The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the past three years, he’d forced thoughts of Lady Emmaline from his mind. He’d ignored the contract between them. If he’d returned from the Peninsula as the same man he’d been before the war, fulfilling his duty to her would have been somewhat easier. Not palatable but an obligation he would have fulfilled, nonetheless.
“If you admire her, perhaps you should claim her.”
Drake grunted.
Sin raised his tumbler in mock salute. “I imagine marriage based on mutual admiration is a good deal more than most unions are built from.”
Drake thought about his feisty intended, her eyes sparkling with flashes of defiance and courage, her rose hued lips made for sinning, pursed tight with fury. He silently tacked desire to Sin’s components of a successful marriage.
Drake picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. At this rate, he’d be drunk before supper. “There is no mutual admiration.”
His friend scoffed. “No? Are you really so modest to believe she couldn’t admire you?”
Drake set his tumbler down hard enough to rattle the table. “For what? I’m…”
A madman. A monster. A beast. If he were less of a coward he’d come right out and share the truth with Sinclair. Consumed by restive energy, his gaze skimmed the club. Some gentlemen laughed uproariously while others chatted with friends and acquaintances. Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been at ease around other people, too.
Sin didn’t press his line of questioning, and for that Drake was grateful. Instead, his friend reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. Then, he leaned over and filled Drake’s glass. “I’m assuming it was quite a sight seeing Lady Emmaline challenge a gentleman.” He paused. “As much as one can consider Whitmore a gentleman.”
Drake smiled and toyed with the rim of his glass. “I thought I could no longer be surprised by a woman. I learned otherwise, today.”
“Sounds like marriage to the lady might not be the worst of fates.”
Drake made an impatient sound. “Marriage to me isn’t in her best interest.”
“You are the most honorable man I know,” Sin said.
There it was again. That word he loathed with every fiber of his honorable being. Emmaline had described his actions as honorable, had looked at him as some kind of hero. He managed a half grin for his friend. “That isn’t saying much about the men you know.
Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”
Great. First his father, now his best friend.
But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.
He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”
Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”
Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.
Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?
Chapter Three
Dearest Lord Drake,
What I am about to write is exceedingly intimate. I pray you will not judge but I can no longer keep silent.
I must confess my deep, adoring love—for gardening.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline couldn’t sleep.
Even if she could, she most assuredly would still be awake. Unlike the majority of the ton, she loved mornings because she appreciated any and all time away from the smug, condescending members of Society.
It had been three weeks since the incident with Lord Whitmore. And in three weeks she hadn’t heard word from Lord Drake. Following the encounter with her betrothed, Emmaline had believed she’d finally garnered his notice and a real courtship was imminent.
She snorted. So much for love.
Or admiration.
Or childish dreams.
With her maid trailing at a distance, Emmaline marched through the western part of Hyde Park, until she came upon Kensington Gardens. The fiery sun peeked just over the horizon, dousing the dawn sky in ethereal hues of burnt flame. She paused to appreciate the light playing off the abundant foliage of the cascading elm. A faint breeze caught hold, stirring the long row of horse chestnut trees. She glanced up and briefly closed her eyes on a smile, as a handful of white leaves sprinkled with red dots fluttered down to the earth. They tickled her skin, and then continued their path to the pavement.
God bless Queen Caroline for having been an avid gardener with the good sense to celebrate the beauty of the land. Men might own the land, but women rejoiced in its splendor.
At last, Grace caught up, her round, girlish cheeks red from her efforts. “My lady, would you like…?”
Emmaline held a hand up. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, my lady?”
Her ears pricked up. “There. A faint whistling.”
Grace fought back a yawn and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t hear anything, my lady.”
Emmaline cocked her head, and listened. There it was again. Almost like the sound of a whipcord slicing through the air. “That.” She started off in the direction of the odd noise.
Grace groaned. “My lady, can’t we just…” Her words were lost as Emmaline’s quick steps put space between them.
Emmaline’s chest rose and fell from the rapid pace she’d set. She chewed her lip and surveyed the area.
Nothing.
Her maid finally caught up, wheezing slightly. She bent over and placed her hands upon her knees, taking in several deep breaths. “My lady, please, stop. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Just rest a moment, Grace. I’ll take a short turnabout. I’ll not go far.”
A flash of gratitude lit the maid’s hazel eyes, and she nodded, brushing away a stray lock of brown hair.
Emmaline hurried down the meticulous stone path that emptied out into one of the many private floral gardens. The collective beauty of the bright array brought her up short. For Christmas, her brother had given her the oddest contrivance. A tube containing loose pieces of glass inside and clever little configurations. He’d told her it was called a kaleidoscope; explaining that “kalos” was the Greek word for beautiful and “scopos” for watcher. All winter Emmaline had pointed the apparatus up at the light and peered through the tube, admiring the shifting patterns of color. Kensington Gardens never ceased to stun her with its vital beauty. With the pale pink of the spotted orchid, the effervescent hue of the violet bluebells interspersed with the lilac-white of the cuckooflower; it was like its own kaleidoscope of nature’s beauty.
She searched the area and her gaze settled on a lone gentleman with his back to her, swinging his walking stick. His fluid movements cut a swath through a blanket of pale blue forget-me-nots, as he severed the heads off the buds.
Emmaline gasped. She raced over. “Whatever are you doing?”
Startled, the tall stranger spun around. Lord Avondale.
His ornate stick soared through the air, and landed with a soft thump amidst the blue blooms. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose. “I assure you, I’ve not come for company.”
If her brother Sebastian, the powerful Duke of Mallen didn’t intimidate her, this reed-thin fellow with his elfin-pointed ears and mottled skin certainly wasn’t going to, either. “And I assure you, sir, the forget-me-nots had far grander hopes than decapitation by your stick on this glorious day.”
The man angled his head. “They’re just plants.”
Emmaline’s eyes slid closed. Whitmore and the fruit. This idiot and flowers. It was a wonder men held the power they did.
“They are flowers,” a deep voice said dryly.
Emmaline spun on her heel so quickly, her foot slid. She fought to maintain her balance.
Lord Drake.
Their gazes caught and held. Emmaline’s heart fluttered in her chest.
Then she remembered Drake’s blatant disregard since their meeting three weeks prior. Her mouth tightened. The bounder had better have some choice words for Avondale’s treatment of the flowers to redeem himself.
Drake shifted his attention to Lord Avondale.
“Avondale.”
“Drake.”
They exchanged bows.
Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. Drake’s pleasant greeting of Lord I-Kill-Poor-Defenseless-Flowers was certainly not the fierce rebuke she’d hoped. “Ahem.”
Drake sighed. “My apologies. Avondale and I go back to university days. Avondale, may I present Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? Lady Emmaline, Lord Avondale.”
Her toe ceased tapping mid-movement and hovered a hairsbreadth above the ground. “I don’t want an introduction.”
Avondale straightened the lapels of his maroon jacket. “Well, I say—”
Emmaline spun to face him. “You’ll say what? You had no business destroying the flowers.”
Avondale blinked. “They are just…”
She looked back just in time to see Drake shake his head and realized…he didn’t understand, either.
They weren’t just flowers. Considered small and fragile by most, they were a good deal more resilient and important. They could survive an unexpected frost or chilling deluge and remain unscathed. In spite of their gentle strength, they were viewed as nothing more than a thing of beauty set aside for Society’s pleasure, subject to the whim and fancy of a cruel world that held them in little esteem. When in reality they were so much more. They were the lifeblood of human existence. In that regard, they were not unlike women, which is what made the men’s dismissal so infuriating. It only served as a reminder of Drake’s disinterest, his total lack of caring for her. Why, she was not very different from the bud, trampled beneath man’s place in Society.
Drake said something to Avondale. Her eyes narrowed. She took a step forward. “They are just what?” Emmaline said with lethal calm.
The two men fell silent and eyed her. Avondale had the good sense to be alarmed by her expression. He took a step back and looked to Drake, a helpless gleam in his eyes.
Apparently taking pity on the other man, Drake inserted himself between Emmaline and Lord Avondale. “I’m sure you have pressing business to attend to.”
Avondale nodded vigorously and turned back to the cluster of flowers.
Emmaline gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He scratched his head. “Collecting my cane?”
“Are they really so unimportant that you would grind them beneath the heel of your boots?” Or fail to call for years and years?
“I—”
She pointed a finger at him. “Do not answer that question. You most certainly are not trampling through this garden to retain your weapon.”
A chuckle escaped Drake.
Emmaline speared him with a look, and then returned her attention to Avondale. “I will not allow you to—”
Drake interceded. “Why don’t I purchase you a new walking stick?”
The man gave another tug at his lapels. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of others.”
Just as Drake most assuredly has other women.
Avondale gave a perfunctory bow and made his goodbyes. Leaving her alone with Drake.
“Coward,” she muttered, though the rebuke wasn’t solely reserved for Lord Avondale.
“My lady—”
Emmaline swiveled on her heel and planted her hands on hips. “How could you let him leave after what he did?”
A swift surge of icy fury filled his eyes and an animalistic groan gurgled up from his throat. Emmaline froze. She’d never borne witness to such emotion and her mind numbingly tried to process what words or actions had triggered his response. She took a step back and quickly looked around for the hint of danger that had unleashed this savage creature.
“Did he hurt you?”
His words brought her up short. She cocked her head. “Hurt me? No.” She gestured dumbly to the fragile blue flowers, besieged by a sudden wave of hot embarrassment. “He hurt the forget-me-nots.”
The tension remained in Drake’s stiffly held frame. “He forgot what?”
Emmaline briefly closed her eyes, and shook her head. “The forget-me-nots.”
When he continued to eye her with puzzlement, she dropped her hand, and gestured to the ground. “The flowers.”
Drake laughed and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead as though he were trying to rid himself of a devilish headache. “What would you have me do? Make Avondale plant new ones?”
This was all a game to him. He would no more do right by those ruined flowers than he would by her. She squared her jaw. “Do you find this amusing?”
“I should think by my reaction you can deduce I’m not amused,” he said.
Emmaline bristled at the condescending edge to his words. “You did just laugh.”
Drake took a step toward her and she retreated. He continued to advance, and this time she held her ground. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. The faint hint of coffee lingered on his breath, tickled her senses. The rising sun played with the strands of his flaxen hair, and created a pallet of golden hues and a memory intruded.
He was thirteen and she five. With his blonde crown of curls, he looked like a prince. Her innocent heart had danced with excitement at the prospect, and she had wanted to ask him if it were true. Even back then, his lips had been bent in a serious frown as he ignored her completely, and the question had died on her lips.
“Is this to become commonplace, my lady?”
She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”
“As you should be. Interrupting a gentleman’s solitude.”
She ground her teeth.
Drake touched the line of her jaw. “If you continue to grit your teeth so hard you are going to give yourself a megrim.”
Under most any other circumstances she’d have delighted in her betrothed’s touch. Not, however, on this occasion. His insolence stirred her blood. She removed his finger from her person. “I was not apologizing.”
“You said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“For not understanding your question,” she snapped. “You asked if this was to become commonplace.”
A lull of silence descended. Drake eyed her with an unfathomable expression. “Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I to constantly be rescuing you from a series of scrapes?”
Emmaline fought back a wave of indignation. “I didn’t ask or need to be rescued by you.”
“My lady?” a voice called softly.
Emmaline and Drake spun to face her startled maid at the entrance of the gardens.
“We are leaving, Grace.” She gave a toss of her head. “And you, my lord, can return to, whatever consumed your thoughts before you came to my rescue.” She executed a perfectly respectable, deep curtsy. “You clearly need to work toward developing a greater appreciation for all life.”
The air left Drake’s lungs on a sudden exhale. “You are indeed correct, my lady.”
His agreement brought her up short. She quickly recovered. Giving a toss of her head, she nodded. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
Chapter Four
Dearest Lord Drake,
I attended my first play. I informed my mother and father that if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a duke, I would have had a career on the stage. Of course, that would have required I be a competent actress and singer—which sadly, I
am neither. Still, I enjoy the stage tremendously. Perhaps we will one day attend the theatre together.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
One hour and twenty-five minutes, and one long walk later, Emmaline’s fury was still a palpable force with life energy. The rub of it all was that she couldn’t single out what had left her most infuriated.
Drake’s disregard for the flowers.
Or Drake’s disregard for her.
No, that wasn’t true. She knew very well the reason for her upset.
She stomped up the steps of her brother’s townhouse. Carmichael, the family butler with his uncanny ability to know when visitors had arrived, pulled open front doors and she sailed through the entrance.
“My lady, Miss Winters is here. I took the liberty of having her wait in the Yellow Parlor.”
That brought Emmaline up short. She looked at the butler and smiled her first smile since…since…
Two very arrogant males had shattered her attempt at solitude. Her smile fell.
“Thank you, Carmichael.” She marched to the parlor. A visit with Sophie Winters was just the thing she needed.
Emmaline entered the room.
Her friend sat on the sofa, covetously eyeing an array of pastries and various other confections Cook had prepared.
The tray rested beside an unopened copy of the London Times.
“Hullo, Sophie.”
Sophie looked up. A smile wreathed her full, heart-shaped cheeks. “Em, I hope you don’t mind my early….” Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Emmaline plopped into the seat beside Sophie. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. She could say with a great degree of certainty that in her twenty years she’d been wrong on many scores.
At this precise moment, some things stood out more than others.
She’d been confident that upon reaching the advanced age of twenty she would have at least three things settled.
Firstly, she would have a home of her own.
Secondly, there would be a dog to cuddle with on cold days.
Lords of the Isles Page 68
