Chapter 9
My Dearest Lord Drake,
How odd you are traveling the world when I’ve hardly been anywhere at all. With this in mind, I packed up several dresses and provisions and took a very long journey about our Leeds estate. My parents raised a hue and cry when they discovered I’d gone missing. Needless to say, I have been punished and forbidden from going anywhere for the next five years. I say that seems a rather harsh sentence.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
In May of 1811, at the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro, Marshall Massena had retreated back to Spain to find Wellington had already effectively blockaded Almeida. Though Wellington had been surpassed in manpower, he’d outnumbered the French in artillery. With the French failure at Fuentes de Onoro, Massena had been unwilling to attack because of Wellington’s strong position. Subsequently, Wellington had made the assumption that the French army of Portugal had been sufficiently weakened and discounted his enemy. The end result had been Wellington’s retreat.
Both, Wellington and Drake, had learned something very important at Fuentes de Onoro—never underestimate one’s enemy.
In this case, it wasn’t an enemy per se…but an opponent, whom he happened to be betrothed to.
No place was safe from Lady Emmaline. There was no sanctuary. When staring down the inevitable face of defeat, the only logical option had been retreat.
Drake scanned Lord and Lady Wilcox’ ballroom for the woman who’d occupied his thoughts for the better part of the evening.
From the time their betrothal contract had been signed, Drake had tried his damnedest to avoid any interaction with Lady Emmaline. Instead, he’d relegated her to the role of un-aging child, thus preventing her from becoming a woman to whom he had obligations.
As a result, he knew next to nothing about her. He didn’t know her likes or dislikes. He didn’t know what made her laugh, what she read, or even if she enjoyed reading. He didn’t know if she had a personality. Until now.
Drake discovered Lady Emmaline was called Em by those closest to her. He learned her only real friend was Miss Sophie Winters. He noted Emmaline sat with Miss Winters at most events, smiling and chatting, all the while seeming oblivious to the pitying stares directed her way.
And she had a sense of humor. He thought about the note she’d sent round—the same note that had put an immediate end to his affair with the lovely Signora Valentina Nicolleli. Following the whole peculiar exchange with Emmaline, he would never have been able to carry on with the voluptuous mezzo-soprano without hearing his intended’s teasing voice.
Just then, Drake spied the brown coiffure of a young lady moving through a sea of guests. He held his breath, waiting for her to turn, then realized, upon closer inspection, that her hair did not possess the same deep chocolate hues.
“Are you looking for someone in particular, my lord?” An amused voice drawled over his shoulder.
He started, and swung around.
“Lady Emmaline.”
Emmaline expected to see vexation in her betrothed’s jade eyes, which is why she was struck breathless by the flash of amusement in their fathomless depths.
Her heart quickened.
“I was looking for someone, my lady.” He winked.
Winked! Oh, the insufferable bounder!
Emmaline’s heart resumed its normal cadence.
Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. She glanced around. “I see.” Her gaze locked on the imposing figure striding across the ballroom dance-floor. She cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps it is my brother?”
Drake groaned aloud as her brother, the Duke of Mallen, came to a stop before them. Sebastian’s foreboding black glare teemed with fury.
Sebastian bowed, the gesture a smidgeon shy of disrespect. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”
Drake returned the bow. “Your Grace,” he said flatly.
She studied them as they eyed one another like small boys fighting over the last pastry.
Over the years, she had learned there was no love lost between her betrothed and brother. She strongly suspected she was the cause of their animosity toward one another.
“Quite the surprise, seeing you with my sister.” A frosty bite underlined Sebastian’s words.
Emmaline wanted to groan at his less than subtle reprimand. Dead. She was going to kill him dead that evening.
Drake’s jaw clenched. “Why should it be a surprise? She is, after all, my betrothed.”
Sebastian’s hand landed with a resounding thud upon his chest. “Shocking you should even remember that detail.”
Drake’s shoulders stiffened. His gaze went positively glacial, and he gave a dismissive nod in her direction. “Not of late. If you’d paid attention to your sister’s goings-on, I think you would have noted we’ve been in each other’s company a great deal.” There was the slightest hint of something suggestive in Drake’s words that seemed to get Sebastian’s hackles up.
Sebastian took another step forward.
Emmaline placed a hand on his shoulder. “Lord Drake has requested the next set. Can you conclude this at a later time?” She removed her fingers and placed them on Drake’s sleeve. The hard muscles of his arm tightened convulsively beneath her touch, and he allowed Emmaline to lead him to the dance-floor.
The current partners were taking their places, and the thrum of the orchestra indicated they were to dance a waltz. Drake brusquely grabbed her hand. He set his other hand at her waist, all the while glaring down at her. “I didn’t need to be rescued from your brother,” he said.
She squared her chin. “What makes you believe I was rescuing you? Perhaps I did it for myself. Do you always believe everything revolves around you?”
His grip tightened on her waist and his words came out on a whisper she had to strain to hear. “I have known since I was a boy the obligations and responsibilities that belong to me as the heir of a dukedom. I do not believe the world revolves around me. I’m relatively powerless in this well-ordered world.”
A harsh sincerity underlined his words; it chilled Emmaline. Drake’s hard coiled muscles bunched tightly beneath the fine line of his expertly tailored black evening coat. “Have you ever considered… others… might feel the same?”
Those emerald eyes passed over her face, penetrating.
Emmaline did not give him an opportunity to respond. “Do you believe this is the life I want for myself? Do you believe I’d rather know this formal aloofness, than…?” love or passion? She bit her lip hard to keep from humiliating herself. Silence stretched between them punctuated by the strings of the orchestra’s violins.
Studying Emmaline’s emotion-laden eyes, Drake was humbled by a dawning realization—he hadn’t been the only one wronged by their childhood betrothal. How odd he’d spent the past fifteen years angry with her, when she’d been just as much the victim. They’d both been robbed of choice and chance and…destiny. Listening to the words she spoke, he found Emmaline, not unlike him, yearned for what he’d been searching for since he was a boy of thirteen—the power of choice.
It felt like he was seeing her for the first time. Truly seeing her. “What do you dream of?”
Emmaline’s gaze skittered off to a point beyond his shoulder. He studied her mouth; the way her teeth worried that plump, lower fleshy fold. She bit her lip when she was concentrating or when she was embarrassed. He found it, with no small measure of surprise, captivating.
She looked back at him. “This is the first time in my entire life anyone has asked me about my dreams and wishes. None of my family asked that question of me. Not even Sophie, my dearest friend in the world. It has seemed since I was a small girl, there was an understanding that I am the privileged daughter of a powerful duke, who wanted for nothing, and therefore could possibly have no need for anything.”
Her words were a mirror into his soul. “The world couldn’t have been more wrong could it, my lady?”
An ironic smile turned her lips. “No, it couldn’t. As silly as it was, I dreamt of more than a cold emotionless entanglement signed by my father to further grow our estates and riches.”
Somewhere along the path of life Emmaline had consigned herself to the obligations thrust upon her as a young, unmarried lady. He didn’t know why that thought should surprise him. Simply put, it was the way of their world. It seemed, however, at odds with the woman who would boldly challenge gentlemen with little regard for her safety.
Guiding her graceful form through the steps of the waltz, he came to find he shared a special connection with Emmaline. Though she’d been born a female, Emmaline’s life had not been very different from his. They were, in a way, kindred spirits.
It didn’t escape his notice that she’d failed to answer his earlier question.
“So then tell me, Emmaline. What do you wish for?” Her name slipped from his lips as easily as the next breath he took.
Emmaline’s gaze dropped to the simple folds of his snowy white cravat. “I want to be loved. I want a family of my own.” The words emerged haltingly.
“You want to be loved?” He couldn’t hold back the derisive question. The word love was so foreign to Society that there was something crass and vulgar in simply thinking it to oneself, let alone speaking it aloud.
Her body stiffened beneath his touch. A dull flush stained her cheeks. “Yes, my lord, I want to be loved.”
Drake’s lips twitched. “Ours is hardly a love match.”
Based on the hurt little expression she wore, he thought she might have preferred his laughter.
“Though we’d hardly know if it could be a love match,” she pointed out.
“If it is love and flowery poems you seek, my lady, be forewarned, you will not find it from me.”
She blinked several times. “You don’t believe in love?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
“So, you do believe in love?”
Drake arched a brow. The lady was persistent. “Though never the recipient of such an insipid emotion, I understand my parents were in love. So I do believe some people capable of it.”
Everyone in Society knew the history of Lord Drake’s mother. The Duchess of Hawkridge had died giving birth to her son. He’d never known his mother. Drake wondered if perhaps the absence of a maternal figure in his life had resulted in the jaded man he’d become. That, and the hellish things he’d done on the battlefield, of course.
A liveried servant at the edge of the dance-floor stumbled. His lofty tray of champagne flutes tilted, sending the crystal glasses tumbling to the floor. There were gasps of horror and shrieks of surprise as the guests on the side were sprayed with tiny bits of glass and French vintage champagne.
“Fire towards the ground,” Drake commanded. The 31st Regiment of Foot was low on artillery and had to improvise their canister shot with nails and scrap iron.
The lieutenant loaded the canister into the cannon and prepared to fire at the relentless French army on foot.
The canon failed.
The canister shot did not. The closed cylindrical metal canister intended for the advancing enemy troops skipped a path, twenty-five, thirty-yards, across the ground.
Then an explosion rent the world around them. Shrapnel flew. Men were screaming. His men were screaming…
“But you are not capable of it?” Emmaline’s question interrupted his momentary lapse in sanity.
Drake swallowed convulsively. He would never escape the war. His mind would forever remain on the bloody fields of battle.
“My lord?” she asked, confused eyes studying the lines of his face.
Drake forced himself to relax his tightly clenched jaw. Emmaline clearly couldn’t detect the hell that gripped him. Nor, for that matter, did she seem aware of the drama at the edge of the dance-floor.
“My lady, I’m not certain I’m capable of marriage.”
Emmaline blinked several times. “Well, of course you’ll marry. You have to marry me,” she blurted. Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “Uh, that is, I mean—” She dropped her gaze to his cravat.
Drake grinned. “Do I?” he teased. He applied a subtle pressure to where his hand gripped her waist, encouraging her to look at him. He found something soothing in her brown eyes. They reminded him of deep, rich Belgian chocolate warmed in the hot summer sun.
“So we’ve been told,” she muttered.
A bark of laughter escaped him. It came out rusty from ill use, and appeared to startle her.
She glanced up, their stares locked, and held.
Then she began to study his face. He knew the moment she noted the faint scar that started at his temple and traversed a parallel path to his jaw. Many of the women he’d bedded had assessed the mark with a kind of fascinated horror.
Emmaline reached up a hand as if to touch it, and then seemed to remember where they were. She drew her hand back but her gaze did not leave his scar.
Her interest triggered a vulnerability he’d thought dead. The sight of her; unsullied and pure and him, brutal and vile, made him feel like the devil dancing in church. She’d been untouched by hands of evil, when his had wrought death and destruction.
He waited for her to ask the blunt question most ladies of his acquaintance asked. A kind of perverted glee that they’d dared to touch a blood-thirsty warrior.
Except she didn’t ask the question, didn’t beg to know how he’d come by the mark.
She was different than any other woman he’d ever known…and it scared the hell out of him.
Damn her for making him feel things he didn’t want to feel. A little too forcefully, he angled her body close to his—closer than was fashionably appropriate.
“Do you look at all gentlemen like this?” he asked, his voice hard. His vulnerability robbed him of both reason and the more than twenty-eight years of gentlemanly behavior that had been ingrained into him.
“Like what?”
“Like you have wicked thoughts in your innocent head.”
Emmaline’s breath caught and she opened then shut her mouth several times, as if she were trying to formulate a suitable response to his insult. It would seem Emmaline could be flummoxed.
He was a complete and utter bastard.
And, as though Drake needed further affirmation of that truth, his mind traveled a path of silken kisses and seductive caresses. He became aware of the feel of her delicate waist under his hand. The fine satin russet gown did little to veil the warmth of her skin. He yearned to strip the fabric from her body and run explorative hands along her satiny flesh. He wanted to move his hand lower, tug her skirts up, and caress her.
Emmaline winced and he realized he’d unconsciously gripped her hand too tight. He flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax his hold. He studied her hand using it as a lifeline back from the path his mind had wandered.
Except…
They really were lovely fingers. He imagined them wrapped about his length, stroking, squeezing, teasing… His breath came hoarse. Where had that thought come from? But it was too late. The forbidden thoughts were there as he held her in his arms.
Had he thought her figureless? Her breasts, though not large, were the size of small, firm apples. God, if he didn’t have a taste for the forbidden fruit. Now he knew the trial Adam had been presented with in that garden of temptation, understood why he’d thrown away Paradise. The curve of her waist flared nicely under his fingers, and he wanted to reach lower, grasp her buttocks, and tug her to his center. Drake gave himself an invisible shake, reminding himself where in hell they were.
Emmaline licked her lower lip. “My lord?” she whispered.
Drake’s eyes fell to those full red lips that haunted his dreams and he dipped his head, a hairsbreadth from capturing them. He was going to kiss her, right there, in the midst of the dance-floor and he gave not one damn that every last peer present would bear witness.
“The dance has ended.” Emmaline brought Drake’s forbidden musings to a staggering halt. He became aware of the fact they were standing in the middle of an emptying dance-floor.
Drake’s body jerked and he set Emmaline from him as though he’d been speared with a bayonet. When had he looked at Emmaline and seen beauty instead of obligation and responsibility? His heart raced with panic.
He dipped a mocking bow and clapped his hands in a deriding fashion. “Brava, my girl. You have gotten what you wanted. How neatly you’ve inserted yourself into my life.” With that, he spun on his heel, and abandoned her amidst the emptied dance floor.
He truly was a bastard.