He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.
“Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”
Chapter Eleven
Dearest Lord Drake,
My brother has informed me that though I’m no great beauty I’m a woman of character, which is more important than anything else. I solemnly reassured him that even though he is not the most intelligent gentleman, he is certainly the most pompous.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake was bored.
And frustrated.
And annoyed.
With himself, and the woman prattling on and on at his arm. If he’d been paying an iota of attention to whatever she was saying, he was certain there were a number of sexual innuendos buried within her words.
His eyes caught Sin’s form cutting a path through the crowd, and sighed.
He owed Sin.
Sin stopped before them, and bowed to the widow. “Lady Smythe, stunning as always!”
Her ice blue eyes, flashed with annoyance. “My lord.”
Sin smiled, clearly immune to her displeasure. “Lord Thurmond has been looking for you. I did him the courtesy of letting him know where you were. Ahh, here he comes, now,” he said with a wide smile and for good measure, nodded in the direction of the furious gentleman crossing the length of the ballroom.
Withholding any hint of society niceties for Sinclair, Lady Smythe gave him an elegant shoulder, and directed her attention to Drake. “My lord, I’m eager to continue our discussion,” she purred.
Drake offered a non-committal response and sketched a bow. The young widow gave him one last heated look. She shot a black look at Sin, and then sauntered away.
Sin rolled his shoulders in a mock shudder. “Egads, that scowl makes her hideous.”
Drake grinned. “Many thanks.”
Sin waved him off. “Think nothing of it.” He retrieved a champagne flute from a passing tray, and took a long sip. “What you should be thinking about, however, is the gossip you’ve created.”
Drake didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, he surreptitiously watched Emmaline, seated at the outskirts of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with Miss Winters, her hands spiraling animatedly, like two little tornadoes. All the hurt she’d worn earlier for the world to see, now gone. Instead, she fairly beamed. A vibrant sparkle glimmered in her eyes, like a beacon. The desire to go and bask in her unabashed joy hit him with a physical intensity so strong, he nearly staggered under the weight of it.
Then Drake became aware of certain other things. With any hint of scandal now gone, the ton had lost interest in gawking at Emmaline. And that was when he made the shocking realization—Lady Emmaline had been relegated to the inglorious fate of wallflower.
One month ago, such a revelation would have been no revelation at all. Yet having seen her challenge Whitmore, and then himself being the recipient of her saucy boldness, it baffled him that she was not sought after. The hair he’d once thought mousy was really a pleasing shade of deep, rich brown hues, which made Drake imagine just-melted chocolate cascading in rippling waves. Before the end of each night, one errant strand always managed to escape its coif, as stubborn as the lady herself. He found himself giving a very stern, albeit silent, command to his feet to stay planted and not cross the room so he could brush back that lock.
He took a step forward, then froze.
Sinclair wore a puzzled expression. “Uh…are you all right, Drake?”
Drake ignored the question.
Either he’d been staring so long it was inevitable, or she’d felt his eyes trained on her because, just then, she looked up and the glimmer he’d spied flickered out. The distance separating them could not dim the hurt in those amber depths, and he felt like the worst sort of bastard. She wrenched her gaze away.
“Go to her.”
Drake wasn’t sure whether the words had been uttered aloud by Sinclair or were trapped in his mind. The seductive strands of a waltz teased his consciousness. The urge to close the distance between them, draw her close into the folds of his arms, and breathe of her oddly alluring crisp lemon scent was a tangible force.
He ignored Sinclair’s stare. Though truth be told, the only way he’d be able to move his gaze from her delectable form was if somebody were to move him by sheer force. Emmaline’s sinfully delicious lips turned up at the corners, but oddly, in the course of a short time, he’d come to know what each tilt of her lips meant. He’d come to know her smile enough to know this particular one she wore for the ton was a façade—and knew he was responsible for the false show of joy she put on.
Sinclair seemed to read Drake’s disordered thoughts. “You can make it right,” he said quietly.
“Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”
Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you even know what that means?” The stinging words made Drake wince.
It wasn’t the first time that evening Drake had been appalled by his own words and actions. “My apologies,” he said gruffly.
Sin shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought.”
How could he not? Drake wondered at what point he’d lost the veneer of humanity that had once allowed him to fit in this world. What had happened those four years on the Peninsula that he now didn’t know how to be civil to his betrothed or best friend? Emmaline’s and Sin’s glaring disappointment in him was just one more stark reminder that he no longer fit in with civilized society—that he was better with vipers like Lady Smythe.
His gaze swallowed Emmaline. But, if he didn’t crave an emotional entanglement, why couldn’t he look away from her?
She desired love. She spoke of a family. God help him, when she’d spoken of her desires in that faraway husky whisper, she made him want to scale the walls, climb through a window, into the sky and retrieve the moon and a handful of stars for her.
Unlike him, Emmaline remained unscathed by the ugliness of life. The center of her existence was still their betrothal…that hadn’t been the case for him in years and years. At one time the obligations of his betrothal had seemed like the worst fate. What a fool he’d been.
Sin looked from Drake to Emmaline. “Her hair is merely brown, you know?”
Drake gave his head a shake. “It’s like the color of Belgian chocolate, you fool.”
“Same with her eyes, just brown,” Sinclair pointed out.
“They are not brown. Why, they are more of a whiskey hue with a hint of…”
God, what was happening to him?
His friend gave him a triumphant look and with steely determination, Drake resolved to cease staring at his betrothed.
Sin opened his mouth to speak and Drake glared him into silence.
Regardless of the length of their friendship, Drake neither wanted nor needed Sin interfering with his betrothal agreement.
“So you do not have feelings for the young lady?”
Drake sipped his champagne. “None at all.”
“Which would probably mean you wouldn’t care if she has to deal with the likes of Whitmore, again?” Sin dangled.
Drake’s gaze flew across the room. His hands balled into tight fists. Whitmore and Emmaline. Without a word, Drake strode toward his betrothed. By god, that cowardly fop had better not cause her any distress or he’d end him right there with Society as his witness.
“Well, I guess I have my answer,” Sin called after him.
*
Rage dripped from Lord Whitmore with such ferocity he put Emmaline in mind of one of her brother’s hunting dogs who’d gotten so ill he’d frothed at the mouth. “You little fool,” Whitmore bit out.
Emmaline’s hand flew to her breast at the vulgar declaration.
“Whitmore, as crass as usual.”
She spun around and discovered Drake at her shoulder. The lines of his face were set in a hard mask.
A slight tick at the corner of his eye, the only indication of his fury. He offered a perfunctory bow to both her and Sophie, and then turned his attention to Whitmore.
The young dandy’s cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of white.
Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.
A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”
Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.
The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.
Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.
Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.
“M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.
“Tsk, tsk…I’m beginning to notice a rather unseemly trend, Whitmore,” Emmaline said.
Drake inclined his head. “I believe the young man needs to inform his mother of how callously he’s been treating young ladies.”
Whitmore sputtered and he gripped Drake’s arm. “Please, I implore you. Do not let my mother know,” he said, his gaze skittered off to land on the rotund, graying woman conversing with the host and hostess.
“What do you think, my lady? Miss Winters? Do you think I should inform Lady Whitmore?” Drake asked.
Whitmore’s eyes bulged. “Have a heart.”
Sophie tapped her chin. “I don’t know. What do you think, Em?”
Drake arched a golden brow in Emmaline’s direction. “Yes, what do you think, my lady?”
What did she think? She actually had very little thought reserved for Lord Whitmore. She was still trying to grapple with the warring personalities Drake presented to her. One moment he was the aloof, indifferent bounder, the next he was a champion charging over on his white steed, defending her from miscreants.
“My lady?” Drake pressed.
Emmaline returned her attention to the matter at hand. She studied the little toad quivering before them. She almost felt bad for him. Until she recalled the old peddler woman and Whitmore’s poor battered horse. “No, I think Lady Whitmore would definitely want to know about her son’s proclivity for rudeness.”
Drake turned to the cowering dandy. “How about a round in the ring, tomorrow, as well, Whitmore?”
Words eluded Whitmore who continued to rapidly shake his head back and forth in a way that nearly made Emmaline ill.
Her gaze locked with Drake’s and it appeared there was something more he wished to say, but the presence of Sophie and Whitmore prevented it. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I have a meeting with this pup’s mother, isn’t that right, Whitmore?”
Emmaline watched him go with his pup in tow, knowing there were many layers to that apology.
“Indifferent, Em.” Sophie snorted. “I think not.”
Chapter Twelve
My Dearest Lord Drake,
I begged Sebastian to allow me to accompany him to London Hospital. The visit was nothing short of remarkable.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Sebastian pulled his watch fob from the front pocket of his jacket and proceeded to check the time. “I am going to visit London Hospital. Are you—?”
Emmaline set aside the book she’d been reading and clambered up from the window-seat that overlooked the gardens below. “I’m coming! Give me a moment.”
Sebastian had been a board member at London Hospital since their father had died. Three years ago, when Sebastian had been planning his first visit to the hospital, a teary-eyed Emmaline had begged to go along with him.
Her brother had insisted London Hospital was no place for a seventeen-year old, genteel, young lady but, Sebastian had eventually been worn down. Ultimately, the older brother of a young grieving sister had been wont to deny her anything.
When Sebastian attended London Hospital’s monthly board meetings, Emmaline accompanied him and visited with the soldiers who’d fought Boney’s forces. In addition, she spent one day each week reading to the soldiers.
“I have a meeting with the Board. I told you to be ready by—”
“Just a moment!” Emmaline grabbed her stack of books, and handed her burden over to him. “Here.” She looped her arm through his and they made their way to the foyer.
A servant assisted Emmaline into her burnt orange taffeta cloak. She smiled. “Did Cook have that basket readied?”
She’d not even finished her question when a maid rushed forward with the basket outstretched. “Here it is, my lady.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as Sebastian relieved the maid of her burden. Emmaline followed Sebastian to the carriage.
After he placed the basket on the opposite seat, he sprawled into the red velvet squabs of the carriage bench.
Emmaline nudged him in the side. “Slide over. You are crowding me.”
“I’m insulted, Em. This carriage is enormous and…”
She rapped his fingers. “Just move over.”
“You’d never know I was a duke,” he muttered and moved over to the other bench.
Emmaline’s lips twitched.
Sebastian reached over and snagged the stack of books she’d brought with her. He shuffled through the pile and then set them aside. “Byron? Coleridge? Blake?” He arched a brow. “Are you certain this is what the men prefer to hear?” He dropped the books down on the opposite seat with a condescending thump.
Emmaline bristled. “Who wouldn’t want to read Byron, Coleridge, or Blake?”
Sebastian gave his head a shake as if to say, I’m more than certain I’m right and you’re wrong. He at least had sense enough not to say as much, aloud.
Instead, he flipped open the lid of the basket. “What do we have?”
Emmaline leaned over and slammed the top down on his fingers. “We have nothing.”
“Ouch.” He popped the smarting digits into his mouth.
“Really, Sebastian,” she chided, and slapped his other hand for good measure. “You can avail yourself to Cook’s pastries any time you want. These are for the soldiers.”
“I wasn’t going to eat anything.”
“Liar.” Emmaline ignored his response and turned her attention out the windowpane as the London scenery passed by.
“So, Em, what’s the story with Drake?”
Her eyes snapped back toward Sebastian and she felt a warm flush climb her neck and heat her cheeks. For the better part of the month, Sebastian had made it clear he did not approve of her efforts to secure Drake’s affections.
“What do you mean?”
Hazel-brown eyes narrowed. “You asked me if I trusted you. I responded yes. I am, however, the Duke of Mallen and your guardian. I need to ensure your protection.”
“What rubbish.” She puffed out her chest and threw her chin back in her best impression of a duke. “I’m the very powerful Duke of Mallen and want to know just what my little sister is up to.”
Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t sound like that.”
“No, you sound like that.”
His brow wrinkled as if in annoyance. “Oh, and just what that are you referring to?”
“You sound like my older brother who is trying to find out what I’m up to.”
Sebastian sat back in the squabs of his seat. He drummed a finger on his leg. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to protect you?”
A swell of emotion climbed up Emmaline’s th
roat and made it difficult for her to reply. For all the responsibilities he’d inherited, and all the obligations that went with being the Duke of Mallen, occasionally there were moments when Sebastian was not the all-powerful peer and simply was her brother.
Emmaline leaned over and took his hand in hers. She gave it a light squeeze. “Of course not. But that is all you needed to say, brother.”
He cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with her show of emotion. “So?” he urged.
He was like a dog with a bone with this one.
She sighed, letting his hand go. “I want a decision from Drake. I want a courtship and a true marriage. He is no longer allowed to run from me.”
Sebastian’s jaw set. “No.”
Emmaline’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t asking you.”
He scowled. “I still feel as though I should tell you how I’m feeling.”
“Fair enough,” she said with mock solemnity.
He opened his mouth to add something when the carriage drew to a halt.
“We’re here!” she called cheerily. Before the groom had even reached the side of the carriage, she leaned across Sebastian and thrust the door open, effectively squashing the remainder of the discussion.
Emmaline accepted the hand from the groom. “Thank you, Charles.”
She accepted Sebastian’s arm and allowed him to escort her up the column of stone steps into London Hospital. The hospital faced White-Chapel Road and was divided by a carriageway. The main entrance led into a receiving room where they were always greeted, before heading to the ward.
Emmaline walked down the stark white halls, and greeted the fifty-five soldiers who now made London Hospital their home.
“My lady, so good to see you,” one soldier called. “Your Grace,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Emmaline waved to the soldier. She stopped at his bedside. “Lieutenant Woods, how have you been this fine week?”
The burly red-haired soldier grinned a nearly toothless smile. “Better, now, my lady. Better now!”
Emmaline waggled a brow. “I’m certain you are simply referring to my arrival with Cook’s latest creation. Though I must tell you,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was all I could do to defend the basket from His Grace. I had to slap his fingers in the carriage ride over.”
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