Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

by Christi Caldwell

  Sin snorted. “That is because I didn’t drink an entire bottle, my friend. Here we are.” Sin fished around for the key Drake had handed him downstairs, then opening the door, led Drake inside the quarters. The space was large enough to serve its purpose; a temporary escape for gentlemen in dire need of temporary quarters.

  Winding his way around the front room, Sin steered Drake to his bedchambers. With a grunt he heaved Drake over to the bed.

  Drake landed hard and then promptly fell backwards. “Oomph.” He blinked up at the ceiling. “The room is spinning. Howww did White’s manage such a feat?”

  “We shall ask the majordomo tomorrow,” Sin promised and, good friend that he was, set to work tugging off Drake’s boots.

  Drake flung a hand over his eyes. “I don’t deserve her, you know. Came back a madman.”

  Sin paused in his efforts. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. But this is not the time to debate the point.” Once both boots had been removed, Sin took a seat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

  “I-I-I’m going to make some changes, maaark my words.”

  “I certainly hope so. Your first order should be—”

  Drake very much did want some guidance on what his first order should be, but he was so damned drunk that he couldn’t quite string together Sin’s words. And after a bottle of whiskey, he’d at last muted the pain of losing Emmaline to a dull ache.

  Closing his eyes, he slid into blessed oblivion.

  Chapter 29

  My Dearest Drake,

  I am a coward. I have not sent you one note in three years. But you haven’t sent me one note either. Are you a coward as well? Or worse, do you just not care?

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  After two weeks sleeping at his club, Drake moved back home. There were no questions from the Duke of Hawkridge, no articulation of displeasure. Father and son had settled back into the same stilted, uneasy arrangement they’d had since Drake returned from the war.

  Drake tugged back the curtains that covered his bedroom window and peered out at the night sky. His finger traced a distracted path across the pane of the window. Clouds billowed across the moon and blotted out all stars in the sky.

  As usual, sleep eluded him. This time, demons from the Peninsula were not the ghosts that drifted about his consciousness, robbing him of an undeserving peace. Instead he was possessed by memories of a feisty, courageous lady with joyful eyes, and imaginings of her with another man.

  Drake slammed his fist into the ivory plaster wall beside the window.

  The violent movement sent the seemingly forgotten drawstring sack tumbling from the edge of the nightstand. His eyes snagged the article lying on the wood floor.

  Since they’d parted, he’d not allowed himself to read the notes Emmaline had written to him. The cowardly part of him hadn’t wanted to acknowledge there had been a young lady named Emmaline, who’d spent hours of her time writing to him, but had been too shamed to ever send him the notes.

  Had he always been an utter bastard where she was concerned?

  Drake crossed the few feet separating him from the bag, and snatched it up.

  Then with far greater care, he untied the silk sack, and pulled out a large stack of notes that were neatly tied with a blue satin ribbon. The top ivory vellum envelope was addressed to Captain Drake.

  Drake returned back to bed and lied down. He propped his head on several pillows. Sir Faithful leapt up onto the bed and claimed the spot next to Drake. He petted the dog. “You, too, want to know what she said, do you, my boy?”

  He undid the delicate bow holding the letters together, and pulled out the first envelope. Taking great care, he slipped a finger beneath the fold of the thick vellum and withdrew the note.

  He patted Sir Faithful on the head, shook out the parchment, and read her words.

  Dearest Lord Drake,

  There is something I must share with you. It is dreadful and horrible. And if you were reluctant to wed me before this moment, well then (sigh), I am sure you will never want to wed me now. Are you ready? Dare I even put these words to paper? I cannot dance. There you have it. I tread abominably upon my dance master’s toes. I have overheard him speaking with mother. He said he was one broken toe away from finding another assignment.

  Having tired of him as a dance master, I ground my heel quite happily upon his foot.

  I am awaiting the arrival of my next dance master.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Drake dragged a finger along the blank ink, tracing the lines she’d made on the page. Odd that such a long time ago, a much younger Emmaline’s hand had stroked the marks on this note.

  He set the letter aside and moved to the next. Drake read scores and scores of letters, noting when the tone changed, when the words became the words of a young woman, and no longer a girl who traipsed across the countryside, climbing trees, engaging in mischief with her older brother.

  Unlike so many other nights, he willed himself awake. He continued reading until the swell of the bright morning sun appeared on the horizon. Her notes had become a lure he’d been hooked upon, that he didn’t want to be freed of.

  He reached for the final remaining note.

  My Dearest Drake,

  I realize you have not read any of my notes— because I failed to send them. There is so much I’ve yearned to say to you. I’ve longed to ask why you left to fight. I’ve longed to ask what flaws are so inherent in my character that you should never have written me. I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me. Then I wonder if those thoughts are ever pleasant.

  I wish you would know I will be a good wife to you. Oh, I might not be biddable and easily controlled, but we will know laughter. When you return, I long to laugh with you.

  Since you will never read this, I intend to show you!

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  His eyes slid closed, and he brought the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. Except the citrus lemon scent that was hers had long faded.

  For fifteen long years he had existed in a world where he was beholden to none, where all he felt, all he knew were his own hurt and disappointments. He had never allowed himself to consider there was any other injured party; a young woman desiring marriage. Instead he had nurtured his anger, kept it close.

  He now realized that anger had become a mechanism he’d used to protect himself from the people around him. Emmaline had indeed taught him to laugh again, to feel. She had reminded him he was still human.

  It was time he faced life.

  He stroked Sir Faithful between the ears and thought about the woman who meant more to him than anyone.

  Could he? Should he?

  He shoved himself up and rang for his valet to help him into different clothes before starting downstairs. As he walked down the hall, a well-trained Sir Faithful trotted obediently at his heels. The dog came to an immediate stop when Drake halted at one particular room. He rapped on the door and entered his father’s study.

  “Father.”

  The Duke of Hawkridge set aside the scandal sheet he’d been reading and removed his monocle. “Come in, come in.” He tried to shove an envelope atop the paper.

  Drake’s eyes narrowed.

  His father didn’t try to prevent him from picking up the offending document.

  He scanned the article and made a disapproving sound. “Really, Father? The scandal sheets?” He threw the paper down upon the desk and took a seat.

  His father flushed and made a vague motion with his hand. “What is it, son?”

  Drake folded one leg at his knee and tapped a staccato rhythm upon the arms of the chair. Sir Faithful yapped once, and Drake leaned down and scratched him between the ears. “I purchased a bachelor’s residence,” he said at last.

  His father gave a slight inclination of his head. He propped his chin on steepled fingers, but otherwise showed no outward reaction to Drake’s pronouncement.
/>   “Are you…certain you are—are…interested in being alone?”

  Interpretation being; what will you do when I’m not there to help with the nightmares?

  He gave his father a long, assessing look.

  For the first time, he looked at the Duke of Hawkridge, and realized his strong, powerful father looked—old. A strip of gray peppered the hair at his temples, and the lines of his face, always firm, had softened. He now possessed wrinkles around the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

  That moment, Drake was shamed as he realized he was not the only one who had been scarred by the war. The Duke of Hawkridge had witnessed far too many of his son’s nightmares to remain unaffected by Drake’s transformation from man to monster.

  Drake held his father’s gaze. “It’s not your fault, Father,” he said.

  His father dragged a hand through his hair. The normally steady fingers shook. “What isn’t my fault, Drake? The war? The broken betrothal? The nightmares?” he asked bitterly.

  “Any of it. The decision to enlist was mine and mine alone.”

  His father pressed his fingers tight against his forehead and rubbed. “Because of your resentment toward me. I—I am so sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

  Drake swallowed past a swell of emotion. “I believe at one point I did blame you. For years, in fact. It was wrong of me. Childish.”

  The admission, this sudden absolution his father deserved, was freeing. It had not been his father’s fault that Drake had high-tailed it to the Peninsula. Drake had no one to blame but himself. It was also healing to take ownership of the decisions he’d made.

  Silence descended upon the room, punctuated by the methodic tick of the clock.

  “That blasted betrothal. Seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his father muttered. “What a disaster it turned out to be.”

  Drake flinched. It struck somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, to think of the betrothal as a disaster. “Again, Father, it was only because of me. Given all the decisions I made, I could never bring myself to resent the betrothal.” It had given him months of happiness. Filled him with joy.

  Sir Faithful nudged Drake’s knee. Drake rewarded him with another affectionate stroke. It had brought him Sir Faithful.

  He thought of Emmaline and his gut clenched and unclenched at the pain of loss.

  If only he had her…

  Go to her, woo her.

  “You can pursue her on your own,” the Duke of Hawkridge said into the quiet.

  Drake didn’t move. “The nightmares, Father.”

  “Maybe she can help you.”

  “I cannot place this burden on her.” He had placed enough burdens on Emmaline, he could not, nay would not, add this one. “No matter how much I care for her, no matter how it fills me with rage at the thought of any gentleman courting her, I have to face the reality—I’m a madman.”

  His father scoffed. “You are no madman. You were affected by what you saw and did. You’d be a madman if you weren’t affected by those experiences.” He arched a brow. “I made decisions that I felt were in your best interest. How much did you appreciate it? Perhaps you should let Lady Emmaline decide for herself if she would stay and fight these demons alongside you.”

  Drake lurched to his feet and paced the width of the room. He’d had the same thought each morning upon reading her name in the scandal sheets. But every time he’d stepped a foot out the door, intending to humble himself at her feet, he stopped.

  Could he court her? Drake paused mid-stride.

  “I have never taken my son as a quitter,” his father called from behind his desk.

  Drake stiffened.

  It felt as though the chains of life that had restrained him all these years were at last lifted. A slow smile formed on his lips. His self-imposed exile was at an end.

  Chapter 30

  My Dearest Drake,

  You have returned! I long for the day when we would again meet!

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Emmaline surveyed the crowded ballroom and upon spying Sophie, squeezed her brother’s arm, halting his movements. “I see Sophie.” She gestured subtly in her friend’s direction.

  Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Sophie and then he looked back at Emmaline. “You know you do not need to sit with the other wallflowers,” he said, a frown on his lips.

  Since Emmaline had severed her betrothal, she’d spent her evenings not very much different than so many others—amidst the other wallflowers.

  She pinched her brother’s arm. “Hush. Sophie is not a wallflower.”

  He made a non-committal sound. “I’m merely saying—”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  Sebastian closed his mouth and proceeded to guide her toward Sophie.

  Sophie seemed to notice Sebastian first. Her eyes went wide and a small tremulous smile hovered on her lips before her gaze landed on Emmaline. She climbed to her feet and curtsied. “Em. Your Grace.”

  Sebastian bowed. “Miss Winters.” He turned a wary look on the hopeful wallflowers, who eyed him with a desperate intensity, and beat a hasty retreat.

  “Coward,” Emmaline muttered for Sophie’s ears.

  Her friend laughed and claimed Emmaline’s hand. Just then, a swell of eager suitors converged upon them. It had been much the same way since word of her broken betrothal had become fodder for the gossips. Emmaline didn’t delude herself into believing these gentlemen cared about anything beyond her dowry and a connection with the Duke of Mallen. It might not matter to the other wallflowers who smiled almost gratefully in Emmaline’s direction, but it mattered to her.

  “May I fetch a glass of punch?” Lord Abbott, one of her more erstwhile suitors, offered a desperate pitch to his voice.

  The third Earl of Stanwick puffed out a broad chest, a chest Emmaline highly suspected was compliments of substantial padding provided by his valet. “I said I would fetch the lady punch.”

  “Oh dear, this has the makings of an all-out fight,” Sophie murmured beneath her breath. “Why don’t you race and see who brings it back first?” Her suggestion resulted in an exodus of some of the young swains.

  Emmaline turned to the expectant crowd of suitors. “Gentlemen, I fear I turned my ankle and will not be dancing any more sets for the remainder of the evening.”

  The popinjays groaned in disappointment and shuffled off, earning Emmaline censorious looks from her fellow wallflowers.

  “Did we ever truly want this?” Emmaline mused.

  Sophie’s lips twitched. “There must be a happy in-between, no?”

  A happy in-between? What exactly would that look like? One would have to actually have a care for one or any of the suitors to be happy, no?

  Over the years she’d given so much thought to being courted. She’d dreamed of becoming the recipient of a man’s admiration. Oh, she’d hoped it would be her betrothed, but had yearned to know a real courtship. That had been before she’d fallen in love with Drake. Now, every gentleman she met was a pale shadow of his impressive, inspiring figure. Not a single gentleman she’d met had managed to make her heart trip a beat, or set her stomach aflutter with shades of longing.

  Only one man thus far had ever prompted such a response in her…and he was gone.

  Sophie claimed her hand again. “You look so sad.”

  Emmaline swallowed painfully. “I ache for just one sight of him. It is as though he’s disappeared from Society. I wonder what he is doing. Wonder if he ever has any thoughts of me.”

  Sophie snorted. “Of course he thinks of you.”

  A thrum of whispers rose amidst the crowd. Sophie glanced across the ballroom. Her golden brows shot up to her hairline.

  “Sophie?”

  “Uh, what would you do if you saw Lord Drake?”

  Emmaline cocked her head. “Well, I imagine I’ll eventually have to see him because we do travel in similar circles.”

  “Because he’s just arrived.”

>   Emmaline’s heart quickened and for the first time in weeks, soft joy filled her. She told herself not to search for him, but could no more stop herself from looking about than she could stop breathing.

  He stood at the top of the stairwell, greeting Lord and Lady Thompson. Attired in all black and with his halo of golden hair, he may as well have been a fallen angel. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of something Lord Thompson said, before bowing, and pressing ahead. He appeared immune to the hum of whispers, the gaping stares. His intent emerald green gaze swept over the room, searching, searching, searching.

  And then finding.

  Even with the distance separating them, the hot intensity of his focus as he settled his stare on her scorched her like a noon sun.

  “Breathe,” she reminded herself. Sophie nudged her in the arm but Emmaline ignored her.

  “There is no way a man can look at you the way the marquess is looking at you and not feel something.”

  Aware of the intrusive way in which they were being scrutinized, Emmaline forced herself to look away.

  Sophie groaned. “Oh dear, your brother is headed this way.”

  Sebastian rapidly crossed the room, even as the crowd parted for Drake. “What do you want me to do?” Sophie urged. “Do you want to see him?”

  “I do,” Emmaline whispered. She heard the consternation in her own words.

  Sophie hopped up from her seat and crossed the room, intercepting Sebastian. She held her empty dance card up to his inspection. Her boldness was met with scandalous gasps. His brow furrowed with a blend of annoyance and confusion. Sophie jabbed her finger at the card and showed him an invisible mark. Sebastian directed a pointed glare in Emmaline’s direction, before taking Sophie’s arm with seeming reluctance and leading her to the dance-floor.

  Oh, Sophie. Emmaline’s eyes slid closed in gratitude.

  “She is a good friend,” a quiet voice said, just over her shoulder.

  She gasped, a fluttering hand covering her breast, and turned to face her former betrothed.

  ***

  Drake claimed Emmaline’s hand and bent low over it. He placed a slow, lingering kiss on the top of her knuckles, even as his fingers caressed her inner wrist. What he wouldn’t give to remove the fabric that separated their skin.