him, Emmaline remained unscathed by the ugliness of life. The center of her existence was still their betrothal…that hadn’t been the case for him in years and years. At one time the obligations of his betrothal had seemed like the worst fate. What a blithering fool he’d been.
Sin looked from Drake to Emmaline. “Her hair is merely brown, you know?”
Drake gave his head a shake. “It’s like the color of Belgian chocolate, you fool.”
“Same with her eyes, just brown,” Sinclair pointed out.
“They are not brown. Why, they are more of a whiskey hue with a hint of…”
God, what was happening to him?
His friend gave him a triumphant look and with steely determination, Drake resolved to cease staring at his betrothed.
Sin opened his mouth to speak and Drake glared him into silence.
Regardless of the length of their friendship, Drake neither wanted nor needed Sin interfering with his betrothal agreement.
“So you do not have feelings for the young lady?”
Drake sipped his champagne. “None at all.”
“Which would probably mean you wouldn’t care if she has to deal with the likes of Whitmore, again?” Sin dangled.
Drake’s gaze flew across the room.
His hands balled into tight fists. Whitmore and Emmaline. Without a word, Drake strode toward his betrothed. By god that cowardly fop had better not cause her any distress or he’d end him right there with Society as his witness.
“Well, I guess I have my answer,” Sin called after him.
***
Rage dripped from Lord Whitmore with such ferocity he put Emmaline in mind of one of her brother’s hunting dogs who’d gotten so ill he’d frothed at the mouth. “You little fool,” Whitmore bit out.
Emmaline’s hand flew to her breast at the vulgar declaration.
“Whitmore, as crass as usual.”
She spun around and discovered Drake at her shoulder. The lines of his face were set in a hard mask. A slight tick at the corner of his eye, the only indication of his fury. He offered a perfunctory bow to both her and Sophie, and then turned his attention to Whitmore.
The young dandy’s cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of white.
Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.
A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”
Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.
The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.
Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.
Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.
“M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 7
