Chapter 14
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 attend 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.