Chapter 33
My Dearest Drake,
This will be the last letter I write. It is time for us to meet again.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Emmaline had hoped with a night of rest that upon waking Sebastian would be amenable to her picnicking with Drake. Standing before her brother’s desk, eyeing his stiffly held form, she now realized she’d been foolishly optimistic.
Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and glared. “I said no.”
Emmaline managed a smile. “That seems to be your new favorite phrase.”
He dropped his pen on his desktop.
Perhaps sarcasm was not her best tactic. “It is merely a picnic,” she reasoned. “There is nothing scandalous about a picnic. Why they are all the rage—”
His snort interrupted her rational explanation. “There is everything scandalous about a picnic when,” he proceeded to tick off on his fingers. “One it is with your former betrothed, two, you throw over a fine, respectable gentleman for—”
Emmaline gasped and marched across the room. “How dare you. I did not throw over Waxham. You were the one attempting to bring us together.”
A telltale vein pulsated along the edge of his temple, indicating he was doing everything within his power to maintain his self-control. “Drake isn’t worth ten Waxham’s.”
Attempting to diffuse the palpable tension emanating from his rigid form, Emmaline sighed. “I will not debate Drake’s worth with you. I love him and more than anything right now, I want to join him in on a picnic. So can’t you please, smile at me, pat me on the head, and tell me to go and have a good time? It is not marriage he is asking for.” Yet. Hopefully in time. “It is a picnic. That is it. Nothing more.”
Sebastian raked a hand through his blonde strands. “Can I think on it?”
“What is there to think about?”
He slashed the air with an agitated hand. “I’m already exerting all my ducal influence to silence as many whispers and speculations as I can. I know you’re unaware of the very public censure your actions have earned, but Mother and I are doing our best to save your reputation.”
A laugh burbled up from her throat, and spilled past her lips. “Really, Sebastian. You are making far more of it than—” He slammed a powerful fist onto the mahogany desk with a resounding boom. Emmaline jumped.
“Are you really so unaware of how you are being perceived by the ton? They say you are fickle. You broke off your betrothal, then allowed Waxham to pay serious court.”
“It is your fault—”
“For the love of God, do not say one more time that what happened with Waxham is my fault,” he bellowed and then took a calming breath. When he spoke, his words emerged more even. “Waxham cares for you, Emmaline.”
All this time she’d assumed Waxham’s interest had been borne of nothing other than the connection they shared through Sebastian. A twinge of remorse ravaged her already guilty conscience.
Sebastian groaned. “Damn it, please don’t give me that sad little look.”
Her chin quavered. “I’m not giving you a sad little—”
“Yes you are. It’s the same one you’ve turned on me since you were a small girl. I’m powerless against it.”
She hadn’t even known she’d had any such look. But since he seemed very aware of it she quietly pressed her advantage. “Please send me on my picnic outing with Lord Drake with your blessings.”
Sebastian cursed softly, obviously noting that he’d tipped his hand. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, agitated. “Fine. The picnic. But do not any time soon, expect me to honor anything else more serious than a picnic.”
Emmaline crossed over to his chair. Bending down, she placed a kiss on his cheek. She gave her words all the solemnity she could muster. “It’s just a picnic.”
“When is this picnic going to take place,” he mumbled clearly uncomfortable with her sisterly show of emotion.
“Uh—”
Someone tapped a perfunctory knock at the door.
“Enter,” Sebastian called, his expression indicating his annoyance at the interruption.
The butler stood framed in the doorway and bowed respectfully. “The Marquess of Drake awaits my lady in the foyer to escort her on,” he wrinkled his nose, “a picnic.”
Sebastian’s narrowed gaze pinned her to the rug. Carmichael scurried off. “A picnic today. Imagine that. Drake must have amazing hearing and speed to have heard my consent.”
Emmaline shifted on her feet, having the sense not to speak.
“What say you, sister?”
She nodded. “His hearing is rather impressive. I shall be off.” Turning on her heel, she tossed a wave over her shoulder.
“Remember just a picnic, Em. That is all I’m consenting to.”
In spite of Sebastian’s earlier protests, Emmaline had been victorious—she had gotten her picnic. Her maid, Grace trailed behind her and Drake as they made their way through Hyde Park. There was something thrilling about turning out the victor in a losing argument against the Duke of Mallen.
“I don’t know what to make of that mischievous smile, sweet.”
“Perhaps I’m just happy,” Emmaline said.
Drake snapped out a blanket and Sir Faithful playfully grabbed a corner and shook it with his teeth. “I know your just-happy smile. That was not it.”
Her maid, Grace, rushed forward to assist with the blanket, but Emmaline waved her off. “Grace, I assure you, Lord Drake can handle both Sir Faithful and seeing to the blanket. Why don’t you take a short walk?” It was more an order than request.
Her words were met with a loud rip.
“Cease,” Drake commanded and the dog immediately sat, and bowed his head.
Grace shot a skeptical look from Drake to Sir Faithful. “As you wish, my lady.”
Sir Faithful made one last attempt at tugging the corner of the blanket, but Drake snapped the palm of his hand to the side of his thigh and the dog, dutifully sat at his master’s heels, watching expectantly as Drake set the basket down upon the blanket and helped Emmaline to the ground.
“He is a troublesome little thing, isn’t he?” She scratched the sensitive spot along the bridge of Sir Faithful’s nose.
“Not very little anymore, either.” Drake looked at the rapidly growing mutt. “He is, however, true to his name. I would have thought you would find me a pug or Shetland sheepdog,” he teased.
Emmaline laughed. “A Shetland sheepdog would have been just the thing. Though after reflecting on the fact you had no sheep, I decided Sir Faithful would do nicely.”
He waggled his brows. “Not yet. Perhaps the sheep will come later. How do you feel about becoming the wife of a sheep farmer?”
The image of Drake galloping about the countryside with a Shetland sheepdog, herding a flock of sheep about, was just so ludicrous that she laughed until she developed a stitch in her side.
Then she processed what he’d said.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m dreaming.”
The blanket rustled as he sat down beside her. “You are so beautiful,” he said. There could be no question of the quiet sincerity of his words.
Never, ever in her life had she before felt beautiful—until that moment. He made her believe she was more than just tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled her.
“Do you know where I found Sir Faithful?”
Drake scratched the dog under his belly and waited for her answer.
“I visit the soldiers at London Hospital each week. There is a black dog who lives there and wanders the halls. No one is certain what line of dog she is. The soldiers named her Alice. A few months ago, Alice disappeared for three days. For three whole days, the soldiers and nurses were devastated, no one knowing what had happened to the dog. But she returned, and it wasn’t long until we realized she was with pups. Sir Faithful is one of those pups.” Sir Faithful licked her hand once, twice, and a third time.
“It really should come as no surprise to me that you give your time at the hospital.”
Emmaline shifted under the uncomfortable weight of his praise and gave a tiny shrug in response. “It is not a chore to visit the men. Seeing them fills me with great joy.” She’d always looked forward to sitting with the soldiers who’d courageously dedicated their lives, who’d risked their physical safety for such a noble cause.
“I imagine you bring them great joy as well.” Drake opened the wicker basket and pulled out a thick loaf of bread neatly wrapped in a cloth, along with sliced cheese, and plump red strawberries. He began arranging a dish for her.
Emmaline rested her chin atop her knees and studied his movements. There was something beautifully domestic about his simple actions. She accepted the plate he held out to her with a murmur of thanks. Picking up a piece of bread from her plate, she nibbled at the corner and continued to watch him.
After the way he’d barged in on her brother’s dinner party, she’d been at a loss to understand what exactly was her relationship with Drake. The corner of her heart, where she’d buried the dream of being his wife, stirred to life. A man could not humble himself as Drake had in front of her brother, mother, and Lord Waxham, baring his most intimate thoughts, if marriage was not his intention?
Drake plucked a strawberry. He made to pop it into his mouth.
“When you imagine the future, do you see me as your wife?”
For an infinitesimal moment, he paused, before he finally ate the red berry.
A long stretch of silence met her question.
The fine linen of his shirt did little to conceal the heat of his mother’s emerald and diamond ring, warm against his chest. Since the moment he’d decided to ask Emmaline to wed him, he’d rehearsed any number of poetic, appropriate speeches, grimacing at the lackluster attempts. However, even the paltry efforts he’d managed, fled.
Drake jumped up and began to pace.
Emmaline cocked her head. “Drake?”
“Hmm?” He continued his path. Back and forth. With as close as he’d come to losing her, Drake would imagine he should have found if not the perfect words, then something suitable.
“Are you all right?”
“Uh-, I…fine. Fine.” He stopped abruptly in front of her. With a jerky movement, he leaned down and tugged Emmaline upright.
She pitched forward landing hard against his side. “Oomph.”
Emmaline pulled back and eyed him with a healthy dose of concern. “Uh-are we done with the picnic?”
Drake directed his eyes skyward. He needed Cupid’s intervention to salvage this sorry, sorry proposal.
Sir Faithful chose that moment to sidle over on his belly, effectively wedging himself between Drake and Emmaline.
Apparently Cupid was otherwise busy.
“The moon is in the sky…”
Emmaline looked up in confusion, and shielded her eyes against the glaring sun high in the cloudless blue sky. “It is? Where?”
“Uh-no, not now. That is to say, it is not in the sky at this precise moment. What I intended to say is…” A black curse fell from his lips. Mayhap Sin was right and he should forget all the nonsense with poetry.
Emmaline’s eyes widened the size of saucers.
This was certainly not a proposal for the ages. Frustrated with the debacle he was making out of the moment, he dragged a hand through his hair. “My apologies,” he muttered. “What I meant to say is—”
Except those words also eluded him and Drake was once again left with a dry mouth and incoherent thoughts. Who would have imagined he, the otherwise unflappable Marquess of Drake, should find himself bumbling his way through a marriage proposal?
“I need to speak to you about the day your father died.” He winced. Hardly the stuff a young lady preferred to hear when a gentleman was asking for her hand. Maybe he should go back to the stuff about the moon and the stars.
“Drake?”
Suddenly the prospect of facing down a line of French soldiers seemed vastly less terrifying than sharing the truth with Emmaline and risking rejection at her hands.
Emmaline slid her hand into his and from the gentle squeeze she gave, found strength and courage. “I don’t want to dwell on the past. I—”
As tempted as he was to bury the story that had haunted him since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he would not be able forgive himself if he withheld this truth from her. “No. I need to have out with it.” He drew in a deep fortifying breath. “I was coming to see you. I need you to know that.” The words were guttural, wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. “I became used to walking during the war. When I returned, I walked everywhere. I was coming to your residence that morning. There was a carriage accident. A broken axle, I suspect. I heard shouts and cries. Something happened to me in that moment. I forgot where I was. I came to hours later, in an alley, not knowing what had happened. That is why I did not go to you the day your father died. And I am sorrier for that than you can ever know.”
The only indication Emmaline had heard his confession was the subtle pressure she applied to his hand interlocked with hers. Time crept by. He awaited her rejection, her pity, and what was more, he would understand that rejection.
Her eyes flitted back and forth across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His words emerged on a hoarse whisper. “How could I have shared that with a young lady I barely knew?”
Emmaline rocked back on her heels. “I thought it was because of me. I thought you didn’t want to see me.” It seemed those words were directed more to herself. “I thought…” She shook her head and gave him a sad little smile. “To think, I took your absence as a personal slight. I believed you were too engrossed with your own merriment, that you couldn’t take time to pay your respects. How odd, to now know, you needed me just as much as I needed you.
Drake stared at a point over the crown of her hair. He inhaled the faint scent of lemons, which always clung to her. It represented purity and filled his senses with the heady aphrodisiac of hope. “How many what ifs there are. What if you had sent your letters? What if I had written you? What if I had shown up and paid my respects the day your father passed away? What would our life be like at this moment?”
The amount of regret he carried seemed enough to fill the Thames River.
But he had to tell her the whole of it. He could not offer her marriage without the truth laid out between them. Even if the truth could cost him—her.
“I still have nightmares…and as you witnessed, the episodes.” He studied his hands a moment. “They come less frequently than when I first returned from the Peninsula, but they are still there. I…” He swallowed. “Fear the war turned me into a madman. The day I visited you in your garden, I put my hands on you and it almost killed me. I cannot make you my wife, without you knowing everything there is to know.”
She reached a tremulous hand out and with a fleeting caress, stroked his tense jaw. “I wrote you a note. It was about a dream I’d had. The war was over—”
“I was wandering about a field, lost.”
“I wrote, if you are lost—’”
“I will help you.” He finished and felt his throat bob up and down under the force of his emotion.
Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.
“I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.
Drake pressed his forehead against hers.
He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”
Emmaline leaned up on tiptoes and held his gaze. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”
Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”
Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted.
A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”
Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.
Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.
“Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”