Chapter 28
Dearest Lord Drake,
I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake strode down St. James Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.
News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.
The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.
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.