Drake’s jaw twitched. Apparently not even his club would serve as a sanctuary. He looked straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the gentlemen who were as eager as the matrons at Almack’s for a juicy morsel of gossip.
His progress across the club was halted by a bold dandy attired in gold breeches and a flamboyant orange jacket. The man stepped into his path, slowing Drake’s path to the empty table in the far, far corner. Drake held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the offending hues. The candlelight flickered and bounced off the shine of the dandy’s satin fabrics. Why, with the seemingly constant rainy days in London, all they needed to do was drag out this fop to brighten the sky.
“My lord—”
“What?”
Drake’s dangerous whisper echoed around the still of the room. The gentlemen seated, drinking their traitorous French brandies and placing bets, drew in a collective, audible breath.
The color blanched from the young man’s cheeks. “Uh-I-uh…p-pardon me.” He scurried off like a rodent being chased by the house cat.
Drake deviated from his path and headed toward the famous betting book. He picked up a pen and scribbled a wager into the infamous log. Slamming the pen into the crystal inkwell, he marched over and at last reached the table furthest from the crowd of gentlemen.
A hesitant majordomo approached. He cleared his throat. “My lord is there something—?”
“A bottle of whiskey,” he growled.
With lightning speed, a bottle was procured, along with a tumbler.
Drake picked up the bottle and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor into the glass. He tossed it back and welcomed the fiery trail it burned down the back of his throat. His lips twisted up in a grimace. God, it was a foul brew. He’d hated it when he was in Oxford and he hated it even more now. But he’d be damned if he picked up a bloody bottle of French brandy. All in all, the vile stuff would serve the very same purpose. He again reached for the bottle and sloshed liquid to the rim. Before the night was through, he had every intention of getting mind-numbingly foxed.
Just then, his eyes snagged on the copy of the Times, resting on the table. The corner of his eye ticked, once, then twice. And because he’d developed a taste for self-torture, he reached for the offending paper and proceeded to skim. There it was. On the front page, in dark bold print were two familiar initials.
Lady E. F.
Why didn’t they print the entire bloody names anyways? Every last bugger in the whole bloody kingdom knew each lord or lady mentioned by initials in the scandal sheets. So why stand on ceremony?
They should have out with it already. The paper should come right out and say: The Earl of Waxham has launched a whirlwind courtship of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh.
With fingers that shook, he poured several more fingerfuls into his empty glass. God, he thought he might be sick. He wanted to blame it on the amber brew, then he tortured himself with the excerpt once again. Nausea roiled and it was all he could do to keep from casting up the accounts of his stomach right there in the middle of White’s.
Waxham hadn’t wasted any time. It had been four bloody days since Drake had signed those damned documents. Four days of regrets. Four days of despair.
In each of the four sleepless nights, he’d railed at himself for signing Mallen’s bloody papers. Why hadn’t he told the other man to go to the devil?
Because of her. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about Emmaline. Drake didn’t merely desire her. He ached for her with a pain-like ferocity. Her happiness and safety meant more to him than even his own. A bitter laugh escaped him. Who would have believed, the emotionless Lord Drake would ever come to care for the same lady he’d spent his life avoiding? Oh, it was the kind of drivel poets wrote about, the kind of nonsense he himself scoffed at.
Until her.
He’d told himself countless times she was better off without him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. Other times he honed in on those words stuck in his mind. Drake willed himself to accept her loss so he could move forward and be free of her sorceress-like hold.
Instead his want for her grew stronger. The feelings swelled each time he read her name.
But this—thoughts of her and Waxham—it was too much. He was strong. He wasn’t that strong. He’d rather face down a line of Boney’s men than confront this horror.
Drake tortured himself with images of her married to Waxham. Waxham lifting up her skirts, pleasuring her, rutting between her thighs—giving her children. He choked on the sip of whiskey that had been sliding down his throat, nearly gagging on it.
“You look like hell.”
Drake didn’t glance up. “I’m not looking for company, Sin.”
Sin waved off the majordomo who hurried over. “Ah-yes, I assumed as much based on your wager in the books.” He hooked his boot around the leg of the chair and tugged it out. “Really, Drake? A wager on which gentlemen would be foolish enough to seek out your company? I took the liberty of having that bet crossed out.”
Drake didn’t give a damn about the wager he’d put in the books. All he cared about was getting inebriated and tamping down images of Emmaline folded in Waxham’s embrace. Emmaline laughing up at the paragon. Emmaline…
Sin snatched the paper from between his tightly clenched fingers. “Ahh, so this is about the lady.”
Drake placed his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, seething. “By the love of God, if you mention her name I will bloody your face.”
Sin threw back his head and laughed. “I swear, if I didn’t know you since we were mere boys that might alarm me.”
How wonderful that Sin could find amusement when Drake was so bloody miserable. “What do you want?”
Sin’s smile slipped. He made it a point of tugging his chair directly in front of Drake, effectively blocking him from the voyeurs present. “I want to know you are all right.”
“Why, I couldn’t be better.”
His friend cursed beneath his breath. “Enough with the sarcasm. This is me, Drake.”
Drake dragged a hand over his eyes. “What would you have me say? Would you have me lay myself bare before all of Society? It is bad enough having to deal with my father’s recriminations.”
“Is that why you’ve taken up here for the past two nights?”
Drake slashed the air with his hand. “Is everything I do known by all?”
Sin shrugged. “At this moment, you are unfortunately the tons favorite source of gossip.”
Drake threw back the remaining contents in his glass. “To hell with them all.”
A frown marred Sin’s usually affable countenance. “Nonetheless, you can’t go around frightening young pups that have the misfortune of coming near you. It’s hardly their fault you drove Emmaline away.”
That was the rub of it. He was the maker of his own misery.
“I thought you might prefer the termination of the arrangement,” Sin said with quiet honesty.
Drake stared hard at the tabletop. “Damn it to hell, I miss her.”
His friend quirked one brow. “Well, that is quite a revelation to come to at this late point.”
“Of late, I’ve come to a whole host of revelations.”
Sin leaned forward. “Oh, I’m all ears.”
Drake picked up his empty glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the remaining drops glistening at the bottom of the tumbler and said nothing.
“When you are ready, then.”
Sin was a good friend. Just one more person Drake didn’t deserve. “If it is all the same to you, I’d like to get myself soused and you’re hindering my best attempts.”
Holding a hand up, Sin motioned for a waiter. “Another glass and another bottle of your best whiskey.”
The uniform-clad servant hurried off, and promptly returned with the requested items.
Sin picked up Drake’s bottle and poured two more stiff glasses of whiskey. He raised a tumbler in mock salute. “If you are determined to drink yourself senseless,
then as a friend, I must insist on joining you.”
*
“For the love of God man, you’re heavy,” Sin muttered breathless from the weight of his exertions. He helped guide Drake to the above-floor suites. Drake had flung his arm across Sin’s shoulders. “I must admit I am thrilled you’ve rented rooms here. I don’t think I could have managed carrying you to the duke’s townhouse.”
“Th-that’s anufer thing,” Drake slurred. “II’m faaaar too old to still reside with my father.”
Sin nodded to a gentlemen they passed in the hallway. “That is something easily resolved,” he said helpfully.
Drake paused, and forced Sin to a stop. “You know what is naht so easily resolved?”
“What is—”
“Ehh-mmaline. I rather made a mess of thaat situation.”
Sin looked at him with a sobering expression. “With a bit of effort, that too can be resolved.”
Drake’s gut clenched and he swayed on his feet. “Do you truly believe that?” He felt hopeful for the first time in four days. Had it been four days? The days had marched on, interminable in their duration. He fished around his jacket pocket and withdrew his timepiece. The numbers upon the watch blurred before his eyes. “It doesn’t have the days?”
Confusion flitted over his friend’s face. “Let’s get you to your room.”
He allowed Sin to lead him along. “I-I saay, you seem faaaar too sober.”
Sin snorted. “That is because I didn’t drink an entire bottle, my friend. Here we are.” Sin fished around for the key Drake had handed him downstairs, then opening the door, led Drake inside the quarters. The space was large enough to serve its purpose; a temporary escape for gentlemen in dire need of temporary quarters.
Winding his way around the front room, Sin steered Drake to his bedchambers. With a grunt he heaved Drake over to the bed.
Drake landed hard and then promptly fell backwards. “Oomph.” He blinked up at the ceiling. “The room is spinning. Howww did White’s manage such a feat?”
“We shall ask the majordomo tomorrow,” Sin promised and, good friend that he was, set to work tugging off Drake’s boots.
Drake flung a hand over his eyes. “I don’t deserve her, you know. Came back a madman.”
Sin paused in his efforts. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. But this is not the time to debate the point.” Once both boots had been removed, Sin took a seat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.
“I-I-I’m going to make some changes, maaark my words.”
“I certainly hope so. Your first order should be—”
Drake very much did want some guidance on what his first order should be, but he was so damned drunk that he couldn’t quite string together Sin’s words. And after a bottle of whiskey, he’d at last muted the pain of losing Emmaline to a dull ache.
Closing his eyes, he slid into blessed oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My Dearest Drake,
I am a coward. I have not sent you one note in three years. But you haven’t sent me one note either. Are you a coward as well? Or worse, do you just not care?
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
After two weeks sleeping at his club, Drake moved back home. There were no questions from the Duke of Hawkridge, no articulation of displeasure. Father and son had settled back into the same stilted, uneasy arrangement they’d had since Drake returned from the war.
Drake tugged back the curtains that covered his bedroom window and peered out at the night sky. His finger traced a distracted path across the pane of the window. Clouds billowed across the moon and blotted out all stars in the sky.
As usual, sleep eluded him. This time, demons from the Peninsula were not the ghosts that drifted about his consciousness, robbing him of an undeserving peace. Instead he was possessed by memories of a feisty, courageous lady with joyful eyes, and imaginings of her with another man.
Drake slammed his fist into the ivory plaster wall beside the window.
The violent movement sent the seemingly forgotten drawstring sack tumbling from the edge of the nightstand. His eyes snagged the article lying on the wood floor.
Since they’d parted, he’d not allowed himself to read the notes Emmaline had written to him. The cowardly part of him hadn’t wanted to acknowledge there had been a young lady named Emmaline, who’d spent hours of her time writing to him, but had been too shamed to ever send him the notes.
Had he always been an utter bastard where she was concerned?
Drake crossed the few feet separating him from the bag, and snatched it up.
Then with far greater care, he untied the silk sack, and pulled out a large stack of notes that were neatly tied with a blue satin ribbon. The top ivory vellum envelope was addressed to Captain Drake.
Drake returned back to bed and lied down. He propped his head on several pillows. Sir Faithful leapt up onto the bed and claimed the spot next to Drake. He petted the dog. “You, too, want to know what she said, do you, my boy?”
He undid the delicate bow holding the letters together, and pulled out the first envelope. Taking great care, he slipped a finger beneath the fold of the thick vellum and withdrew the note.
He patted Sir Faithful on the head, shook out the parchment, and read her words.
Dearest Lord Drake,
There is something I must share with you. It is dreadful and horrible. And if you were reluctant to wed me before this moment, well then (sigh), I am sure you will never want to wed me now. Are you ready? Dare I even put these words to paper? I cannot dance. There you have it. I tread abominably upon my dance master’s toes. I have overheard him speaking with mother. He said he was one broken toe away from finding another assignment.
Having tired of him as a dance master, I ground my heel quite happily upon his foot.
I am awaiting the arrival of my next dance master.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake dragged a finger along the blank ink, tracing the lines she’d made on the page. Odd that such a long time ago, a much younger Emmaline’s hand had stroked the marks on this note.
He set the letter aside and moved to the next. Drake read scores and scores of letters, noting when the tone changed, when the words became the words of a young woman, and no longer a girl who traipsed across the countryside, climbing trees, engaging in mischief with her older brother.
Unlike so many other nights, he willed himself awake. He continued reading until the swell of the bright morning sun appeared on the horizon. Her notes had become a lure he’d been hooked upon, that he didn’t want to be freed of.
He reached for the final remaining note.
My Dearest Drake,
I realize you have not read any of my notes—because I failed to send them. There is so much I’ve yearned to say to you. I’ve longed to ask why you left to fight. I’ve longed to ask what flaws are so inherent in my character that you should never have written me. I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me. Then I wonder if those thoughts are ever pleasant.
I wish you would know I will be a good wife to you. Oh, I might not be biddable and easily controlled, but we will know laughter. When you return, I long to laugh with you.
Since you will never read this, I intend to show you!
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
His eyes slid closed, and he brought the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. Except the citrus lemon scent that was hers had long faded.
For fifteen long years he had existed in a world where he was beholden to none, where all he felt, all he knew were his own hurt and disappointments. He had never allowed himself to consider there was any other injured party; a young woman desiring marriage. Instead he had nurtured his anger, kept it close.
He now realized that anger had become a mechanism he’d used to protect himself from the people around him. Emmaline had indeed taught him to laugh again, to feel. She had reminded him he was still human.
It was time he faced life.
He stroked Sir Faithful between the ears and thought about the woman who meant more to him than anyone.
Could he? Should he?
He shoved himself up and rang for his valet to help him into different clothes before starting downstairs. As he walked down the hall, a well-trained Sir Faithful trotted obediently at his heels. The dog came to an immediate stop when Drake halted at one particular room. He rapped on the door and entered his father’s study.
“Father.”
The Duke of Hawkridge set aside the scandal sheet he’d been reading and removed his monocle. “Come in, come in.” He tried to shove an envelope atop the paper.
Drake’s eyes narrowed.
His father didn’t try to prevent him from picking up the offending document.
He scanned the article and made a disapproving sound. “Really, Father? The scandal sheets?” He threw the paper down upon the desk and took a seat.
His father flushed and made a vague motion with his hand. “What is it, son?”
Drake folded one leg at his knee and tapped a staccato rhythm upon the arms of the chair. Sir Faithful yapped once, and Drake leaned down and scratched him between the ears. “I purchased a bachelor’s residence,” he said at last.
His father gave a slight inclination of his head. He propped his chin on steepled fingers, but otherwise showed no outward reaction to Drake’s pronouncement.
“Are you…certain you are—are…interested in being alone?”
Interpretation being; what will you do when I’m not there to help with the nightmares?
He gave his father a long, assessing look.
For the first time, he looked at the Duke of Hawkridge, and realized his strong, powerful father looked—old. A strip of gray peppered the hair at his temples, and the lines of his face, always firm, had softened. He now possessed wrinkles around the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.
That moment, Drake was shamed as he realized he was not the only one who had been scarred by the war. The Duke of Hawkridge had witnessed far too many of his son’s nightmares to remain unaffected by Drake’s transformation from man to monster.
Lords of the Isles Page 85
