In attempt to distract him, Emmaline favored Drake with her most winning smile and stuck the tip of her satin slipper out as she tried to drag the leather volume toward her.
Drake’s jade eyes fell to her extended foot.
So much for her winningest smile.
“Please, allow me,” he insisted.
Like hell, she silently fumed. She made one last valiant attempt to collect the novel but he bent down to rescue the source of her quandary.
“No need. I have it, my lord.” She bent over just as Drake did. Their heads met with a loud crack.
“Oomph,” Emmaline gasped. The world rocked from under her and she would have splayed in an inelegant heap at his feet, but Drake’s arms were already out. He expertly righted her, rescuing her before she crashed to the floor and cradled her slender frame against his sculpted chest.
Emmaline’s breath caught. The press of his body against hers left her incapable of formulating one coherent thought. All she could comprehend was the absolute and total heat of his touch, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his person, tantalizing her senses.
Sophie sighed.
It would appear Drake heard it, too. As though Emmaline had spiked thorns along her forearms, he set her from him with alacrity.
She hated that her whole body should go on alert the moment he entered the same room, when he remained impervious to her. She might as well be a matronly relative. No…he probably would treat matronly relatives with far more regard than he showed her.
Sophie stammered her pardon and scurried down another aisle. Emmaline wasn’t certain if her friend was either: one, allowing her time alone with her betrothed or whether two, she sought escape before he discovered their scandalous reading habits. Which reminded her…
Emmaline made one more attempt to retrieve the work, but alas her betrothed had the reflexes of a lightning strike. He intercepted her efforts, and rescued the volume, holding it aloft, well beyond her reach.
A single, strand had escaped Emmaline’s neat chignon during her exertions and hung over her brow. She blew the lock back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll take that, my lord.”
Her eyes were drawn to the slow smile that quirked one corner of his lips. Drat the man. He seemed far too amused by this exchange. She briefly contemplated snatching the volume from his hand and dismissing him without a further word. Based on his earlier speed, any effort she made to retrieve it would prove ineffectual.
“Hmmm, what have we here?” he wondered, and lowered the book to eye level. His smile widened and he revealed a row of perfectly white even teeth.
Of course he would have perfect teeth, she thought, promptly snapping her mouth shut. She’d not allow him to see her own imperfect row, the way her front left tooth angled slightly over its right counterpart. Her brother had forever teased her over it, and it had always been a source of insecurity. She could only imagine what her betrothed would think about it.
Drake glanced at the title.
At any other place, at any other time, Emmaline would relish the levity of their exchange. Not, however, at this particular moment. Her reading preferences were an exceedingly intimate part of herself that she did not want to share. He very well may be her betrothed, but he was still a veritable stranger.
He blinked several times. “This is what you’re reading?”
Emmaline did not like his emphasis on the word, this. “I’ll take it now, my lord,” she said. She held her hand out, and waited for him to turn it over.
Drake ignored her and opened the front flap of the book. His eyes scanned the words, and then snapped in her direction “This is what you are reading?” There was a measure of haughty disdain in his words.
Annoyance blossomed inside her chest at the way Drake kept repeating himself. “You needn’t sound so…so…incredulous.”
Drake closed the book and shook his head. “Gothic novels. This is where your interests lie.”
Rules of etiquette be demmed, Emmaline snatched the volume from his hands. “I do not appreciate your condescension. Nor do I care for the way you keep repeating yourself.” Somewhere along the way, his words had ceased to be a question and had become a statement.
Drake opened his mouth to speak but Emmaline continued before he had the chance. “How terribly stuffy of you, my lord. It is difficult to imagine that you, who’ve had scores of mistresses littering the better part of England, should be so scandalized by a mere piece of literature. Your reaction is simply staggering.”
Drake advanced a step in her direction and Emmaline took a step back. There was something overwhelmingly masculine and at the same time predatory in his hooded expression.
“Stuffy?”
His words washed over her like a silken caress. She told her brain to remind her head to nod. “Yes, stuffy.”
Before she even suspected his intentions, he again relieved her of her copy.
The work under his scrutiny was Glenarvon by Caroline Lamb. Emmaline had always had a love for Gothic novels; however, this one was even more intriguing than most, for it told the story of doomed love between a married Lady Calantha and a dashing Irish Revolutionary. The work was not even a thinly veiled disguise of Lady Caroline Lamb’s own tempestuous love affair with Lord Byron, and that, combined with her rather unflattering satire of leading members of Society, had set the ton abuzz.
“Are you mad, reading this?” His voice was a harsh whisper. He stuffed the volume on the shelf behind him, and cast a glance about as though discovery were imminent.
Emmaline tugged the volume out from the spot where he’d haphazardly deposited it. “First, that is not where this book goes,” she reprimanded. “Second—”
“I don’t care where the bloody book goes as long as it is not in your hands,” he bit out. He wrested it from her grip, returning it yet again to the wrong shelf.
Emmaline directed her eyes to the ceiling. Who’d have imagined Lord Drake would be squeamish when it came to a gothic novel?
“I am purchasing it, my lord.” She snatched it back from the shelf and held it protectively to her chest. She hadn’t had a say in the man she would wed, not one aspect of her future. She would be damned if she would be denied a say in her reading choice.
“I should have expected you would be interested in one of the most controversial novels, and one about a great love affair.” His words fairly dripped with condescending irony.
Her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you’re filling your head with extreme nonsense. You’d be better served by reading the classics.” He paused. “I do not want to see you suffer, Lady Emmaline.” Drake’s usual jade eyes had lightened to a gentle moss shade, and Emmaline read something warmly protective in his expression.
And she realized—he’s concerned about me. The realization nearly bowled her over. For years he’d been indifferent but now, he seemed utterly panicked on her behalf. Warmth filled her.
“I’m concerned about you,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.
There was something seductive about his softly spoken words. Emmaline swayed toward him.
“I say, are you all right?” His hand shot out to steady her.
She gave her head a small shake. “Fine.”
Drake swiftly dropped his hands from her person and redirected his attention to the volume held against her bosom. “Of all the silly, nonsensical things to read.”
So they were back to that, were they? “You sound like my brother.”
A sound caught in his throat. “Don’t ever say that.”
Emmaline crossed her arms at her chest. “Well, you do. He’s so hidebound when it comes to what I read, so very ducal. And you, you aren’t a duke, but…” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You will step neatly into the role, I imagine.”
“You’re an impertinent thing.” He took another step toward her and her arms fell back to her sides. She took yet another step back. “And I will say just one more time, enough comparing m
e to Sebastian.”
A palpable tension radiated from his person, as he eyed her with a hard glint in his eyes, and she knew better than to debate the point.
“Have you ever read a Gothic novel, my lord?”
Drake snorted. “I would never waste my time with such drivel.”
His reaction killed any of the earlier warmth she’d felt toward him.
“By your own admission, you’ve never so much as read a Gothic novel.” She clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, I would have never thought you were so stodgy and judgmental to develop such an uninformed opinion.”
Drake’s shoulders drew back. Emmaline wasn’t certain if he had taken particular offense at being called stodgy or judgmental. Or perhaps both.
“Lady Emmaline, that book,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the offending work, “has set Society on its ear. Every lord and lady named in that work is outraged. They are shunning anyone who reads or supports the cowardly author who wrote it.”
An inelegant snort escaped her. “I assure you, no one gives a fig what novel I’m reading.” Even if it is one of the most scandalous works of the Season, she silently added. “Not to mention, with the exception of you and Sophie, no one else knows.”
“That does not condone it.” His jaw hardened.
And because she knew it would infuriate him…she laughed in his face. “You’re acting like an old, strait-laced gentleman.” She waved her hand. “I would never have taken you as one who feared Society’s ridicule. Nor, for that matter, would I believe you naïve. Do you truly believe the entire ton isn’t scrambling to secure a copy?”
Drake growled low in his throat and for the first time since he’d come upon her in the bookshop, Emmaline became truly nervous. She took a tentative step away from him, having forgotten she’d run out of backward steps, until she collided with the shelving. She sidled to the left of him. Perhaps she had gone a touch too far.
“I’ll just be going,” Emmaline said, as though she’d not just offended a lord who was not used to being offended, insulted, or anything else she’d done to him that day. She would have stepped around Drake but his arm again shot out, and he pulled her close, his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.
“Doddering old man?” His hot, softly spoken words whispered against her lips, tickling them.
Emmaline licked her lips. Even through the silk fabric of her gown, her skin heated where he touched her waist. “I didn’t call you doddering…” Her words trailed off when Drake’s eyes dropped to her lips.
Before she could form another coherent thought, his mouth was on hers, hot, intent, with purpose.
Emmaline froze, stunned by the unexpectedness of her first kiss, then her body weakened as she curled against Drake, and she who had never before been kissed, kissed him back, eagerly.
She had often dreamed of what her first kiss would be like…had always assumed it would be with her betrothed, but this, this she had not been prepared for, nay, could never have prepared for. His lips were firm and when a sigh escaped her, his tongue took advantage and slipped inside, plundering, devouring, tasting.
Emmaline moaned and she reached up to tangle in the silk strands of his longer than fashionable golden mane.
She moaned. “Drake.” The breathy entreaty obviously jolted him; his body jerked as if he’d been struck.
He set her from him with such alacrity she almost lost her footing. Ever the gentleman, his hands shot out to steady her. Drake scanned the area around them, as if to ascertain whether or not they’d been discovered.
Emmaline tried to fight a stab of hurt. “You don’t have to look so relieved,” she said, hating the way her words broke, wishing she could remain composed.
***
Drake dragged a hand through his hair. What the hell had he done here? Then his eyes took in Emmaline’s swollen lips, the loose brown strands that had come down around her shoulders—and he knew exactly what had overcome him. A sweet fire had glinted in her eyes as she’d challenged him and Drake had needed to taste that passion on her lips. It was vastly easier to focus on the flare of desire between them than on the tumult of emotions that he couldn’t explain.
He cleared his throat. “You should be relieved you haven’t been discovered with that book.”
“So we are back to that again, my lord? Very well, I’d like to issue you a challenge.”
“I’m sorry?”
She sighed. “Perhaps your age has affected your ability to hear, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not old.”
“A challenge, then my lord.”
Drake’s mind went down a whole series of seductive, sexual paths, that all ended with Emmaline on her back, silken waves fanned out upon his pillow, arms outstretched, legs parted...
“A challenge?” His words came out gravelly to his own ears. He shifted to ease the ache that had settled in his groin, praying his betrothed didn’t glance down and see the large bulge at the front of his breeches.
She held the volume of Glenarvon out to Drake.
He took it and she continued. “We will each purchase a copy and read it. Whoever finishes the book first may call in whichever demand they want from the losing party.”
Drake fought down another rush of images; Emmaline on her knees, taking his length between her lips, sucking him…“And what will those terms be, Lady Emmaline?” he asked hoarsely.
She gave a toss of her head, apparently having no idea that her every movement enflamed his passions. “Why, I would like to be taken on a picnic. What do you desire, my lord?”
A sound, very near a groan, lodged in his throat. He gave his head a violent shake.
Emmaline’s brow furrowed. “You must want something.” Her eyes went wide and she up held a finger. “I have it, my lord. If you win, I shall make it a point to avoid whichever event you attend for an entire week.”
Drake froze; his tongue could not move to form words.
If he won this silly wager, she would cease pestering him? He should leap at the opportunity. Why then did the thought of not seeing her rest like a pit in his stomach? He told himself it was because he welcomed the diversion she presented. It was nothing more than that. He’d begun to enjoy their subtle repartee.
“A week,” he said. He hated the sadness that clouded her eyes, and felt like a bastard who’d kicked a kitten. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue the terms were not his, but rather her own. He held out his hand.
Emmaline hesitated, then reached out and placed her small white gloved fingers in his. “How will we know whether the other is being truthful?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “In other words, my lady, how will you know if I’ve actually held my word? Tsk, tsk. I’m insulted. What about a test of sorts? Whoever completes the reading first will have to answer a series of questions about the book.”
Emmaline nodded and gave a slight but firm shake. She had a stronger grip than most gentlemen he knew.
“I bid you good day, my lord. Oh, and one more thing.” She plucked the copy of Glenarvon from his free hand. She turned dismissively to go and pay for her volume.
Drake frowned. “What about my copy?”
Emmaline continued down the long aisle. “That is not my problem.” She tossed over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the shelf at the front of the establishment.
Her victorious giggled echoed throughout the store.
Drake grinned. The little minx.
The gauntlet had been thrown.
Chapter 14
My Dearest Lord Drake,
I sometimes wonder if we had not been betrothed, would Fate have intervened to see us wed anyway? I like to believe so.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake stared up at the canopy above his bed. Eerie shadows, cast by the small fire in the hearth danced off the fabric and walls of his room.
The memories were worse at night. In the late hours, when the inky black fingers of the evening sky had stolen the last
of daylight, Drake heard things; sounds, people. The hum was sometimes so deafening he would clamp his hands tightly over his ears and rock back and forth on the edge of the bed, willing the ghosts of fallen friends to release him, forgive him for living when they remained forever on the battlefields.
The irony didn’t escape him—the decision to enlist had been entirely his own. He’d been motivated by resentment for his father’s high-handed manipulation of his life. Drake hadn’t even been allowed the opportunity to decide which university he would attend. Instead, it had been stated in no uncertain terms he would attend Eton and Oxford, just as his father had, and his father’s father, etcetera, etcetera...
Drake had known early on all the responsibilities that went with being the only son and heir to the powerful Duke of Hawkridge. He’d even had a clear idea he would be expected to one day marry for his title. What Drake had resented was being robbed of the choice as a mere boy.
The day Drake had coolly informed his father of his enlistment, the Duke of Hawkridge had slammed his fist onto his desk and threatened to have the King strip him of his commission. When all was said and done, his father hadn’t interfered.
He’d imagined nothing could be more horrendous than the Duke of Hawkridge’s controlling influence. He shook his head.
The time he’d spent fighting had proven just how naïve he’d been. Amidst the battering cold of icy rain, clad in a mud-drenched uniform, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return to White’s and Brook’s, Gentleman Jackson’s, and all his other frequent haunts.
The day he’d returned from the Peninsula, he’d wanted nothing more than the easy comfort of his former life.
Society had different plans for the returned hero.
The only way Drake had managed to retain his grasp on sanity had been to bury himself in drink, women, and any other mindless pursuits. He’d made it a point to ignore his father’s silent censure.
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Page 9
