Drake’s shoulders drew back. Emmaline wasn’t certain if he had taken particular offense at being called stodgy or judgmental. Or perhaps both.
“Lady Emmaline, that book,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the offending work, “has set Society on its ear. Every lord and lady named in that work is outraged. They are shunning anyone who reads or supports the cowardly author who wrote it.”
An inelegant snort escaped her. “I assure you, no one gives a fig what novel I’m reading.” Even if it is one of the most scandalous works of the Season, she silently added. “Not to mention, with the exception of you and Sophie, no one else knows.”
“That does not condone it.” His jaw hardened.
And because she knew it would infuriate him…she laughed in his face. “You’re acting like an old, strait-laced gentleman.” She waved her hand. “I would never have taken you as one who feared Society’s ridicule. Nor, for that matter, would I believe you naïve. Do you truly believe the entire ton isn’t scrambling to secure a copy?”
Drake growled low in his throat and for the first time since he’d come upon her in the bookshop, Emmaline became truly nervous. She took a tentative step away from him, having forgotten she’d run out of backward steps, until she collided with the shelving. She sidled to the left of him. Perhaps she had gone a touch too far.
“I’ll just be going,” Emmaline said, as though she’d not just offended a lord who was not used to being offended, insulted, or anything else she’d done to him that day. She would have stepped around Drake but his arm again shot out, and he pulled her close, his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.
“Doddering old man?” His hot, softly spoken words whispered against her lips, tickling them.
Emmaline licked her lips. Even through the silk fabric of her gown, her skin heated where he touched her waist. “I didn’t call you doddering…” Her words trailed off when Drake’s eyes dropped to her lips.
Before she could form another coherent thought, his mouth was on hers, hot, intent, with purpose.
Emmaline froze, stunned by the unexpectedness of her first kiss, then her body weakened as she curled against Drake, and she who had never before been kissed, kissed him back, eagerly.
She had often dreamed of what her first kiss would be like…had always assumed it would be with her betrothed, but this, this she had not been prepared for, nay, could never have prepared for. His lips were firm and when a sigh escaped her, his tongue took advantage and slipped inside, plundering, devouring, tasting.
Emmaline moaned and she reached up to tangle in the silk strands of his longer than fashionable golden mane.
She moaned. “Drake.” The breathy entreaty obviously jolted him; his body jerked as if he’d been struck.
He set her from him with such alacrity she almost lost her footing. Ever the gentleman, his hands shot out to steady her. Drake scanned the area around them, as if to ascertain whether or not they’d been discovered.
Emmaline tried to fight a stab of hurt. “You don’t have to look so relieved,” she said, hating the way her words broke, wishing she could remain composed.
*
Drake dragged a hand through his hair. What the hell had he done here? Then his eyes took in Emmaline’s swollen lips, the loose brown strands that had come down around her shoulders—and he knew exactly what had overcome him. A sweet fire had glinted in her eyes as she’d challenged him and Drake had needed to taste that passion on her lips. It was vastly easier to focus on the flare of desire between them than on the tumult of emotions that he couldn’t explain.
He cleared his throat. “You should be relieved you haven’t been discovered with that book.”
“So we are back to that again, my lord? Very well, I’d like to issue you a challenge.”
“I’m sorry?”
She sighed. “Perhaps your age has affected your ability to hear, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not old.”
“A challenge, then my lord.”
Drake’s mind went down a whole series of seductive, sexual paths, that all ended with Emmaline on her back, silken waves fanned out upon his pillow, arms outstretched, legs parted…
“A challenge?” His words came out gravelly to his own ears. He shifted to ease the ache that had settled in his groin, praying his betrothed didn’t glance down and see the large bulge at the front of his breeches.
She held the volume of Glenarvon out to Drake.
He took it and she continued. “We will each purchase a copy and read it. Whoever finishes the book first may call in whichever demand they want from the losing party.”
Drake fought down another rush of images; Emmaline on her knees, taking his length between her lips, sucking him…“And what will those terms be, Lady Emmaline?” he asked hoarsely.
She gave a toss of her head, apparently having no idea that her every movement enflamed his passions. “Why, I would like to be taken on a picnic. What do you desire, my lord?”
A sound, very near a groan, lodged in his throat. He gave his head a violent shake.
Emmaline’s brow furrowed. “You must want something.” Her eyes went wide and she up held a finger. “I have it, my lord. If you win, I shall make it a point to avoid whichever event you attend for an entire week.”
Drake froze; his tongue could not move to form words.
If he won this silly wager, she would cease pestering him? He should leap at the opportunity. Why then did the thought of not seeing her rest like a pit in his stomach? He told himself it was because he welcomed the diversion she presented. It was nothing more than that. He’d begun to enjoy their subtle repartee.
“A week,” he said. He hated the sadness that clouded her eyes, and felt like a bastard who’d kicked a kitten. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue the terms were not his, but rather her own. He held out his hand.
Emmaline hesitated, then reached out and placed her small white gloved fingers in his. “How will we know whether the other is being truthful?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “In other words, my lady, how will you know if I’ve actually held my word? Tsk, tsk. I’m insulted. What about a test of sorts? Whoever completes the reading first will have to answer a series of questions about the book.”
Emmaline nodded and gave a slight but firm shake. She had a stronger grip than most gentlemen he knew.
“I bid you good day, my lord. Oh, and one more thing.” She plucked the copy of Glenarvon from his free hand. She turned dismissively to go and pay for her volume.
Drake frowned. “What about my copy?”
Emmaline continued down the long aisle. “That is not my problem.” She tossed over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the shelf at the front of the establishment.
Her victorious giggle echoed throughout the store.
Drake grinned. The little minx.
The gauntlet had been thrown.
Chapter Fourteen
My Dearest Lord Drake,
I sometimes wonder if we had not been betrothed, would Fate have intervened to see us wed anyway? I like to believe so.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake stared up at the canopy above his bed. Eerie shadows, cast by the small fire in the hearth danced off the fabric and walls of his room.
The memories were worse at night. In the late hours, when the inky black fingers of the evening sky had stolen the last of daylight, Drake heard things; sounds, people. The hum was sometimes so deafening he would clamp his hands tightly over his ears and rock back and forth on the edge of the bed, willing the ghosts of fallen friends to release him, forgive him for living when they remained forever on the battlefields.
The irony didn’t escape him—the decision to enlist had been entirely his own. He’d been motivated by resentment for his father’s high-handed manipulation of his life. Drake hadn’t even been allowed the opportunity to decide which university he would attend. Instead, it had been stated in no uncertain terms he would a
ttend Eton and Oxford, just as his father had, and his father’s father, etcetera, etcetera…
Drake had known early on all the responsibilities that went with being the only son and heir to the powerful Duke of Hawkridge. He’d even had a clear idea he would be expected to one day marry for his title. What Drake had resented was being robbed of the choice as a mere boy.
The day Drake had coolly informed his father of his enlistment, the Duke of Hawkridge had slammed his fist onto his desk and threatened to have the King strip him of his commission. When all was said and done, his father hadn’t interfered.
He’d imagined nothing could be more horrendous than the Duke of Hawkridge’s controlling influence. He shook his head.
The time he’d spent fighting had proven just how naïve he’d been. Amidst the battering cold of icy rain, clad in a mud-drenched uniform, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return to White’s and Brook’s, Gentleman Jackson’s, and all his other frequent haunts.
The day he’d returned from the Peninsula, he’d wanted nothing more than the easy comfort of his former life.
Society had different plans for the returned hero.
The only way Drake had managed to retain his grasp on sanity had been to bury himself in drink, women, and any other mindless pursuits. He’d made it a point to ignore his father’s silent censure.
Drake forced his attention away from dark remembrances and to the novel he’d thrown haphazardly to the bed where it lay untouched…staring mockingly up at him.
Just the thought of his exchange with Emmaline at the Old Corner Bookstore chased away the demons dancing about his haunted mind.
Before she’d taken her leave from the bookshop, Emmaline had wished him luck.
It had turned out he would need it. The shopkeeper had looked visibly distressed that his only two copies of Glenarvon had walked out the door with his two loyal customers, leaving Drake copy-less. So had begun Drake’s quest for the sought after, scandalous novel all the ton was fascinated by.
He’d spent hours scouring bookshops without success. He’d known whom to blame for his inability to attain a copy. At each respective establishment he’d visited, a note had been left with the shopkeeper for Lord Drake. It had contained one line. “Happy Hunting!”
Drake laughed at the memory of it and shook his head. What was it about her? She possessed a buoyant spirit that energized him in a way that reminded him he was very much alive.
In the end, Drake had prevailed and found a copy of the book. To prevent rumor of his reading-search from being bandied about Town, Drake had paid every shopkeeper a small fortune to keep his selection private.
He picked up the volume of Glenarvon and scoffed. What utter rubbish. Why the pages would be better served as kindling for a fire. He thumbed through the book, unable to stifle a smile at the caricatures of some of the tons leading members; Lady Jersey, there, plain for all to see. The patroness of Almack’s fury had been so great, she’d banished the author from the hallowed assembly hall.
Lying down, he dragged another pillow under his head and opened the book.
Only because the minx had a significant lead on him.
Drake gave his head a shake. “I cannot believe I’m reading this.” He fanned the pages, his eyes landing at a random point and read.
“She is even dangerously ill.”
“And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn.”
“Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony,” which will never endanger your health—of a broken heart.”
Drake snorted. “What rubbish.” He intended to tell his betrothed the next time he saw her.
He turned to the first chapter and began to read.
*
“Wake up, son. Wake up!”
Drake lunged up. Beads of sweat fell from his brow. He threw off his father’s grip and the energy seeped from his tightly coiled body. He studied the room through a clouded haze of horror, as he tried to sort out where his physical body was.
His gaze collided with his father’s. The Duke of Hawkridge said nothing. He never did after Drake recovered from one of his terrors.
Drake raked a hand across his face, and scrubbed it back and forth, with deliberate roughness. “I had a dream,” he said.
The Duke of Hawkridge nodded somberly. “I know.”
None would dare to believe that this man with his dressing gown rucked about his legs, kneeling at Drake’s side with tears in his eyes was in fact the Duke of Hawkridge.
Drake took care to avoid his father’s eyes. “I fell asleep. I shouldn’t have.” The last time he’d awakened from a nightmare to find his father next to him, he’d looked into the duke’s eyes and found them filled with pity, guilt, and regret—it had been too much for Drake.
“You have to sleep.” His father awkwardly patted Drake’s hand.
This is how it went when the nightmares came. Afterwards, neither of them knew what to say.
Hawkridge began slowly. “About your betrothal…”
Drake’s eyes slid closed. He braced for the lecture. His father was choosing this moment to speak to him about his responsibilities?
“I want you to know, I…I want you to be happy. I will…” the Duke of Hawkridge fumbled, seeming to search for the right word, “terminate the terms of the agreement, if that is what you so wish.”
Drake didn’t say anything. The irony of the duke’s offer was not lost on him. If those words had been spoken eight years earlier, how different would his life be? His rash decision to enlist would never have come to pass.
Oddly, the offer now left Drake with a feeling of emptiness inside. Take it, accept his offer and sever the contract. It would be the ultimate victory over his father’s will.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Then tried again.
But the words wouldn’t come.
It may have had something to do with the fact that for the first time since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he felt blessedly alive. Lying in the arms of stunningly beautiful courtesans, playing at the gaming tables, none of it had elicited anything from Drake.
Somehow Lady Emmaline had succeeded where nothing else had—she’d made him feel human again. When he was with her, he laughed, made jests. She made him feel a whole host of emotions he’d never thought to experience again.
And Drake was loath to lose the thin grasp on humanity she provided.
He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m tired.”
Hawkridge stood a little too quickly, a demonstration of his discomfort with the state of his son’s well-being. “Yes, yes, then. Please think about what I’ve said.” He held a hand up, reached out, and then swiftly dropped it back to his side.
Drake watched him leave, thinking about what his father had said, and even more, thinking about why it was so hard to consider accepting the offer.
Chapter Fifteen
My Dearest Drake,
I have a confession. I am lonely. How odd, to have a mother, a father, a brother and frequent visitors, and yet still be lonely…I wish you’d come home soon and take me away from it all.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Somewhere amidst the crush of people who had shown up for the musical event of the Season, Lord Drake was present.
The Earl and Countess of Cranford had all daughters; five of them to be exact, which provided a sufficient number for a whole evening’s worth of musical entertainment. The young ladies, ranging from seventeen to two and twenty, were as gifted musically as they were stunning examples of golden, blue-eyed, English beauty. Each lady possessed a crystal-clear tone and broad range that would make a choir of angels green with envy. And thus, the event had become the only musicale that members of the ton looked forward to.
Emmaline scanned the hall.
Lord Sinclair had sent around a note indicating Lord Drake would be in attendance. She glanced over at her mother, engrossed in conversation with Lady Bloom, who
therefore couldn’t notice Emmaline’s pointed search for Lord Drake. It was bad enough Emmaline had to deal with Sebastian’s censure over her pursuit of her betrothed. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to fend off Mother’s disapproval, as well.
Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lord Sinclair had insisted Drake would be present and yet…this wasn’t her betrothed’s usual entertainment. No, he’d far prefer balls where he could receive the attentions of scandalous, voluptuous widows. She could not even begin to speculate as to Drake’s motives in attending the annual musicale. There must be some woman in attendance who’d captured his interest.
Her mother touched the small of her back and Emmaline started. She’d not realized Lady Bloom had taken her leave.
“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,” her mother said.
Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall, to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.
Of late, Sebastian had begun to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.
Emmaline sighed. ’Twas a dark day indeed when one’s brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.
Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and her mother’s direction.
Emmaline groaned.
Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.
“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed, Mother.”
“Don’t be silly. He is not…”
Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.
Lords of the Isles Page 75
