by Darcy Burke
Drake paused, frozen by the other man’s question. There it was, again. The question—did he love her? Did he love her? He couldn’t fathom life without her; knew it would be a desolate existence. Before Emmaline he’d hardly managed a sincere laugh or smile. Having grown up motherless and then living the life of a soldier, he’d never really given much thought to the sentiment.
“That isn’t your business.”
Mallen jumped up from his seat and stormed out from behind his desk, clearly prepared to argue the point with Drake.
Drake walked over to the duke. Only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Let me stop you, Mallen. It is my intention to wed your sister and I assure you it is her intention to wed me. Emmaline wants your blessing and because of that, I’m asking you to accept my suit. But, I’m going to marry her with or without your approval. Is that understood?”
The door opened and both men spun around at the intrusion.
The duchess stood framed in the doorway. “You will most certainly give your blessing, Sebastian.”
“Mother, I am handling this—”
“Poorly,” the Duchess of Mallen cut in. She claimed Drake’s hands. “So you’ve finally come to your senses, I see.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been bewitched by your daughter.”
It was the truth, but it was also the right thing to say. A smile reminiscent of Emmaline’s played about the duchess’s lips. “I wondered when you would at last realize that.”
Mallen raked an angry hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for my mother and my sister, the answer would be, no.”
Drake strove for graciousness. He knew what the capitulation cost Mallen.
Drake nodded solemnly and stretched out his hand out. “Thank you.”
Finally, Mallen accepted Drake’s hand. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”
Emmaline stepped into the room. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sebastian.”
The sight of her there in a pale pink creation trimmed in delicate lace, her eyes shining with adoring love and joy, caused Drake’s heart to pick up a swift beat.
Mallen threw his arms up. “Lovely, so glad you could join us. Why don’t we call in Carmichael and the entire household staff for this meeting?”
Emmaline ignored her brother and glided into the room, coming to a stop before Drake.
He bowed low. “My lady.”
“My lord.”
He needed to feel her skin against his, needed some kind of assurance that she was real and not the phantom creature who’d visited only in his peaceful dreams. He took her hands in his. “We are to be married.”
Emmaline stepped into Drake’s arms like it was the only place in the world she belonged—and mayhap it was. He held her close. With a hand that trembled, Drake stroked her cheek. He forgot about Mallen. The duchess. The war became a distant memory. He forgot about everyone and everything, but her and the feel of her soft, slim body in his arms. It turned out everyone else had been right after all. He did love her.
Imagine that.
“Get your hands off my sister.” Mallen snarled.
Drake jerked back to reality and placed appropriate distance between him and Emmaline.
“Six months.”
He really should have been paying far closer attention to the duke. “I’m sorry?”
“Not as sorry as I am,” Mallen muttered. “A six month betrothal—”
Emmaline gasped.
“Don’t be absurd,” the Duchess of Mallen said.
“Three,” Drake countered.
Mallen’s jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Six months. You waited fifteen years, what is another six months?”
Emmaline set her hands on her hips. “Really, Sebastian?” She looked to her mother for intervention.
“Three weeks,” Drake reiterated over the crown of Emmaline’s chocolate waves.
“You are mad. Absolutely not. Why, why the planning, the preparation, the scandal—”
The duchess took her son’s hand between hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I never took you for one to get weighed down with wedding details.”
“Six months is rather a ridiculous length of time, no?” Emmaline argued.
Mallen looked from Emmaline to Drake and then his mother, like something of a caged animal. “I—I…”
THIRTY-FIVE
Ultimately, when faced with the persistent Marquess of Drake, a pestering younger sister, and a displeased mother, the Duke of Mallen had no choice but to agree to speedy nuptials. So it was three weeks later at the Duke of Mallen’s country seat in Leeds, with a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Emmaline, escorted by Sebastian, walked down the intimate aisle of the family church to the man who’d upended her world.
They reached the front of the altar and Sebastian continued to stare with his gaze fixed blankly ahead.
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” she whispered.
Sebastian looked down at his sister, and then shifted his gaze over to the Marquess of Drake, who eyed him with an inscrutable expression. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” He placed Emmaline’s hand in Drake’s and claimed his seat at the front pew.
Emmaline turned a smile up at Drake. “I think he handled that rather well,” she whispered.
A startled bark of laughter escaped Drake, causing the select few guests in attendance to erupt into a bevy of curious murmurs.
“If I may?” the vicar inquired, his tone dry. He cleared his throat and continued.
“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” Drake vowed.
They were just two words, yet somehow they flowed over Emmaline like the faintest caress.
I’m dreaming, she thought, a smile on her lips.
She didn’t want to ever look away from the green of his eyes and the emotion she saw there. In him she saw her past; the five-year-old girl with dreams of the thirteen-year-old prince, who’d rescued her up from her knees in her father’s office. He represented the hopes she’d carried as a young lady for a love match, dreams that had defied the reality of Society’s cold, calculated unions. And now she saw her future—their future. She—
Drake gave a discreet cough.
The vicar looked at Emmaline, with a dark scowl.
… forgot to speak her vows.
“Oh, I missed it.” If she weren’t standing in a church, in front of her family, a vicar, and the select members who’d been invited to their wedding, she would have cursed. She looked to Drake. His mouth twitched as though he fought back a laugh.
No help there. Emmaline sighed. What had she expected? It wasn’t as though he could reclaim the moment for her.
There was a hum of confusion amongst the small crowd.
He leaned in and whispered, “I assure you, my dear, you can still recite the words. You haven’t lost the opportunity.”
“I will,” Emmaline blurted.
Then just like that, after fifteen long years she became the Marchioness of Drake.
The smattering of applause, the flurry of signatures required of them, and the festive wedding breakfast passed in a whirl. At the conclusion of the festivities, Emmaline and Drake started for the carriage.
Drake waved off the groom who rushed forward to help. He held out his arm to Emmaline. “Shall we?”
She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves but then froze. Her brother cut a path through the small throng of well-wishers and walked over to Emmaline and Drake. He stopped in front of them.
The two men stood there. Her brother and husband locked in some silent match of the wills. Emmaline held her breath. Her brother had assented to a match between her and Drake but she wanted so much more than that. She wanted the two of them to forge a friendship
. They were the two most important men in her life.
Drake broke the impasse. He held out a hand to his new brother-in-law.
Sebastian’s jaw set and for a moment, Emmaline thought he might reject the offer of peace. Then, her brother accepted the gesture. Two strong hands united with a commitment for a truce—an uneasy truce perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.
Emmaline waited until they’d finished and went up on tiptoe. She kissed her brother. “I love you.”
Sebastian scratched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable with her public show of emotion. He patted her on the shoulder. “None of that.” Then in his typical fashion, Sebastian glared at Drake. “I meant what I said in the church. Hurt her and I—”
“I heard you and would encourage you to do just that,” Drake interrupted, his tone solemn.
Sebastian, paused appearing startled by Drake’s concession. With a curt nod, he directed his attention to Emmaline. “Here.” He thrust a package at her.
Emmaline looked from him to the oddly shaped gift in her hands.
“It’s a wedding gift.”
Emmaline placed one final kiss on her brother’s cheek and then Drake made a move to hand her up into the carriage.
“I love you, too,” Sebastian blurted.
She winked. “I know.”
The doors to the carriage closed and Emmaline leaned her head out the window. She waved at their guests until they were no longer in sight, and then drew laughingly back inside.
Feeling his eyes on her, Emmaline glanced at him. “What?”
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, a husky tone underlying his words.
Her cheeks heated and she dipped her head. Though there was an easy sense of comfort in being with Drake, there was also some awkwardness in the dramatic shift that had occurred in their situation. Her lips tipped at the corner.
“Why the catlike smile, love?”
“I was thinking about all the times when I was a girl that I would practice twining my name with yours. And now you’re my husband.”
Emmaline settled into his side, burrowing herself close. She stretched her legs out on the seat in front of them. Her movements upset the forgotten gift. It tumbled to the floor.
Drake reached down and rescued the gift, handing it to Emmaline. “I must admit to some curiosity as to what your brother gifted us.”
“Me, too,” she said, almost hesitant to open the package. With Sebastian one could never be sure. She unwrapped the gift and opened the top of the box to reveal—
A burst of laughter escaped Emmaline.
Drake shook his head in consternation. A bonnet? It seemed a peculiar gift choice.
At that moment, however, he did not want to think of Mallen. Or his rather odd gift habits. Through hooded lids, he studied Emmaline and thoughts of finally making love to her made him harden in anticipation. Playing with the ribbons of her new gift, she seemed impervious to the tension in his tightly coiled body. He reached over and tugged her unceremoniously onto his lap.
A squeak squeezed past her lips.
He tangled his fingers behind her nape, angling her head. “I have been longing to do this all day,” he whispered and then brought her mouth to his. It wasn’t a chaste meeting of lips. This was a kiss without reservations. It was hot. Demanding. Seeking.
Emmaline twined her arms about his neck and tilted her head back to deepen the kiss. She opened her mouth to his and their tongues collided in a violent exchange. Drake’s hands roamed a path over her body, exploring each angle, each curve that had fascinated him since he’d seen her save an old beggar woman in the streets. Aching for more, he held her fast so her center was pressed against his hard shaft.
Emmaline pulled back a little, her eyes clouded with passion. “I want to touch you like you touched me.”
Drake groaned, and kissed her again. He shifted her so she was seated astride one of his hard thighs. The fine silk of her ivory gown, rucked up about her legs, leant her an air of wantonness that thrilled him to the core. Just the sight of her made his shaft ache.
He ran his hands over her creamy white thighs. “You are so soft.” His fingers trailed higher and higher until he found her center drenched with desire. She was hotter than the sun on a summer day.
A hiss escaped Emmaline’s teeth and of their own volition, her hips began undulating.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, arching into him. Her moan became a soft, pleading scream. Her head fell backwards. “Drake,” she begged.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his fingers continued to work her.
She cried out in protest when he eased his fingers out of her hot warmth. He set about undoing the fastidious row of pearl buttons along the back of her dress. He lowered the bodice, exposing her to his eyes. Drake closed a hand over a small round breast, fondling it, until she sagged against him. “Perfect,” he murmured hoarsely into her mouth. He trailed a finger across a turgid red nipple, and then pressed his lips to the bud.
A small scream escaped Emmaline and she threw her head back, sending her chocolate wave cascading around them like a silken curtain. He continued suckling the sensitive tip of her breast until she was whimpering with incoherent desire.
“Please,” she panted.
Drake reached down and released himself from his breeches, at last allowing his aching cock the freedom it craved.
Emmaline’s unrestrained movements ground to a halt at the sight of his erection. She froze. “You’re huge,” she said breathless with passion.
A pained, humorless laugh escaped him. He guided her hand to his shaft and encouraged her to explore the swollen length. A groan escaped him, as she wrapped her delicate fingers about him and moved them up and down.
“It feels like satin,” she said.
Drake’s eyes closed when her emboldened fingers worked him. He couldn’t drum up one rationale thought. A guttural groan emerged low in his throat, escaping from some primitive part deep inside him.
As though enflamed by his desire, she moved up and down on his oaken thigh with a frenzy. Her body stiffened, her finger froze on his shaft, and she was coming in waves upon his thigh. Her keening cry rent the quiet of the carriage as she collapsed atop him, fingers still curled tightly about his length.
Drake placed a kiss at her temple, where a faint sheen of perspiration clung to her.
Emmaline glanced up, her eyes clouded with desire. “I want to pleasure you,” she said huskily. “Show me.” It wasn’t a question.
Drake’s eyes closed. He wanted to wait. Wanted to wait for the moment she was in his bed, under him, and he was thrusting between her sweet thighs.
“Like this,” he instructed hoarsely and showed her the rhythm.
Emmaline watched with wide-eyed fascination as he pumped his hips into her hand, studying the pearly white fluid that leaked from the tip of his shaft.
She squeezed him in her hands, increasing the rhythm, and he sucked in air through his teeth, on a sharp whistle. “God, Emmaline. I’m going to come.”
And then he stiffened, and was coming, a stream of milk white seed poured from him, and Emmaline watched through round eyes.
Replete from his exertions and the power of his orgasm, Drake sunk against the cushions and held Emmaline in his arms. He continued to hold her long after she’d fallen asleep just studying her serene, heart-shaped face until his eyes grew heavy. A yawn escaped him. He’d close his eyes. Just for a short while.
THIRTY-SIX
The carriage wheels ground to a jarring halt. Drake’s eyes flew open. He made a move to dash his hand across his face and clear the haze of slumber but his hand was caught and he remembered…
His head dropped back slowly into the dark leather squabs of the interior of his carriage and he closed his eyes again on a smile. He must look like a lovelorn pup. Mayhap he was.
They’d arrived at their new home. Home. He smiled.
Drake rearranged Emmaline’s gown. He tugged the bodice back into place and made quick work of the in
tricate row of buttons. He dropped her skirts and through it all, his sated wife continued to sleep.
Taking care not to jostle her, Drake shoved the curtain apart, and peered at his townhouse. At the time he’d purchased it, he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine the simple things that so many gentlemen took for granted—a wife, a home, children—would ever be his. He believed loneliness was to be the penance required of him for the things he’d done in battle.
Drake let the black fabric fall back in place and shifted his attention to Emmaline. Apparently the gods had, if not forgiven him, granted him this undeserved happiness. They’d sent him down an angel.
A harsh, snorting sound slipped from her slack lips.
He smiled. Apparently, an angel who snored.
Her thick eyelashes fluttered open and closed as she negotiated reality with dream state. There was a sleepy moment of joyful recognition, when her gaze found his and she reached her arms high above her head, arching her back in a contented stretch. She yawned loudly, before closing her eyes, and burrowing into his side.
Then she seemed to realize the carriage had ceased its swaying, rhythmic motion. “We’re here, love,” he confirmed.
Like a bolt of lightening had struck, Emmaline’s body jolted forward and she promptly tumbled to the floor. “I’m a mess,” she cried, in a sweetly endearing hoarse morning voice. She glanced down at her rumpled gown and groaned. “It will take just one glance for the staff to know exactly what we’ve been doing in the carriage.”
He didn’t debate the merit of that point, and instead reached out a hand to assist her up. She dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth, groaning in embarrassment. “I want to stay here all day, buried away in this carriage,” she moaned. “I can’t meet the staff like this. I look, like, like…”
Drake waited for her to finish her sentence, lips twitching. “Like?”
Emmaline somehow managed to squish his booted foot beneath her slipper. “You are insufferable.”
