by Darcy Burke
Drake, Emmaline, and the Duchess of Mallen ordered in unison.
Mallen crossed the room and scanned the array of sweets artfully arranged on the tray, before settling on a cherry tart. He took two bites and then popped the remainder into his mouth. “So much for being one of the most powerful peers in the realm. I don’t even have power in my own library,” he muttered around a mouthful of treat.
The duchess folded her hands and looked from Emmaline to Lord Drake, a contemplative gleam in her eyes that Drake didn’t like in the least. Apparently smoothing over conflict was inherent in a mother’s nature.
“Emmaline, my dear, I’m afraid Lord Drake is correct. You cannot simply give him a dog. Especially if he doesn’t want it.”
Emmaline shot a look of hurt betrayal at the duchess, and Drake thought she might stick her tongue out at him.
The duchess turned to Drake. “And you, Lord Drake, it is hardly gentlemanly to return a gift.”
Emmaline’s expression turned victorious, and he gritted his teeth.
Drake could handle one small duchess. He inclined his head, his tone solemn. “Your Grace, you are indeed correct. It is an unpardonable affront to reject any gift. That was never my intention. I simply cannot bring this dog into my home.”
Emmaline and Mallen emitted matching snorts at his flowery speech.
The Duchess glared at the both of her children and returned her attention to Drake. “I’m sure there is a solution so no one’s sensibilities are hurt.”
“Yes, there is. Lord Drake can keep Sir Faithful and say thank you,” Emmaline volunteered. She crossed the room and selected a cherry tart before Mallen could finish off that particular flavor.
“I am not keeping him and that is final.”
Emmaline gave a flounce of her head.
Drake shot a hopeful glance in the duchess’ direction but it would appear her efforts at restoring civility had collapsed.
Carrying the tart on an embroidered napkin, Emmaline crossed to Sir Faithful and offered the pastry to the little black pup.
Drake’s eyes slid closed. “You cannot feed a dog cherry tarts.”
Emmaline paused mid-motion. Sir Faithful scratched at her hand, and she shifted her attention back to the pup. She popped a piece of the treat into his mouth and patted him on the head. “For someone who does not want him, you are fairly well-versed in how to handle his care.”
He took a step in her direction. “Anyone would know not to feed him dessert treats.”
“Anyone would know Sir Faithful is a perfect name for a faithful dog.” She took a step closer to him until they were a hands-length apart, both breathing heavily, the spectators in the room, once again, irrelevant to their exchange.
Emmaline’s lips parted. Drake’s emerald gaze dropped to those lips and he forgot whatever words he’d intended to speak.
He studied Emmaline’s flushed cheeks. She really was—lovely.
Even in her ridiculous, oversized hat.
Especially in that silly bonnet. It put wicked thoughts into Drake’s mind; he and Emmaline in an open field on a hot summer day. He would tug the article from her head and release the luxurious brown locks so they fanned about them…
A stream of something warm and wet snapped him from his reverie.
“Your dog is pissing on my carpet, Drake,” Mallen drawled.
Drake glared at him. “My dog is pissing on my boot.”
“Gentlemen, language,” the duchess scolded.
Emmaline clasped her hands to her chest and favored Drake with a radiant smile. “So, you are keeping him?”
Drake gave his clouded head a shake. He’d never said that.
The duchess gave a little clap of her hands. “Lovely news! Then it is settled!”
And just like that it was settled.
He had a dog.
A dog named Sir Faithful.
Whether he liked it or not.
And since he was only admitting it to himself, he could secretly acknowledge, he wasn’t altogether displeased with Emmaline’s gift.
TWENTY-ONE
My Dearest Drake,
I am never going hunting again. It is cruel and awful. I feel as though I lost the wager after all. Sebastian felt so bad about my tears, he promised never to go hunting again.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
For all intents and purposes, it was late in the evening.
Or early in the morning. Most of the civilized members of the ton had abandoned the evening’s revelries and were safely ensconced in their beds, sleeping away too much drink and overly rich food.
Drake walked at a brisk pace through Hyde Parke, the little black pup admirably keeping stride with his steps.
Sleep—a fickle friend—eluded Drake. He supposed he should be thankful for it. At times like this, when his nerves were frayed, when his mind was exhausted, the nightmares came in their worst form.
In his dreams, he would see things: fallen friends, fellow soldiers, images of men wandering through battlefields dazed, severed limbs held in their hands.
He drew to a sudden halt and fixed his gaze out at the gardens before him. Sir Faithful, tired from his efforts, sat dutifully beside Drake’s feet.
On nights such as these, Drake often walked through the emptied streets and visited an eerily silent Hyde Park. He always managed to find some small measure of solace in the gardens. The smell of the fragrant flowers served as a reminder that he had survived.
But now, they reminded him of more than just that. Now they reminded him of Emmaline. The sight of the flowers and climbing ivy, put him in mind of Emmaline at work in her own garden. This image of her was always in stark contrast to the remembrance of charred, barren wasteland scorched by man and by war.
Sir Faithful scratched his leg and whined at him.
This time, Drake was not alone.
He bent down and scratched Sir Faithful between his ears. “She did you a great disservice, my friend,” he murmured to the black pup. “Sir Faithful, she dubbed thee, and forever you shall be.”
The pup’s tongue lolled out and he gave a happy little yelp, as if in approval of Lady Emmaline’s selection.
Drake stared out at the expanse of night sky as the creeping fingers of dawn’s purple hues edged across the horizon and pushed back the darkness. As lovely as the morning sky was, the beauty was that much greater in the country, where the air wasn’t heavy with dirt and grime.
Drake reflected on Mallen’s growing impatience with Emmaline’s unmarried state.
Mallen had gone so far as to demand Drake commit to Emmaline or else. The duke had issued the command as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
But then, perhaps to the other man, it was.
How could Mallen, or anyone for that matter, ever know what held Drake back? What would Mallen say if he knew Drake would not wed Emmaline for fear of her safety? Mallen certainly wouldn’t want an answer. Instead, he’d end the betrothal without another word and have Emmaline neatly tied to Waxham. His gut clenched at the thought of it.
He thought back to his most recent episode in Emmaline’s garden.
It had been several months since he’d last lost control as he had with Emmaline. He’d begun to believe, nay hope, that he’d put those moments behind him. He’d fooled himself into thinking that he was like any other gentleman. That afternoon with Emmaline, he’d physically assaulted her and proved he was nothing more than an animal better off committed to Bedlam.
It had been his greatest fear realized.
No waltz and a simple apology could pardon such an affront. He was foolish to think it could have.
Drake lived through too many sleepless nights, too many hellish nightmares, and too many bouts of lost self-control to ever trust that he was a good candidate for marriage.
Ultimately he would have to marry. As the only heir to the Duke of Hawkridge, Drake was aware of his obligations. It had, however, been his hope that the demons he continued to battle w
ould diminish over the years; that time would, as they say, heal all wounds.
He now realized he’d clung to foolish optimism. This hell would always enshroud his existence. How could he marry and expose Emmaline to that.
Sir Faithful ears pricked up and he looked around as if he’d detected an interloper. The dog gave an excited barking yelp and bounded off to greet their guest.
“Drake,” Emmaline murmured softly.
Drake started at the unexpectedness of the interruption. Every muscle in his body went tight at the feel of her presence.
He no longer wondered about her uncanny ability to determine his whereabouts.
Drake turned and dipped a respectful bow. “Emmaline.”
Emmaline tapped her copy of Glenarvon against her thigh. “You can leave us, Grace,” she instructed her maid.
Grace nodded and then took her leave.
Emmaline bit the inside of her lower lip, the soft thread of her maid’s footsteps echoed in the quiet until they faded to silence. Emmaline and Drake were left cloaked in the privacy the shrubbery.
She took a deep breath, wishing she were more poised to hide her uncertainty from this man she’d been connected to since she’d been a babe.
Emmaline crouched down and caressed Sir Faithful.
“I’ve finished…”
“You are walking rather…”
They both stumbled to an awkward, halting conclusion, their words unfinished.
He helped her to her feet.
Silence again descended.
Emmaline drew a distracted circle upon the ground with the tip of her slipper.
Drake studied the movement. “Are you visiting the park at this ungodly hour to merely draw artwork with your slipper?” he teased.
Emmaline’s foot paused mid-circle and she grinned. “You’ve found me out, sir. I spend a great deal of time gallivanting over Hyde Park completing very fine slipper-art. It is all the thing.”
His eyes smiled at her inane response. Funny that. She’d never known one could smile with their eyes.
“I must say, completing slipper art in public is not the action befitting a future duchess,” he said solemnly.
Emmaline made an X over her heart. “I pledge to abandon the activity when we are wed, my lord.”
Nothing could kill the shared levity of the moment swifter than mention of their betrothal.
Drake’s eyes darkened and he directed his focus to the book in her hands.
Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as he regarded her the way he might a stranger.
“Have you come here this morning to read?”
She hated that his words came out clipped and cool. Yearned for the light, teasing warmth she’d come to know from him.
She waved her copy of Glenarvon about. “As I started to say, I have finished my copy. I am here to complete our challenge.”
His face, an otherwise blank mask, revealed a flash of surprise. Wordlessly, he held a hand out.
She gave him the novel, and watched as he thumbed through the pages. Neither of them said anything as he perused the copy, searching for his questions.
She resumed her slipper art.
Suddenly his fingers stilled and he looked at Emmaline with piercing jade green eyes.
“Calantha marries one man but is seduced by another. Who is her seducer?”
Emmaline’s foot drew to a sudden halt and she cocked her head to the side. “That is one of your questions?” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Surely Drake could have found something a good deal more challenging.
“I say, answer the question. That is, if you know it,” he challenged.
“If this is one of your questions, you do not stand a chance.”
He bristled. “If you do not answer the question on a count of three, I will determine that you do not know.”
“Glenarvon,” she answered, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Tsk, tsk, my lord…I’m afraid you are going to have to do better than that, or you are surely going to lose the challenge.”
Drake opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes dipped to her mouth and whatever he’d been about to say remained unspoken. He groaned.
“Drake, are you all right?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine, fine.”
Drake returned his attention to the book in his hands. He perused a passage. “Calantha speaks of losing all. Who does she blame?”
Emmaline tapped a finger along her jaw. In the work, Calantha was frequently alternating between a sense of guilt and no regrets for her great affair. “Can you read me the passage?”
It was Drake’s turn to issue a tsking sound. “Come, come, my lady. Who does she blame?”
Emmaline thought about it a moment, thought of her relationship with Drake. As a woman, who did she usually blame for Drake’s lack of regard?
“Herself, my lord. She blames herself.”
He nodded, before concentrating his efforts once more on the book. He leafed through the pages.
A loose strand of hair fell across her eyes. She blew it back. “Have you found your next question, my lord?” she pressed after several long moments of silence.
He didn’t bother picking his head up to look at her. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled. This light side of Drake was the one Lieutenant Jones had spoken of…and was one she’d come to love. Until just recently, he’d always been the phantom handsome figure who issued her a respectful bow and then beat a hasty retreat. To have him tease her, to furrow his brow as he rustled through a Gothic novel, was something she couldn’t have conjured in her wildest imaginings.
“Ahh,” he said, glancing up. He wore a triumphant expression. “Complete this sentence from the passage—”
“That is hardly fair,” she protested. “A question is far different from memorizing the work.”
“We did not stipulate terms of the questions, my lady.”
Emmaline folded her arms. Drat, if he wasn’t right.
“Fine,” she muttered. “What is the passage?”
“That which causes the tragic end of a woman’s life is often but a moment of amusement and folly in the history of…”
Emmaline’s chest tightened. “A man.”
Drake snapped the work shut, holding it out to her, and took a step forward.
He was so close his breath, laced with a hint of coffee, fanned her lips.
“Calantha argues Glenarvon has seduced her with what?”
Her body swayed closer to him. “The power of attraction,” she whispered.
The book slid from her fingers, to the ground where it fell indignantly open on its spine.
Then he was taking her in his arms, folding her close, covering her mouth with his, parting her lips and tasting her. She moaned, a low, husky purr that sounded wanton to her own ears.
Emmaline twined her hands about his neck and pressed her body close to his. His manhood prodded hard and angry against her belly, and her body flared with the swift, hot flood of desire. It overtook her, nearly brought her to her knees.
“Please, Drake,” she pleaded against his lips.
Drake lowered her to the ground and knelt with her cradled against the hard-muscled wall of his chest. There was something both erotic and yet sweetly beautiful, kneeling in the gardens as though they were Adam and Eve partaking in their first sinful taste of the forbidden fruit.
Through the thick haze of desire, Sir Faithful’s bark cut into their embrace. The dog hurled himself atop them and licked Emmaline’s face.
She turned away from the eager pup and laughed.
Drake paused. “Sit.” He issued the order with the same authority she was sure he had used to command his men in battle. At the brisk tone, Sir Faithful promptly laid down. He lowered his head dejectedly on his paws.
Drake returned his attention to her. “Where was I?” he asked hoarsely.
“You were touching me,” she said breathlessly.
“Was I?�
�� He kissed the corner of her lip.
She moaned. “Yes.”
“Yes, like this or yes, you like it?”
Her head thrashed back and forth. “Stop teasing me.”
Strong fingers traced a knowing path over her body, and grasping her buttocks in his palms, he urged her closer to the length of him.
Emmaline gasped. She was going to catch fire from her need and set Hyde Park ablaze.
Her head fell back when his lips left hers. He nipped the corner of her lips, her cheek, and then he caressed her neck with his lips. The unshaven scruff of his beard tickled her skin. She giggled.
Drake didn’t even break his ministrations, his hands releasing her breasts from the bodice of her gown. The peak of her nipples hardened under his stare. “Is there something that amuses you, my lady?” he asked huskily, not waiting for a reply as his mouth lowered to her breast. With deliberate slowness he drew the ripened bud into his mouth. He gently suckled, laving the peak, and then flicked it teasingly with his tongue.
Emmaline’s head fell back.
Drake switched his attention to the tip of her other, neglected pale white mound.
Emmaline gasped aloud. She twisted her fingers into the silk strands of his golden hair. “Drake, show me more.”
The cool of the morning air slammed into her bare legs, as he slid her skirts up, higher, and higher, to her knees. His fingers skimmed over her belly, and then before she could comprehend what he was doing, his hand delved between her legs.
It was as though every last vestige of energy was sapped from her. Emmaline collapsed in his arms. He sat down, atop a bed of white cerastium, and moved her onto his lap while his expert fingers continued to work her.
Drake slipped another finger into her and began to move them; in, then out, in then out, until she bucked under his hand. “Yes,” she cried softly.
He continued to stroke her, playing with the pliable nub of her center. Emmaline supposed she should feel a sense of shame but couldn’t drum up one single rational thought about the indecency of what they were doing and where they were doing it.
All she knew was him.
She closed her eyes and undulated beneath him, searching for more.
His lips reclaimed hers. “Come for me, love,” he urged, his voice a husky command.
