Chapter 2
My Dearest Lord Drake,
I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake weaved in and out of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.
He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.
“What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.
Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”
Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.
“Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”
Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in.”
“Sinclair?”
“Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”
Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”
Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”
Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.
Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”
Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.
Drake kicked him under the table.
“Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”
“My boots.”
“Why do—”
“Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”
“Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first water. She’s barely an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”
Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”
“Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.
Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”
“I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.
Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”
Drake forced himself to take a casual sip. He thought about his chance encounter with Lady Emmaline. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, hailed in the papers as some kind of war hero, he’d gone out of his way to avoid his betrothed. He’d been tied to Lady Emmaline for more than half of his life, and yet knew next to nothing about her. As much as he wanted to find out more about the intriguing creature, he was loathe to show any outward interest, even to his friend. Oh, the fun Sin would have at his expense. “I happened to come upon Lady Emmaline this afternoon.”
Sinclair arched a dark brow. “Oh?”
Since the moment Drake had witnessed Emmaline place herself between the old peddler woman and a gentleman’s riding crop, aside from concern for her well-being, he’d been unable to think of anything but his betrothed. Before that moment, if you’d asked him if a lady of Quality would ever risk her own safety for a common woman on the street, he’d have scoffed at the ludicrousness of such a notion. Now, the image of Lady Emmaline, like some kind of warrior princess defending her keep, would be an image forever emblazoned on his mind.
Drake shifted uncomfortably. “For the last time, what do you know about the lady?”
Sin shrugged. “I don’t know much about her.”
“Not much? You know next to everything about everyone.”
“I know she’s a wallflower.”
Drake sat back in his chair, flummoxed. “Impossible.” A woman whose eyes could blaze with such life while challenging two men could never be a wallflower. Wallflowers were content to be dull creatures seated on the sidelines, escaping any notice. They were not clever young ladies with cheeky retorts.
Sinclair leaned forward in his chair. “Oh?”
Drake’s skin heated. Good God, he couldn’t be embarrassed. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. No, surely it was just that his cravat was too tight. “I had an encounter with Lady Emmaline a short while ago.”
When Sinclair’s brows shot up to his hairline, Drake realized his words could be mistaken for something more lascivious in nature.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.
Like a babe looking for a story from his nursemaid, Sin propped his arms on the table and stared at Drake with impatient eyes.
Drake sighed, and then proceeded to recount the events he’d witnessed. When he concluded his story, Sin sat back heavily in his chair, with arms folded across his chest. “Humph.”
“That’s it? Just ‘humph’?”
Sinclair raised one brow. “What would you have me say? Sounds like a rather dangerous thing for the lady to do.”
Discounting the fact that Drake had the very same reaction with Lady Emmaline, he took a long swallow of whiskey. “You are missing the point, Sin.”
“Oh? And what is the point?”
Drake dragged a hand through his hair. Was the point that his betrothed had bewildered him? Or was the point that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment he’d seen her challenging Whitmore and his crony?
The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the past three years, he’d forced thoughts of Lady Emmaline from his mind. He’d ignored the contract between them. If he’d returned from the Peninsula as the same man he’d been before the war, fulfilling his duty to her would have been somewhat easier. Not palatable but an obligation he would have fulfilled, nonetheless.
“If you admire her, perhaps you should claim her.”
Drake grunted.
Sin raised his tumbler in mock salute. “I imagine marriage based on mutual admiration is a good deal more than most unions are built from.”
Drake thought about his feisty intended, her eyes sparkling with flashes of defiance and courage, her rose hued lips made for sinning, pursed tight with fury. He silently tacked desire to Sin’s components of a successful marriage.
Drake picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. At this rate, he’d be drunk before supper. “There is no mutual admiration.”
His friend scoffed. “No? Are you really so modest to believe she couldn’t admire you?”
Drake set his tumbler down hard enough to rattle the table. “For what? I’m…”
A madman. A monster. A beast. If he were less of a coward he’d come right out and share the truth with Sinclair. Consumed by restive energy, his gaze skimmed the club. Some gentlemen laughed uproariously while others chatted with friends and acquaintances. Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been at ease around other people, too.
Sin didn’t press his line of questioning, and for that Drake was grateful. Instead, his friend reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. Then, he leaned over and filled Drake’s glass. “I’m assuming it was quite a sight seeing Lady Emmaline challenge a gentleman.” He paused. “As much as one can consider Whitmore a gentleman.”
Drake smiled and toyed with the rim of his glass. “I thought I could no longer be surprised by a woman. I learned otherwise, today.”
“Sounds like marriage to the lady might not be the worst of fates.”
Drake made an impatient sound. “Marriage to me isn’t in her best interest.”
“You are the most honorable man I know,” Sin said.
There it was again. That word he loathed with every fiber of his honorable being. Emmaline had described his actions as honorable, had looked at him as some kind of hero. He managed a half grin for his friend. “That isn’t saying much about the men you know.
Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”
Great. First his father, now his best friend.
But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.
He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”
Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”
Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.
Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?