As if sensing her daughter’s intentions, she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.
“My dear sister and mother! Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.
Emmaline winced. If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.
Her mother’s brows narrowed.
Emmaline dipped a curtsy and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”
“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake. He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.
A tide of guilt swept over her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”
He grinned. “Better now.”
A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.
From an objective point of view, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.
The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.
“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked.
An inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”
Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?” Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.
Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.
“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.
He laughed, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding ton.
His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed.
The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.
Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.
The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.
“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.
In the end, she settled for running into Lady Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish? For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.
Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder that one must tread carefully.”
The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.
Lady Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.
Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”
Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”
“Lady Emmaline,” Lady Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.
Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning you.” Every single member of the ton knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.
An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her black curls and then left on a huff.
Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh. Emmaline gave him a sly wink.
Drake’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.
“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”
Fury fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.
Sinclair leaned close and whispered back. “He does appear bothered.”
Drake took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.
His manacle like hold on her person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.
His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.
She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment. Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”
Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line. “You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”
Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you are a fool, my lord.”
His turbulent jade-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.
No words he uttered could ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage. The lout!
She found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.
“Move,” she snapped.
Damn him.
Drake looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”
And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response, she leaned up and kissed him.
> He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.
The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.
Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.
It was that same moan that seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.
Emmaline touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.
And yet…he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.
The detachedness of his response threatened to shatter her composure. How could he kiss her with such fever and then withdraw into this shell of a man? Something must have shaped him into a detached person incapable of warmth and affection.
The alcove curtain stirred.
“Emmaline?”
The sound of Emmaline’s name being called from behind the fabric had the same effect as a bucket of freezing Thames water being dumped over her. She went motionless. Her gaze darted around the cloaked alcove, and collided with Drake’s. “My brother,” she mouthed.
He held a finger to his lips.
“Emmaline,” Sebastian called in a faint whisper so as to not risk discovery.
She waited with breath held for him to continue on his way—all the while knowing with one word, one whisper, even so much as a sigh, her and Drake’s intimate position would be revealed, and both of them would be forced into a union.
A marriage based on a compromising position was not what Emmaline dreamed of for herself. Other young ladies might only care about an advantageous match but Emmaline wanted more.
What might have been seconds or minutes felt like an endless stretch of time. They waited. And waited.
The soft tread of Hessian boots moved on and indicated that Sebastian had left.
“Emmaline,” Drake whispered.
She slipped out of his arms and darted out from behind the curtains, leaving him alone.
*
Drake dropped his head against the wall and shook it back and forth. For one, inexplicable moment he’d wished Mallen had thrown back the curtain and discovered him and Emmaline. It would have meant her ruin and Drake would have been forced to do right by her.
Such senseless thinking would have only resulted in a miserable existence for Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh; uncertainty, fear, danger. Drake had committed enough wrongs in his life that he wasn’t willing to add this unpardonable sin—even if he did desire her and the peace she managed to somehow bring him.
“Emmaline! Where were you?” A voice hissed.
Drake picked his head up.
He strained to hear Emmaline’s muffled response.
“I assured Mother you knew what you were about but you are making a fool of yourself over Drake. You must have some pride,” Mallen chided.
Drake’s hands curled into fists at his side. How dare Mallen speak in that haughty tone to Emmaline? Just once he wanted to plant a left-handed jab into the other man’s face, just bury a fist into his nose.
“This is neither the time nor the place, Sebastian.”
Drake envisioned her with hands planted atop her gently-curved hips, a becoming flush on her cheeks, and all the desire he’d quashed earlier, came rushing back.
“You walked off on Waxham,” Mallen charged. “It was rude of you. He’s always been…”
The wicked trail Drake’s thoughts had been meandering down, meandered right over the edge of a steep cliff. Waxham? What was this about?
“Enough, Sebastian,” she bit out.
For once, Drake wanted Mallen to continue running his mouth because he wanted to know why, exactly, it should matter that Emmaline had walked off on Waxham and what Waxham had always been. Had Waxham always been like a brother to her? In love with her? What the hell had Waxham been? The unspoken words were perhaps worse than the not knowing. They made him gnash his teeth and want to bloody Waxham senseless.
“You need to be prepared, that is all I’m saying. Come. We’ll discuss this on the way to London Hospital tomorrow.” Mallen effectively ended the conversation.
Drake listened to the click of Mallen’s boot steps in harmony with the pad of her soft silk slippers, until they were no more. Long after they’d gone, when the concert had already begun, Drake finally moved out from behind the spot, tormented by the bloody niggling question; what the hell was Emmaline’s relationship with Lord Waxham?
He knew of the other man. Waxham was deep in the pockets, fond of the tables but not overly fond. Kept one mistress but didn’t frequent houses of ill-repute. Had respectable stables of horseflesh, which he bred and raced. Sparred regularly at Gentleman’s Jackson’s and was quite good at it.
In sum, the other man was a bloody paragon.
And suddenly, Drake hated him for it.
He moved into view of the concert, filled with a restless fury. With the exception of a lovely lyrical soprano voice, the auditorium was silent. He spied Sinclair seated at the back of the room, the end seat next to him open and made his way over.
“There you are. Where the hell were you off to?” Sin whispered as Drake slid into the vacant seat. “It’s bad enough I’m attending these events with you, quite another to be abandoned amidst matchmaking mamas.”
He ignored Sinclair. From his vantage, he could appraise the entire hall. Where the hell was she?
Then he spotted brown tresses he’d recognize amidst any crowd. He pointedly ignored Sin’s knowing chuckle. What had happened this evening? Whatever had transpired had been significant. For the life of him, he was incapable of looking at anyone but her.
He did not know what had compelled him to return her kiss and in nearly full view of the ton. And God help him, he could not rid himself of the taste of her lips or the eager way she’d sought his tutelage.
Drake tried to account for his fascination with Lady Emmaline, a woman he’d steered clear of for the better part of fifteen years. She was unlike every lady of his acquaintance. Those other women had perfected the art of coquetry. They fluttered their fans exactly the same, wore the same serene expressions.
On the contrary, Emmaline possessed a spirit that seemed indomitable. There was no mask where she was concerned. She made it quite clear exactly how she felt and made no apologies for it.
His eyes remained fixed on her.
And he became aware of something else.
“Waxham.”
Sin cast a sideways look in his direction. “What?”
The gentleman seated beside Emmaline leaned down and whispered something into her ear. With a smile, she tipped her head up, and appeared to whisper something back before redirecting her attention to their host’s eldest daughter, who’d just launched into an aria.
Mallen and Emmaline’s discussion a short while ago replayed in Drake’s mind. His gut tightened as an emotion that felt remarkably like jealousy reared its head. Just seeing Waxham seated beside Emmaline did something to Drake; something he did not like at all. He wanted to storm the room, drag Waxham up by the lapels of his jacket, and throw him out of the bloody recital hall.
It felt—primal.
Why should he care that Emmaline’s smile was far too warm or her proximity to Waxham too close? Drake’s hands balled into tight fists as he took in the overt glances the interloper directed toward Emmaline’s too low décolletage.
&nbs
p; How dare she flaunt herself so freely under his nose, in front of the ton, no less! His first order of business in the morning would be to pay a call on her and demand more appropriateness when they were amidst Society.
Drake focused on her flagrant display with Waxham and his own indignation at being made a fool of in front of the lords and ladies in attendance. His ferocity had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d come to care for Emmaline.
Nothing at all…
Except…
Waxham whispered something else close to Emmaline’s ear.
And the feeling of wanting to tear the man apart did not feel like nothing at all.
Chapter Sixteen
My Dearest Drake,
When I tend the gardens, I talk to my plants. Do you find that odd? Sebastian does. He teases me mercilessly about it. I told him my plants make for far better company than him.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
“You have a visitor, my lady.”
Emmaline sat back on her heels so abruptly her elbow knocked the collection of gardening equipment she’d set haphazardly against the wrought iron bench. The array of metal shovels and hoes shifted, but managed to remain fixed to their spot.
Emmaline rubbed her injured elbow. “Can you direct my caller here?”
When the servant had left, she tugged the straw bonnet off her head, swiped her forearm across the sheen of perspiration that dampened her brow.
She’d not been expecting Sophie, and had planned on dedicating her day to cleaning up the weeds that had decided to infiltrate her London haven. They both had a mutual love for gardening and Sophie was usually eager to help. Emmaline set her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons underneath her chin.
Emmaline returned her attention to the lilies of the valley. She’d cultivated the sweet-smelling woodland plant several years ago. According to legend, the small, pure white buds represented a return to happiness and therefore, it was one of the flowers she liked to share with the soldiers who resided in London Hospital.
She trimmed back some of the buds, set the delicate ivory bellflowers into the basket next to her, and returned her attention to the next dainty row that needed rescuing from a cluster of weeds.
Lords of the Isles Page 76
