Chapter 6
Dearest Lord Drake,
My brother has been most stringently critiquing my efforts at painting. He has informed me of the following: I’m terrible at watercolor, awful with pastels, and deplorable with oils. I’ve taken to addressing him as Your Grace. To my amusement, it annoys him quite a bit.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
Drake sputtered around another mouthful of red velvet curtains as Lady Emmaline made her dramatic exit from his opera box. Cursing under his breath, he violently slammed the drapes down, back into place.
He wanted to throttle her. Nay, he was going to throttle her. He counted to three. When he still felt the same way, he counted to ten, and because he couldn’t direct his anger at Lady Emmaline, who’d since taken her leave, he leveled a black glare at Sin, whose broad smile indicated he was far too amused by the turn of events.
“Stuff it,” Drake said.
Sin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“This does not bode well.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Sin concurred.
With the intrusive eyes of the ton on them, Drake and Sin could not comfortably escape the theatre without Society taking note. To do so would only fuel gossip about what had transpired in the box, which would result in a lengthy write up in the gossip columns.
They reclaimed their seats.
Drake fixed his gaze on the stage below. He’d be damned if he fed any more into the rabid curiosity of the ton who continued to stare at him.
The little termagant. How dare she corner him in his box, and call him out for his behavior? They were not married. It made his cravat tighten painfully around his neck just imagining what married life would be like with Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh. Over the years he’d avoided run-ins with his betrothed. He’d taken deliberate pleasure in refusing to attend any and every formal function his father had requested he attend. The last event he’d gone to at his father’s entreaty had been more than seven years ago, when Emmaline had been a bright-eyed girl.
Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.
This evening had proved, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.
He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had that detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.
His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.
The meddling gazes of the ton swiveled his way.
Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”
“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.
His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.
He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the over-flowing Royal Opera House. The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.
“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”
Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.
He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.
He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.
Christ, where had that thought come from? He gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” He acknowledged with a sheepish smile.
Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.
Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.