by Darcy Burke
“Bah. Why can’t you believe Sin was just trying to help you because he believes we belong together?”
He arched a brow. “I am rather surprised he accepted your appeal for support. Subterfuge is not really one of Sin’s traits.”
Emmaline folded her arms indignantly across her chest. “But it is one of mine? My, what a low opinion you have of me. I suggest you speak to Lord Sinclair for the answers to your questions.” She tilted her chin at a mutinous little angle. “You are a beast,” she spat.
He tipped his head in assent. “Truer words were never spoken.”
A near hysterical hiccough of laughter burst from her lips. “Did you ever really care for me?”
Drake studied Emmaline. The tightness around her mouth, her lips dipped down at the corners indicated that she was wavering between fury and despair. How dare she take on the role of the offended party? She had, after all, been duplicitous. He owed her no apologies.
Yet still…when her lush red lips trembled in that forlorn way, he wanted to knock himself out for being the cause of her pain. He hated himself for hurting her, even if ultimately it would be best for Emmaline. Then all false illusions she carried of him being an honorable gentleman deserving of her love could be at last squashed.
He closed the short distance between them with long, determined strides. Emmaline backed away. “Come Emmaline, am I to believe this plan you crafted was designed out of love for me? That it had nothing to do with your ultimate goal of marriage?”
“How little you think of me,” she snapped and then took a bold step toward him, so only a hand of distance remained between them.
They were toe-to-toe, breath coming fast from the force of their emotions.
“What do you want from me?” The words wrenched from deep within him.
“I want to be your wife,” she whispered.
Drake looked away, unable to see the love pouring from her. God, when she said it like that, he was wont to deny her anything. She at least deserved some element of truth from him. “I am not ready to marry you.”
Her response came out wobbly. “Why?”
He knew how much that question cost her and just added one more thing to the list of all the reasons he hated himself.
“I’m not ready to be a husband.”
There it was. To him, the truth—a silent acknowledgement that he was defective and not good enough for her. She, however, would see it as nothing more than a rejection.
“You’re not ready to be a husband? Or you’re not ready to be my husband?” He said nothing and she squared her shoulders. “I see.”
No, Emmaline. No, you cannot possibly see. Because if you did, then you would know right now I feel as though I’m being run through, over and over with a rusty bayonet.
Drake stared out into the horizon at the fading purple hues rolling back, as they ceded the spot to the full morning sky. “I should never have touched you.” Even if it had felt like the only thing perfect in his life.
Emmaline laughed bitterly. “I don’t imagine many of the ladies you’ve been intimate with have heard those words from the great Lord Drake.” She reached down and rescued the forgotten bag at their feet. She thrust it into his hands. “These were yours. I wrote them, to you…for you…when you were…gone…” She fumbled about, seeming to search for the right words. “I am freeing you,” she breathed the words into existence. She jerked as if startled by her own declaration, but then resolutely met his gaze. “I am no longer your responsibility.”
Drake’s heart thumped, once, twice, then froze. He gave his head a firm shake, in an attempt to make sense of what Emmaline had said but the loud buzzing in his ears overpowered his ability to reason.
Perhaps he had misheard her.
“I am freeing you,” she repeated. “I cannot do this any longer. You don’t love me. Even as I…love you. I cannot bear to be a responsibility you do not want, nor for that matter have ever wanted in your life. I want to be courted. I want someone to bring me flowers and write me poems. More than anything, I want to be loved. And do you know, Drake? I deserve to be loved.”
Yes, she did. Except, Emmaline could walk from one corner of the earth to the next, and never find a man who cared for her as he did. It was that regard for her which allowed him to set her free, in spite of his selfish yearnings. A ball of pain lodge in Drake’s chest.
Odd, he’d been stabbed, had taken more bullets than a living body was ever meant to take and yet the ache of losing Emmaline, was somehow greater than all those hellish wartime moments combined.
God help him. He was a selfish fiend after all. He wasn’t ready to lose her.
“What if I don’t want to be free?” The words ripped from a place deep within his soul, a place where the last vestige of humanity he’d returned from the war with, still resided. If Emmaline walked out of his life; she’d snuff out the sole flicker of light that existed within him.
Emmaline gave him a sad little smile. “Come Drake, you don’t want me. You have never wanted me. Even this Season.” Her hand fluttered about. “I’ve followed you from event to event, but I’ve never really been anything more than a nuisance. So I am freeing you as much for me, as it is for you.”
She stepped close to him. The crisp citrusy scent of lemons tickled his senses. His eyes slid closed. He would never know if it was the scent of her soap or a dash of perfume dabbed behind her ears, because she would be gone to him, and he would lose the right to know all those intimate things he yearned to know.
Through a surreal fog, he was dimly aware of her taking his hands. She gave them a gentle squeeze and picked up her chocolate gaze to meet his. “You have had the opportunity to make at least some decisions of your own. You went to war. I’ve never had that. Let me have this. Let me have my Season.”
Drake’s throat worked painfully. If only he could tell her the decision he’d made, his one reckless grasp at independence, had been the most horrendous mistake he had ever made. It had cost him everything: his sanity, his happiness. Her.
“I have never said I wanted to be freed of you.”
Why couldn’t he call forth the words to keep her?
Because you don’t deserve her, a silent voice jeered.
Emmaline smiled sadly. “But you never said you wanted me either.” She reached out a trembling hand to his jaw and rubbed the cleft there. “When my father died, I was devastated. I never thought I’d smile again.”
Drake tried to slog through the the unexpected shift in conversation.
“I waited for you, but you never came.” Emmaline swallowed, her throat working. “I still remember the chaos. There were so many cries and screams. I still cannot sort whether it was mine, Mother’s, or the maids’.” A small shudder racked her frame and she crossed her arms, as if to ward off a chill. “Countless peers came to pay their respects, but I really only wanted to see one person walk through the door.” Her lips tipped up in a sad rendition of a smile. “You were the only one I longed to see. I waited for you to come to me…but you never came.”
Drake’s stare wandered away from her precious face as his mind tripped down a path of remembrance. In spite of how it had appeared to Emmaline, he had indeed cared about the loss she’d suffered. He had meant to go to her.
It was that moment when he realized with certainty—he could not fight for her. The great hurt she still carried with her, a hurt she was more than entitled to, symbolized a divide that would forever keep him from being worthy of her. He had failed her too many times.
“I am sorrier for that than you can ever know,” he said. He flinched when her soft, delicate fingers caressed his cheek.
Hesitating just a moment, she reached up on tiptoe and placed a sweet, lingering kiss on his lips.
It tasted like good-bye.
Without a word, she turned on her heel, and left.
TWENTY-FOUR
My Dearest Drake,
I have just returned from London, where I found the most delightful straw bonn
et for my gardening! I shall never be beet red again!
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake stood rooted to his spot. The scent of Emmaline seemed to linger and he feared if he so much as moved, he’d waft the citrus scent of her off into nothing more than a memory. He stood so still his shoulders ached.
Time passed at an interminable crawl.
Sir Faithful nudged him in the leg until he looked down. The loyal fellow favored Drake with a sad, accusing brown-eyed stare. “I’m a fool, Sir.”
Sir Faithful yapped in agreement.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He hadn’t felt anything in the three years since he’d returned and now he should feel it all: pain, happiness, despair. He hated the swell of emotion that threatened to carry him away.
Over the past three years Drake had constructed a wall around himself; a barrier against the outside world. In a few short months, Emmaline had taken it down brick by brick until she’d exposed him as a scared and hurt man.
Even as he cared for Emmaline, in that moment, Drake hated her for forcing him to face the lie he’d been living. He’d tried his damnedest to bury himself in empty pursuits, whoring and gaming. And those were no longer enough and would never be enough.
Now the only thing he longed for, craved like air he breathed, was her.
And she was gone.
He wanted to slam his fist into something. There was no one to release his pent up fury on…except…
Drake turned on his heel.
He retrieved his mount and headed to the home of the one person he could direct his wrath upon.
When he arrived at his destination, he flung the reins to a waiting boy and threw him a sovereign and promised another when he returned. Drake strode up the townhouse steps and banged his fist on the door.
A wide-eyed butler opened it. “My lord, I shall…”
Drake stormed past the servant and started up the stairway. “Where is he?”
The graying butler’s skin turned ashen. “My lord,” he squeaked, and hurried up the steps, two at a time. “He is still abed, if you…”
Drake’s long legs had already outdistanced the butler, and the other man’s words trailed off. Drake continued on down the hall.
Having, of course, never visited Sin in his bedchambers, he wasn’t entirely certain which rooms the bastard occupied.
It did, however, give Drake some matter of satisfaction to kick in each closed doorway, sending them bouncing off the wall with a resounding boom.
Half-way down the hall, he kicked in one more door, and heard an answering groan.
“Get up,” Drake thundered, entering the chambers. He crossed over to the bed and tugged down the mound of blankets. He tossed them to the floor.
Sin draped an arm across his eyes seeming to care more about the intrusion of light than his naked form which had been exposed. “What has you in such a foul temper?” he groused, and dragged a pillow over his eyes.
Drake fished the note from his pocket and flung it at his friend. He began to pace. “What is this about? Where are your loyalties, that you would assist Emmaline in her maneuverings?”
Sin tossed aside the pillow and sat up slowly. He reached over the side of the bed and picked up his robe. “Whatever are you talking about?” Sin asked as he jammed his arms within the sleeves. He reached for the note, read it, and set it aside. “Oh, this.”
Drake’s movements were drawn to a jerky halt. He fixed a glare on his traitorous friend. “Oh, this? That is all you have to say?” Anyone else would have been terrified by the bloody calm in Drake’s words.
As if to show Drake how terrified he in fact was, Sin stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He stood and belted his robe at the waist. “You were in need of a push,” he said matter-of-factly. His bare feet padded across the plush Aubusson carpet.
Unmindful of the early hour, Sin strode over to the drink cart situated against the curtained window, and poured a healthy glass of whiskey. Very deliberately, he swirled the contents of the glass and then took a long, slow swallow, until he’d polished off the brew. He set the empty glass down.
Drake clenched his fists at his side, knowing his friend was trying to stir his ire. He took a deep breath. “It isn’t your place to meddle in my life. I neither want, nor need your interference. I’ve had to deal with my father’s maneuverings. I don’t need yours as well.”
Sinclair picked up his glass and refilled it. He studied Drake almost quizzically. “Are you sure of that?” He took a sip of whiskey. “Can you honestly say you’ve been happy since you returned from the war? For the love of God, Drake, you’ve gamed and whored more than even I can keep up with. And tell me? Has it brought you happiness?”
Drake had to restrain himself from hurting his friend. “What do you know of it?” He seethed. “Who are you to judge and condemn? You carry on as you please.” Drake reached for a glass and the decanter of whiskey and sloshed the brew into his glass.
Sinclair held his glass up in mock salute. “Yes, but I am not betrothed,”
Drake opened his mouth to speak and then promptly shut it. He stared blankly at the gold damask curtains behind Sin’s shoulder.
Except, neither was he. With just a few words, the betrothal contract, which had bound them since childhood, had been snipped like a stray thread on a piece of fabric.
“It still was not your place to assist her. As my friend, you should have come to me the minute she proposed her scheme.” He finished his drink and set the glass down hard on the table.
Drake wanted to be well and truly drunk by the time he left this room.
Sin scratched his forehead. “Proposed…? She did not tell you.” A knowing light flickered to life in Sin’s eyes. “You believe Lady Emmaline approached me? You believe she enlisted my support? She did not tell you it was I who approached her?”
TWENTY-FIVE
My Dearest Drake,
I have learned you are in London. I know it is not ladylike to admit this but… I am excited to see you.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline sat on the wrought iron bench in the gardens. She tugged the wide brim of her bonnet lower to conceal the extent of her grief from her maid, and hugged the small spade close to her stomach. She welcomed the sharp sting of the metal biting into her flesh, because it momentarily dulled the pain of her broken heart.
She had ended it.
Even thinking it now, it seemed surreal.
Since she’d been a mere girl her life had been seamlessly entwined with Lord Drake’s. She’d come to know him as her future. After years of waiting for him to finally come up to scratch, she should welcome the liberty of finally being free. Now she would have a real Season, an opportunity to pursue what she yearned for most in life—love.
Yet, why did she feel as though she’d had everything she ever dreamed of and had lost it?
She turned to her maid. “Will you fetch the duke?”
Grace rose and rushed to do Emmaline’s bidding. “Yes, my lady.”
Emmaline stood up from the bench and paced the gardens, failing to see the flowers. Then she made the mistake of stealing a glance at the cerastium covering the ground and it was too much.
She sank to her knees and lovingly stroked the silk of the tiny, fragile bloom. She dropped her face in her hands and shook her head back and forth, trying to tamp out the feel of Drake’s touch, the memories of how he’d made her body unfurl like petals opening up in the early spring.
A shadow fell over her and blotted out the nauseating sweetness of the sun’s rays.
Sebastian’s concerned voice interrupted her musings. “Em? Are you all right?”
She didn’t stand up. Didn’t look at him. “It is done. I have freed him.”
How did she manage to keep her words so steady?
Sebastian fell silent.
Emmaline didn’t know what she’d expected. Perhaps a bit of gloating on his part. After all, how many times over the past m
onths had he insisted she break it off with Drake?
Sebastian sat onto the wrought iron bench. He rested a hand on her shoulder.
She leaned into him much as she had when she’d been a small girl who’d tumbled down the stairs. He’d scooped her up and held her until he’d driven away all the hurt. Oh, why couldn’t she be a small child again, back when life was so very simple?
“You know I just want to see you happy?”
Emmaline gave a jerky nod.
“So why do I feel you are still not?”
She rested her chin on Sebastian’s knee, and looked up at him. “I love him. Of all the mad, foolish, awful things to do…I went and fell in love with him.”
Her brother said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he removed her broad straw bonnet, and gave it his utmost concentration. “Do you know Em, I still remember the day you were born. You were red-faced, screaming. Tears were dripping down your chubby cheeks. The nurse was desperately trying to soothe you. I leaned over the crib, and just like that, miracle of miracles, you ceased crying. I hadn’t given much thought to what being an older brother meant. I realized in that moment I wanted to protect you from any and every hurt.”
“Some things are beyond even your control, Sebastian.”
“Unfortunately, I know that.” He redirected his attention to the hat in his hands. “You know I think this bonnet is ridiculous.”
She wrinkled her nose and swatted him on the arm. “I love that bonnet.”
He spared a disparaging look for the item in question. “I would never, ever pick this hat for you. I have teased you time and time again. But you insist on wearing this one. There’s no explaining it, is there, Em?” He directed his attention to Emmaline. “Simply a matter of…taste, I guess you could say.”
Emmaline swallowed. “It is that,” she whispered.
Sebastian tugged at the fraying blue satin ribbons. “See how it’s fraying here? Even the straw is starting to tear.” He dragged a finger along the areas in question.
