Chapter 11
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 far-away 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.”