by Darcy Burke
Come? What on earth did he mean? Pressure built inside her, unfurling like a rapidly growing weed, taking over everything. Her cry was lost in his mouth. She frantically arched her hips as he rung every last bit of pleasure from her.
And then she collapsed, replete with the gift he’d given her.
So that was what he’d meant. She laid her cheek alongside his and felt her breath fanning his.
Drake’s fingers played with the tresses that had tumbled from her knot and covered them like a blanket. “So beautiful,” he whispered.
Emmaline’s throat worked. She knew she was no great beauty but when he said it like that, in those emotion-laden words, she believed him.
He kissed the slight birthmark just below her temple.
“What an interesting spot for a birthmark. Rather unique…just like you.”
He brought her skirts down and she finally, reluctantly, pulled back.
She looked at him through heavy eyes. “I won the challenge, my lord,” she reminded him huskily.
He laughed and kissed her once again for good measure. “Yes, my lady. You certainly did win.”
TWENTY-TWO
My Dearest Drake,
Does a man who is betrothed still propose to the lady he is betrothed to? I would imagine it would be more romantic if he did.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
He was going to marry her.
Drake expected to be consumed by anxiety at the thought of relinquishing bachelorhood. He’d always believed marriage symbolized the death of a gentleman’s freedom.
Yet oddly today, he had no reservations. It wasn’t obligation that drove his decision. Nor his responsibilities to the ducal line. Somewhere along the way, it had become about him and Emmaline—as it should have been.
Sir Faithful barked.
He glanced down apologetically at the pup. “No, you cannot come, my friend.” Sir Faithful dropped his head back between his paws and gave him a long, sad look.
“I’ll tell you what, Sir. Soon I’ll bring her back here as your mistress, then you can see the both of us.”
That was apparently too much for the pup to understand. He just cocked his head sideways, tongue lolling out, and continued to study Drake.
Drake returned his attention to his plans for the morning, feeling once again like a soldier about to embark upon a decisive battle. Why had he fought this? He thought of all the time he’d wasted, thought of his leaving to fight on the Peninsula, when what he’d been fleeing had turned out to be a person who made him smile more than he had in years.
He glanced down at the ring resting on the bureau top. The eight carat emerald nestled amidst a cluster of diamonds, glittered in the morning light. It had belonged to his mother, and the duchess before her, and the duchess before her. And it would be Emmaline’s. He picked it up, studied it, and then placed it in the inner fold of his midnight jacket.
His valet appeared in the doorway. “My lord, as requested, your mount has been readied.”
Drake nodded and made his way below stairs, to the foyer.
He was met by the usually staid, butler, Winchester.
This time Winchester’s weathered face was wreathed in a smile that went from one ear to the next. As if he knew Drake’s special business. Which shouldn’t really surprise him. Winchester had always managed to glean Drake’s intentions before he himself even really knew.
“My lord!”
Drake grinned back. “Winchester.”
Since he’d lain Emmaline down on the garden floor and pleasured her, he’d worn a perpetual smile. To be more precise, he’d seemed to be in a state of happiness since she’d come into his life. Emmaline’s joy had been infectious and he’d been her willing victim.
A startled shriek rent the air, punctuated by a resounding metallic crash. Servants seemed to materialize out of nowhere and hurried to the mishap. A two foot silver vase lay on its side amidst a cluster of white flowers. The young maid who’d dropped the floral arrangement wept into her hands.
Her blubbering blended with the cacophony of sound as servants rushed to clean the mess.
Drake’s eyes remained riveted on the glint of the metal urn. The maid’s cries wavered in and out of focus, until they were replaced with the agonizing shouts of his fallen men.
As if slammed by a cannon ball to the stomach, Drake’s body jerked. With a bellowing roar wrenched from deep inside his soul, he dropped to his knees and covered his ears, in an attempt to blot out the deafening sound of grapeshot ricocheting off each corner of his mind.
Drake’s eyes flitted around like that of a cornered animal. His horrified gaze landed on the earth strewn with destroyed flowers, and waited. When no bodies fell, in an attempt to flee, he darted past the horrified men around him. He willed his legs to pump faster, lest he be caught in the thick of the battle.
A powerful hand snaked around Drake’s arm. He cried out. Thrashing violently, he leveled his opponent with an elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The hiss of exhaled breath fired like kindling just about to catch. The man held onto Drake with fierce determination, but Drake refused to surrender because if he did, he’d be at the mercy of the French bastards.
“No, no, no!” Drake roared.
“Drake, I won’t hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Drake stilled. When the man’s grip lightened, Drake wrested his arm free, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairwell.
The Frenchie was on him again. He knocked Drake’s knees out from under him, tackling him to the ground. The action knocked the breath from Drake with a powerful whoosh, and something flew out from his jacket front. He heard the soft ping, ping, ping, as it skidded across the white Italian marble floor.
White Italian marble floor?
“Drake? Drake?”
“My lord?”
Drake struggled beneath the weight of the bodies that pressed him down.
Bodies. There were more than two.
Drake? My lord?
His breath was coming hard and fast on deep gulping gasps for air.
Think, Drake. Why would the French be calling me by my name? Think. Where were the echoing shots? He waited for the sounds that never came.
All energy drained from him and he rested his forehead upon the hard cool surface of the marble, which penetrated his haze of horror.
It had struck again.
He blinked down at the floor but his vision blurred, blending the surface. He wanted to cry. A trickle of wetness trailed a path from his cheek and fell upon his lips.
Nay, he was crying.
He became aware of his father helping him up, gathering him in his arms as if he were no more than a boy.
Except he wasn’t a boy. He was a battle-scarred man who would never be normal again.
His whole frame shuddered with the jarring return to reality.
“It’s fine, Drake,” his father whispered. He stroked his back. “You can leave, Winchester.”
It wasn’t fine. In fact, Drake wanted to toss his head back and rail at a non-existent God.
He stiffened and took a staggering step away from his father and remembered. Remembered this humiliation had been witnessed by a host of servants, servants who would surely talk. Then the entire ton would know. She would know. His gut churned. He was going to be ill.
“Not one member of this household will speak on what happened here,” his father said, correctly interpreting the direction of Drake’s thoughts. There was an air of ducal confidence to the promise.
Drake took another step backward, placing much needed distance between them.
His father’s throat bobbed up and down, displaying his unease. He held an outstretched hand toward Drake. “Don’t, Drake. Don’t turn from me.” It was an order. It was not a ducal order, but rather the words of a father demanding his child not shut him out.
Drake ignored him and, without another word, turned on his heel and climbed the last stairwell. He walked at a brisk pace down the lo
ng hall and finally reached his chambers. He shoved the door back with an aggravated force and entered, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
Drake leaned against the closed hard panels of the oak door, borrowing the strength to stand. The hum of the room’s quiet fell in cadence with the heavy sound of his breathing.
When he thought he could move again without collapsing into a heap of shame, he dropped to the floor and sat with his body flush against the door.
Sir Faithful bounded across the room, and ran excitedly about Drake’s feet. The dog climbed up in his lap, and favored Drake’s face with a coarse, pink-tipped lick.
A bitter laugh escaped Drake, which he buried in Sir Faithful’s neck. “I should have known better.”
Instead, he had deluded himself into believing this defect in him, this tendency to lose control, would not prevent him from finding happiness with Emmaline. The memory of her, the taste of her lips, the sweet sounds he had swallowed within his own mouth, had all allowed him to pretend he could be more than he was. A monster bound for Bedlam.
It hadn’t been enough that he’d lost control in front of her. Hell, that time should have been the first and last he’d allowed himself to be in her presence. But he’d persisted—because he was a selfish, filthy bastard who’d cared more about how she made him feel, how she made him forget.
Drake should be grateful this had happened. Now he could at least spare her hurt. He could take it on as his own. In fact, Drake should be glad for it.
So why wasn’t he? Why did he wish the day had continued along as he’d imagined.
He would have marched up Mallen’s steps with an armful of the white flowers he and Emmaline had lain amidst and then asked for her hand.
Her endless brown eyes would have sparkled with merriment and shock when he told her he wanted to make her his wife.
Mallen would bang his fist on his desk and glower at Drake with displeasure.
Drake dropped his head into his hands and pressed his fingers against throbbing temples, and continued to cradle Sir Faithful close. Excruciating headaches usually followed the episodes. He welcomed the pain this time for it helped dull the agonizing feeling of his heart being ripped piece by piece from his body.
The pain prevented him from thinking about how close he’d come to having it all.
TWENTY-THREE
My Dearest Drake,
Is it silly that, when you return, I want you to court me?
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline fairly raced through Hyde Park in a manner that would have earned gasps of disapproval from Society members—if they’d been present, of course. She had sent Drake a note, claiming her picnic as the prize for their Glenarvon challenge.
That had been a week ago. Well, six days to be precise, which to Emmaline may as well have constituted a week.
In that time, there had been no acknowledgement, no return note, no teasing banter, no sudden appearance at a ball or musicale. Nothing. It had been as though everything she’d shared with Drake had been nothing more than a fleeting fantasy.
Emmaline had begun to think he’d never again contact her.
Until yesterday.
At last, Drake had replied to her request.
“My lady, can you please slow down?” her maid called out in a panting gasp. The sound of gravel kicking up furiously punctuated her breathless request.
Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. A twinge of guilt hit her. She sighed and slowed her steps. The ivory drawstring bag dotted with blue beads she held in her right hand swung against her side.
“My lady, would you like to rest soon,” Grace suggested.
Emmaline drew to a full stop on the Serpentine Bridge, which marked the boundary between Hyde Gardens and Kensington Gardens. Her abrupt movements sent Grace stumbling against her.
“Beg pardon, my lady.”
Emmaline glanced down at the parchment in her hands. “Fine, fine,” Emmaline said. She studied the note.
My Dearest Emmaline,
Would you do me the honor of meeting me in Hyde Park at Kensington Gardens? I shall be there at five o’clock in the morning. That is if it isn’t too early.
Yours,
Drake
Emmaline squinted off into the distance. A lone figure stood with his back to her and Grace. Attired entirely in black, there was something ominously dark about him.
Emmaline turned to Grace. “Please, wait here.”
Emmaline didn’t wait to see if Grace did as she was ordered. Instead, she hurried toward her betrothed.
Drake stood with his back to her. His gaze trained on the indigo and pale lavender hues traipsing across the early morning sky.
It was Sir Faithful who gave her a barking greeting. Drake’s broad frame stiffened as she approached but he didn’t so much as turn to look at her.
She fell to her knee. “Hello, Sir Faithful. How have you been, my boy?” She rubbed the spot between his eyes and he leaned into her touch.
“Emmaline,” Drake greeted, his tone deadened.
Emmaline stood, her pale blue muslin day gown rustling on a wisp of wind. “Why have you not returned my notes?” She heard the edge of hurt betrayal underlining her words. “I don’t understand. One moment, you seem to enjoy my company and then you disappear. It is as though you are two people.”
He stiffened.
“I believed you had come to care for me,” she whispered. “Can’t you even look at me?”
Drake spun around; his flat emerald eyes leveled her. She took a faltering step backwards, unprepared for the cold gaze he passed over her. He arched an icy, indifferent brow.
“I really don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was as frigid as a January freeze.
One hand attempted to smother a gasp wrenched from inside her heart while the other dropped the bag she’d carried with her.
It hit the gravel path with a soft thud.
She angled her chin up and refused to be cowed. She didn’t know where she found the courage for the next words. “I’ve waited fifteen long years for you. I’m no longer a girl. I can’t continue as we are.” She held an outstretched hand towards him. “It’s breaking my heart.” The words stripped her of her remaining pride.
He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed. It was a foul curse she’d only heard uttered by her brother once, and that had been the day their father died.
“Emmaline, I believe you have made too much of—of,” his hand slashed the air, “this.” He motioned between them.
“I believed you had come to care for me, Drake. Would you have me believe that you do not?” She reached for him and he flinched. A laugh that sounded half-mad to her own ears escaped her. “Have I been so wrong about us?”
He didn’t respond.
“You can’t even have the decency to answer me that?” The words were desperate. “What game do you play? Why would you send round a note and ask me to meet you here if—?”
There was a flash of surprise in Drake’s expression. “What note?”
And then she knew. Her breath whistled between her teeth. “Oh God, you didn’t send it.”
A dull, throbbing pain came from somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, a heart she was certain had already withered inside her. Her hand went to her chest. The organ continued to beat. Odd, the rhythm seemed too steady and strong for someone dying.
She dropped to a knee and with fingers that quivered, fished an envelope from the drawstring bag. Her hands shook so badly she clumsily dropped the note. The scrap fluttered forlornly to the ground.
Drake bent down and swiftly rescued it. He perused the note he’d been purported to have written.
His brow furrowed while he scanned the parchment and then his eyes glazed over with a haze of fury. And she had her confirmation.
She wanted to flee, turn on her heel and be spared this humiliation.
Wordlessly, he stuffed the note back into its envelope and handed it back to her. On
legs that trembled, she rose without assistance. Dazed eyes remained focused on her name scrawled across the thick ivory vellum, because then she didn’t have to look at the black rage in his expression.
Emmaline was possessed of a violent urge to tear up the piece. She wanted to rail at herself for not recognizing the scrawl as similar to other notes she’d received these past weeks from Lord Sinclair. Hated herself for seeing only that which she’d wanted to see.
“I—I allowed myself to hope.” And hope had clouded her reason.
“Sinclair?” he asked tersely.
Emmaline looked away.
Drake cursed.
He would bloody murder Sinclair.
“Why ever would he send that note?” Then it hit him with all the force of a bayonet to the gut. All along it had been Sinclair. “It all makes sense.”
She blinked at him with soulful brown eyes. “What makes sense?”
A cynical laugh burst from his chest. “Don’t play coy with me. You schemed with Sinclair. It was he who informed you of my whereabouts this Season.” He’d been betrayed by his closest friend and his betrothed.
“I assure you I couldn’t manage coy if I tried,” she snapped.
“But you could manage deceitful.”
Her delicate palms curled into little fists at her side and he thought she might hit him which really would be no less than he deserved.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Really, Drake? Is that how you see me? As some kind of maniacal scheming debutante?”
An image of Sinclair and Emmaline closeted away trickled into his consciousness. He imagined them laughing while they planned to trap him. The idea of them, plotting behind his back, sent rage spiraling. He was besieged by a tumult of emotions and couldn’t sort whether it was jealousy of her closeness with Sin or anger at the good laugh they’d had behind his back.
“What fun you must have had at my expense.” Filled with a restive energy he presented her with his back and stepped away.
“Has it really been so awful being in my company?”
He ran a hand across his face and swung back around. “So you enlisted Sin’s aid to ascertain my plans each evening. I understand your means of conspiring against me. Your intention was to force my hand, but Sinclair?”
