Chapter 10
Dearest Lord Drake,
I have begun keeping a journal on your efforts on the Peninsula. I am amazed by your bravery and courage. It is an honor being betrothed to such a noble man.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
“What was that about?”
Emmaline started even as Sophie reached out and gripped her arm. She gave silent thanks as her friend steered her from the dance-floor.
Words lodged in Emmaline’s throat. She feared with one wrong word uttered, she might splinter into a thousand shards across the ballroom floor, and disintegrate beneath the heels of the lords and ladies witnessing her humiliation. How, in a matter of minutes had she gone from feeling a sense of connection with Drake to being the recipient of his condescending ire?
She told herself not to look for him, but for the life of her couldn’t prevent her gaze from searching the crowd for a hint of him. It wasn’t difficult to locate his tall, strong figure in the crowded ballroom.
And then wished she hadn’t.
He stood beside a stunningly beautiful woman with midnight black curls artfully arranged in an elegant upsweep. One loose strand, twisted in a clever curl, gave the illusion the silken waves could tumble free at any moment.
A pained sound lodged in Emmaline’s throat. If she couldn’t have been born with the preferred fair coloring, couldn’t she have at least had the other woman’s splendid locks? How terribly unfair.
The woman was none other than Lady Smythe, a notorious widow. In Emmaline’s estimation, Lady Smythe was far too young and far too beautiful to be a widow. Widows were supposed to be old harridans in a perpetual state of sorrow. They were not meant to be clad in indecent dark sapphire gowns with an overlay of French lace, cut scandalously low and displaying an abundant décolletage. And they most certainly were not supposed to have that décolletage one small breath away from exposure.
As if ample attention wasn’t being drawn to her ample endowments, an enormous teardrop sapphire necklace encircled her neck. It was cut in a teardrop design and provocatively pointed down to those attributes. Lady Smythe snapped a fan open and fluttered it flirtatiously in front of her mouth, obscuring her rouged lips from the tons interested eyes. If possible, the lady sidled even closer. She layered her form indecently against Drake. He dipped his head down, and the woman tilted her head up, whispering something.
Then he laughed.
Even with the span of the dance-floor separating them, the deep, rich sound reached Emmaline’s ears. She thought his laughter should have cut her to the quick and braced for the additional bite of pain.
It didn’t come.
During the waltz they’d shared, Emmaline had experienced Drake’s laughter. It had startled both of them. That laugh he’d been unable to contain during their set was different from the practiced one she heard now. The one he spared for the lovely creature at his side was disingenuous and Emmaline found that somehow—soothing.
Drake reached for a flute of champagne from a passing servant.
Seeming to feel Emmaline’s stare, he looked directly at her with a veiled, faintly mocking expression. He raised his glass in her direction and downed the contents, before he again directed his attention to Lady Smythe.
The earlier solace she’d found was crushed in his deliberate attempt to humiliate her. This time, Emmaline couldn’t stifle the ball of anguish that crept steadily up her throat, the pain so overwhelmingly sharp it nearly choked her. She could feel the lords and ladies gawking at her, the snickering harpies, the pitying looks. Suddenly it was too much.
“Get me out,” Emmaline pleaded, fumbling for Sophie’s hand. If she didn’t leave, she thought she would crumple in a heap. How the ton would love that. She wouldn’t give them, or him, the satisfaction.
“Hush, silly! We hardly need His Lordship thinking he’s won this battle.” Sophie’s stern reprimand steadied Emmaline.
“They are watching me,” Emmaline whispered. She stole a quick peek around and noted the stares directed her way.
Her humiliation gave way to blinding rage.
“Yes, they are.” Sophie guided Emmaline from the ballroom to an empty withdrawing room. Closing the door behind them, Sophie directed her attention to Emmaline. “We need to freshen you up.” She pinched Emmaline’s cheeks—hard.
“Ouch!” Emmaline yelped at the firm pressure.
“Sorry, you were looking pale,” Sophie explained, not sounding at all apologetic.
On a sigh, Emmaline dropped unceremoniously into a King Louis gold-painted seat. She stretched her legs out in an undignified fashion, closed her eyes, and wished when she opened them to be anywhere other than where she currently sat. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true…she’d prefer the seclusion of the retiring room to that infernal ballroom. At least in here she was spared from hearing the tons snickering remarks.
Sophie sunk to the floor and rested her cheek on Emmaline’s soft silk skirts. “I think this is going to be more difficult than you or I expected,” Sophie conceded. “I mean, what other peer of the realm would shirk his responsibilities all these years and carry on so under your nose?”
Emmaline flinched. “I don’t want to be his responsibility, Sophie.”
Sophie hesitated. “What do you want, Em?”
And for the second time that night, and in her life, Emmaline had been asked what it was she wanted.
What do you want? A voice silently jeered. Do you want him to love you? Court you? Whyever would he do something so foolish when he could and did have any number of beautiful ladies? No, Emmaline had been a fool on many scores. She couldn’t even speak those words to her dearest friend.
Sophie was kind enough not to press Emmaline. She picked her head up and angled a glance at Emmaline. She spoke haltingly. “You couldn’t believe after just a few exchanges, Lord Drake would change his opinion?”
Emmaline chewed her lip. “No—no. I-I had hoped…” Her words trailed off. Because, naively, that had been what she’d hoped. Hearing it from Sophie’s lips indicated it had been no more than a fairytale constructed from balderdash.
She thought about Drake standing beside Lady Smythe, flirting shamelessly with the voluptuous widow. Emmaline glanced down at her own, less than stellar attributes, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly fair,” she muttered.
“What is?”
“Lady Smythe should be so generously endowed while I, while I…” Emmaline made a vague gesture over her own less than impressive décolletage. Leaning forward, she puffed her chest out and then, realizing how ridiculous she must look, lolled back against the cushions of the chair, throwing a dejected hand across her eyes.
A bark of laughter escaped Sophie. “Ah, here. These are just the thing!”
Emmaline dropped her hand from her eyes and watched her friend reach onto a nearby table for a stack of linens, wrinkle them into a sizeable ball, and thrust them at her.
Emmaline reached for them and made quick work of stuffing them into the front of her gown. The two women glanced down at Emmaline’s new endowments and promptly burst into laughter.
After their giggles had abated, Sophie glanced up. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “It really is a shame you’re hiding in here. He is, after all, the one who has behaved like an absolute cad.”
Emmaline blinked several times. “You know, you are right. Why should I cower behind closed doors while he enjoys a grand evening?”
Sophie shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”
Tugging the balls of linen from the front of her gown, she set them on Lady Wilcox’ table and took to her feet. “I am not going to hide.”
Sophie popped right up beside her. “Brava, my dear!”
The more Emmaline thought about Drake, the more infuriated she became. “His interest in Lady Smythe stemmed from nothing other than his desire to lash out at me.” She lifted her hand up, mimicking her betrothed’s movements. “And his mocking salute with that champagne flute. Why, he may as well have shouted ‘victory’ from across the ballroom.”
Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. “This battle has gone to Lord Drake, but it is just one battle.”
The two women marched arm in arm, through the antechamber, until Sophie placed a staying hand on Emmaline’s arm. She looked at her with somber eyes. “You must promise me something, Em.”
Emmaline inclined her head.
“The moment you feel any sadness in Lady Wilcox’ ballroom, the moment you feel the desire to flee—you simply must think of how outlandish you looked with our hostesses fine linens stuffed in your chemise.”
They erupted into laughter and then prepared to face the elegantly clad pariahs swarming the ballroom with a taste for blood. With heads held high they moved across the ballroom. Emmaline caught sight of her brother weaving through the crowd, his expression thunderous. “Great, my brother,” she muttered. She really didn’t need him to make this evening any more difficult than it had already become. “Come, this way.” She tried steering Sophie to the far left corner of the ballroom.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Sophie said, looking around.
“Lost who?”
Sophie shrieked and dropped Emmaline’s arm. “Y-your Grace.”
Sebastian sketched a bow and claimed Sophie’s hand for an absent, perfunctory kiss.
“I’ll kill him,” he muttered beneath his breath. He obviously wasn’t concerned that Sophie was privy to the conversation. Sebastian knew Sophie’s loyalty to Emmaline and was not inclined to shield his anger. He held out his arm.
Emmaline turned to Sophie, who waved her on. “Go ahead, I’ll be over there.” Sophie hurried off to claim a seat amidst the other wallflowers.
Emmaline returned her attention to Sebastian. “You most certainly will not kill him,” she admonished as he led her into the next set. They took their place in line for the quadrille. The orchestra began playing and they moved through the intricate steps of the lively dance.
“Whatever are you doing fawning over him?” His censure was tangible. “Mother is furious.”
Emmaline’s gaze sought out her mother, engaged in conversation with their hostess. Mother caught Emmaline’s eyes and frowned.
Emmaline tried not to feel hurt at her mother and brother’s obvious disappointment. Emmaline and Sebastian were parted, and she was saved from responding, until they came together.
“I am not fawning. He is my betrothed. What would you have me do? Exist in this false world for the remainder of my life? I am already twenty.”
Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but was prevented from speaking by the steps of the dance that once again separated them.
Her brother remained silent when next they came together in the line; his ducal stare quickly surveyed the room. Emmaline knew beyond a doubt who he sought out. She also knew the moment his gaze collided with Lord Drake beside Lady Perfection.
She tapped Sebastian on the arm. “Do you trust me?”
He appeared startled by the question and redirected his attention to Emmaline.
“Do I trust you?” He seemed bemused by her question. “I must be honest, Em, I’ve never given it much thought. You’ve always been my baby sister. I haven’t really seen you as anyone other than the little girl who used to dog my every step.”
Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited until they came together. “I’m no longer the child who cried in your arms when my pony fell ill and had to be put down.”
There was something melancholy in Sebastian’s eyes, as if he’d just realized Emmaline had grown up, that she was no longer a child, and, in fact, a woman. “Of course I trust you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.
“I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”
She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.
The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline, and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.
Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.
Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.
“My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.
Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”
Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”
Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.
Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”
Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers? Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”
Oh God, forget a whipped horse…Whitmore had landed a solid blow, right in her gut. His victorious expression said he knew it.
Sophie clamored to her feet. “You odious little creature. How dare you come over here? Why, do you know who Lady Emmaline’s brother is?”
Whitmore ignored Sophie.
“What do you want, Whitmore?” Emmaline drawled. She’d run out of patience for the “odious little creature,” as Sophie had dubbed him.
He turned blood-shot eyes to Emmaline. “Why, I would like an apology of course.”
Emmaline blinked. “That is all you want? An apology?”
He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.
“Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”