Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

Sinclair sputtered around a mouthful of whiskey. “Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? As in the same young lady you were betrothed to as a child? The same lady you ran off to war to avoid? The same—”

  His hackles went up. “I believe you’ve made your point.”

  Sin shook his head. “I don’t think I have. After years upon years of complaining about Lady Emmaline, you choose to court her now that she has cut you loose?”

  Drake was well aware that courting Emmaline now, after she’d broken off their betrothal, would be met by Society with derision and speculation. The ton only knew Drake to be consumed by his own pursuit of pleasure. What they didn’t know, what he’d kept carefully concealed, was the madness he battled.

  Sin sighed. “So when is this courtship to ensue?”

  Drake shook his head. “Not right now. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Soon.”

  Sinclair tapped the edges of his chair.

  The rhythmic sound grated until Drake snapped. “You must have something to say.”

  “I’m certain Mallen won’t go for it.”

  Drake gazed into the depths of his drink wishing he could divine the answers within the swirling amber liquid. “No, no, that is a certainty.”

  Sin leaned forward in his chair. “What makes you certain the lady will be amiable to your suit?”

  Recent memories of last evening’s waltz filled him. He could still feel the heat of her skin, still see the smile playing on her lush, seductive red lips, hear her laughter. “Last evening at the Thompson ball—”

  Sin slashed the air with his hand. “Yes, yes. I heard all about the Thompson ball. Anyone who is anyone has, in fact. A waltz, however, does not a courtship make.” He inched again to the edge of his seat. “As much as I want to see you happy, I don’t want to see you hurt again by Lady Emmaline.”

  Drake tossed back the contents of his glass and growled. He didn’t like the way Sin was pinning the state of his unhappiness on Emmaline. “I was the one responsible for Emmaline’s decision to sever the betrothal. Not the young lady.”

  Sin cradled his drink between his hands, studying Drake over the edge of the glass. “I understand the lady is entitled to her sense of injury. You, however, are my main concern. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve known enough hurt.”

  “You’re mothering me, Sin.”

  Sin bristled. “Well, you are in desperate need of mothering.”

  Drake glanced at a point just over Sinclair’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. How could Sin ever know that the ache of losing Emmaline was far greater than any physical pain? “I need her.”

  Sin didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Do you…love her?” The word came out halting. Men didn’t speak of these things.

  Drake grimaced. There it was again. That question. Did he love her?

  “I don’t know.”

  Sin held up his tumbler in mock salute. “You’d better have more of an answer for the lady than that.”

  “I will not lie to her. I want there to be honesty between us.”

  His friend snorted. “Trust me, when presented with the choice of honesty or love, a lady will always choose love.”

  In spite of his friend’s words, Drake had already made up his mind to share with Emmaline the demons that had held him back. He’d confess to her about the affliction that had haunted him since he’d returned from war. He would, as his father suggested, allow her to decide for herself if it was too much of an albatross.

  Still the idea that she might reject him…sweat popped up on his brow. What if it were too much for her? What if she wisely decided he was not worth it?

  After all, what had he brought her other than heartache?

  “What is it you require of me?” Sinclair asked, his tone, uncharacteristically sober. “You know I will do anything to help you.”

  Drake reached down and stroked Sir Faithful between the ears. “I need guidance on how to woo a lady.” He sat up and then fished around his front pocket. Drake stared at the parchment a moment and then handed it over to Sinclair.

  Sin laughed and accepted the parchment. “And you think I might be able to help you? You, the one recognized throughout Society as being an expert with matrons and debutantes alike?”

  Drake shifted in his seat. “That is a gross exaggeration.” He nodded to the paper in Sin’s hands.

  Sin glanced down at the heavily marked sheet with extensive cross-outs and too much ink. His brow furrowed.

  “It’s a poem.”

  “Uh, yes, I see that,” Sin said.

  Drake snatched the sheet back and proceeded to study it. “It’s rubbish.”

  “I take it the poem is for Lady Emmaline?”

  It didn’t escape Drake’s notice that his friend didn’t counter his statement about the quality of the poem.

  Drake set the paper aside. “No, it’s for Mallen. Of course it’s for Emmaline.”

  Sinclair laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

  “So glad you’re amused,” Drake muttered. “Emmaline wanted to be courted. She deserves to be courted.” His eyes went to the impressive bouquet of flowers he’d had delivered earlier that afternoon…to himself. They rested on his desktop, or rather they sat wilting on his desktop.

  Sinclair followed the direction of Drake’s stare. “Uh, they’ve begun to wilt.”

  “Yes, yes they have.”

  Drake had spent last evening and the better part of the morning laboring over a poem. Then, he’d ordered the flowers. He looked over at the buds again. The dying flowers. The poem, though rubbish, was finally complete. Who’d have figured it would be so bloody difficult to put words to paper?

  Sin cleared his throat. “So when you said you intended to court Lady Emmaline, just not today or tomorrow…that wasn’t altogether true.”

  Drake surged from his chair and strode across the room. He shoved back the damask curtains and stared out the window into the dark night sky.

  “I don’t know how to take the step,” he said.

  Sin’s visage reflected back in the glass pane. He remained seated. “You just…do it, Drake. You tell your brain to tell your feet to move one at a time, and march up Mallen’s steps, and demand to see Emmaline. Then you read her your poem.” He picked up the poem in question and grimaced. “Well, maybe not this one, per se.”

  Drake pressed his forehead against the cool window.

  Could it be that simple? He glanced over his shoulder at the bouquet of cerastium and the poem still held in Sinclair’s hand.

  He’d fought a bloody war…how hard could this be? In one of her notes to him, one of the notes that had never been sent, she’d called herself a coward, but it was he who was the coward.

  He picked up the dreary looking flowers from his desk.

  “You can’t go now,” Sinclair stuttered.

  Drake paused. “Whyever not?”

  Sinclair blinked several times. His eyes landed on the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantle. “It is nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Mallen is hosting an intimate dinner party with Waxham. Whyever not, indeed?”

  A fiery pit of jealousy flared in Drake’s stomach. “Waxham, you say? Why, then I can’t think of a better time to pay a visit.”

  “Mallen’s going to give you hell,” Sin predicted with a grin.

  Drake smiled. “She’s worth it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of his office. Sir Faithful gave a yap of approval.

  Sin hurried after him. “Rude leaving your friend and all. Perhaps you’d like some company along the way? Just to make certain you’ve thought through everything you are going to say when you interrupt the duke’s intimate dinner party.”

  Drake growled low in his throat. “Stop calling it an intimate dinner party.” Intimate was the last word he wanted to come to mind when thinking of Waxham and Emmaline.

  He flung back the front door and marched down the steps. Sin trailed after him.

  “Not the th
ing, opening your own doors, you know. Your first order of business really should have been to set up at least a butler and housekeeper. Oh, and of course a chef. Not one of those French fellows that seem all the rage—”

  Drake paused mid-stride.

  It took a moment before Sin, who’d been prattling on, took note. He looked over his shoulder. “Have you forgotten something? Changed your mind?”

  “You do know the last thing on my mind right now is assembling a staff for my new residence? You, of course, remember I am heading out to humble myself before the lady who severed our betrothal?”

  “Yes, yes,” Sin paused. “In the middle of Mallen’s intimate dinner with Waxham.”

  He growled. “Stop referring to it as…”

  “I know, I know, an intimate dinner party. Really, you must do your best to hide that nasty sneer when you march into Mallen’s. It will neither win you the lady nor make you a fast friend of the duke.”

  “I am not looking to make friends with Mallen.”

  Sin quirked a brow. “I might remind you that you require Mallen’s approval just as much as your require the lady’s approval.”

  Damn, he hated it when Sin was right. Which meant Drake needed to win over both Emmaline and the foul-tempered Duke of Mallen. He didn’t know which was going to be a greater challenge. And he only had a matter of moments to settle on a course of action.

  Sin cleared his throat and motioned to the townhouse in front of them. “Here we are.”

  Drake stared up at the white façade. “Already?”

  “Already.”

  Apparently, he’d run out of time to develop a proper plan of attack to win over Emmaline and Mallen.

  Drake stood rooted to the pavement, and continued to stare up at the elegant white townhouse, its windows aglow with soft candlelight. He recalled marching up the very same steps as a boy filled with anxiety. He’d been terrified at the prospect of seeing his betrothed. It would appear, in fifteen years, not much had changed in that regard. Only now he feared rejection at her hands.

  He glanced down at the sorely wilted bouquet in his hands, and froze. With his free hand, he frantically felt around his jacket.

  His frenzied search was met with a beleaguered sigh from Sin, who brandished a scrap of paper and waved it about. “Here it is. I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about the poem.”

  Drake took it with a word of thanks, rereading through the terrible attempt. He grimaced. It really was quite horrendous.

  “Ahem,” Sin cleared his throat. “I said, ah—”

  “I heard you,” Drake bit out. He continued to stand there.

  Sin tapped a finger to his chin. “I suppose you could always wait until tomorrow, say after the intimate d—”

  Without a word, Drake abandoned his friend to the pavement and took the stone steps two at a time.

  He’d be damned if he heard the words intimate dinner party one more time.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dearest Lord Drake,

  We returned to the countryside. My brother’s friend Waxham joined us. He devoted an entire morning to helping me clear the weeds from a bed of flowers. I teased Sebastian, telling him I wish Waxham were my brother instead of him.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  With sightless eyes, Emmaline stared down at the carrot and ginger soup placed in front of her. She raised her spoon and absently stirred the parsley sprigs. What an odd soup. Who would have thought to cream carrots and…

  “My lady?”

  She started and dropped her spoon into the fine porcelain bowl. Liquid splattered the tablecloth made of Spanish lace. Apparently the gentleman had asked her a question.

  What did he say? What did he say?

  Sebastian drummed his fingers on the tabletop and glared at her. “Emmaline, Waxham asked you a question.”

  Emmaline fished out the utensil, her gaze fixed on the bowl. Heat stained her neck and flooded her cheeks.

  A replacement was quickly brought forward. She cleared her throat and looked over at Waxham. “My apologies, Lord Waxham, I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”

  Waxham favored her with a rueful smile that said he knew she’d been woolgathering. “How was your visit to the hospital?”

  She took a sip of broth. “The soldiers are always full of such stories. In spite of what they’ve seen and done, they still are capable of great laughter.”

  “How could they not be joyful when you are around, my lady?”

  Why couldn’t Waxham be enough? She’d known him nearly her entire life. He’d toiled alongside her many a summer’s morn in her garden. He knew her likes and dislikes. So that should be enough? But it wasn’t. She wanted the grand passion she knew with Drake. She wanted…wanted…him—the man she’d been betrothed to since she’d been a child. Would it always be this way?

  “Perhaps I might join you on a visit?” Waxham’s words pulled the cloud she’d been floating on from under her, and she tumbled back to reality.

  The immediate answer that sprung to her lips, which she tamped down, was an emphatic, resounding, no. The soldiers would be livid if this interloper encroached upon Captain Drake’s territory. “Uh-I…”

  She dropped her spoon for the second time.

  Sebastian caught her gaze and glowered at her. “That would be lovely, is the proper response,” he said.

  Emmaline accepted yet another utensil, awash with panic.

  “Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Emmaline?” Her mother interjected from the head of the table.

  She saw the hard determination in Sebastian’s eyes. Noted the silent entreaty in her mother’s stare. Observed Waxham’s hopeful expression. Suddenly the cloying hands of pressure tightened around her throat. Breathing became difficult. Her whole life she’d been inundated with the wants and desires of everyone else. Since the moment she was born, it had never been about her. Her wishes and hopes had never once been considered.

  They might not be aware of it, but Sebastian and her mother had continued to place stringent expectations upon her shoulders, even after the severance of her betrothal.

  “That would be—”

  A commotion sounded beyond the closed door and the butler, Carmichael’s shout filled the hallway and filtered into the dining room. “You must not go in there. I have told you His Grace is not receiving.”

  The doors flew open with such force that they bounced hard and hit the plaster of the wall. “I am not here to see His Grace.”

  At sight of the imposing, virile figure in the doorway, Emmaline’s spoon clattered again, and this time it plummeted to the floor. She froze. All the breath expelled from her lungs.

  Sebastian leapt to his feet. “What is this about, Drake?”

  Her mother sat back in her seat and with a wide-eyed stare, took in the tableau.

  Drake ignored Sebastian and held up a staying hand as if to stifle her brother’s next words. Then, Drake’s hot, jade gaze found hers, and caressed her like a physical touch.

  She forgot everyone else in the room. Oh, God, he was here. He was, wasn’t he? Surely she wasn’t dreaming? Just to be sure, she snuck a hand under the table and gave her leg a little pinch.

  No, this was real. Very real. The possessive gleam in his eyes heated her like a hot summer sun. Her entire life, she’d longed for him to look at her as he did now; as though she were the only person in the world.

  “You owe me a picnic.” There was something faintly accusatory in his tone.

  Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Emmaline. She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged. She closed it and tried again. Nothing. She shook her head.

  “What’s the meaning of this? What is he talking about?”

  Emmaline ignored Sebastian’s angry questions.

  Her brother in turn directed his attention to Drake. “My sister owes you nothing.”

  An immoveable wall of indifference and coolness, the Marquess of Drake kept a narrowed stare fixed on Emmaline.

/>   Emmaline forced her suspicion out past dry lips. “You lied. You finished Glenarvon first, didn’t you?”

  Drake’s lips twitched. “Why am I not surprised you know that, Emmaline?”

  “Do not call my sister by her given name,” Sebastian said.

  Drake took a step forward. “Do you know why you were a wallflower?”

  A flood of humiliated heat warmed her cheeks, her chest hitched with pain.

  Sebastian kicked his chair backwards with such force it tumbled to the floor. “By God, I will kill you.”

  “Sebastian, no,” her mother cried.

  Waxham reached a hand out to capture Emmaline’s. He gave it a faint, reassuring squeeze.

  Drake’s eyes dropped to where her hand rested, entwined with Waxham’s. “I asked you a question, Emmaline.”

  With alacrity in his movements, her brother advanced angrily around the long, wide dining table. “Do not make demands of my sister.”

  A bitter little laugh escaped her. “I’m sure you will tell me, my lord.”

  Drake moved across the room, closer to her. “Look at me,” he ordered in his Captain’s tone.

  Emmaline lifted her chin and met his stare.

  Drake’s throat bobbed up and down. “Because of me. It’s because of me that you sat on the bloody sidelines. You are beautiful. And you are vibrant…and the only reason gentlemen didn’t flock to your side was because of me.” His resounding words carried throughout the room and echoed off the walls.

  Emmaline had fallen in love with Lord Drake two times in her life: one being when he’d rescued an old peddler woman on the street, the other being this very moment.

  He devoured her with his eyes. “You are beautiful. In every way. I’ve never deserved you. I never will. Still knowing that, I have come to ask if I might court you?”

  She gasped and dropped Waxham’s hand.

  “No,” Sebastian barked.

  Drake continued to hold up a single finger to keep an enraged Sebastian in his place.

  Emmaline’s gaze fell to the bouquet of cerastium Drake held. Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them back.

  Drake saw the direction of her focus. “These are for you.”

  “The poor buds have wilted significantly,” she blurted.