Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride Read online

  He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “But still foolish.”

  “Now, that I expected.”

  A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I’ve been boorish, today. Forgive me.”

  ”Yes, yes, I say you have,” she said, under her breath.

  He raised a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  Emmaline nodded. “Very well, since you are begging.” His brow furrowed. “I’m teasing, my lord,” she said. She shook her head. “You’ve been nothing but honorable, brave, and heroic—a true gentleman.” The effusive praise spilled from her lips with all sincerity and she willed herself to silence. Alas, she’d never been one to dissemble.

  “We’ve arrived,” he said.

  Emmaline shook her head, but Lord Drake gave a slight nod.

  She looked up at the white finish of her brother’s townhouse and groaned.

  Lord Drake’s gaze snapped to her. “Are you certain you were not injured earlier? Did you turn your ankle?”

  He had a look as if he were about to draw her skirts back and peek for himself, which sent her heart sputtering wildly.

  If she’d been brazen or clever, she would have feigned an injury blocks ago. But alas… “No, no. I assure you, I’m fine.”

  Her brother’s aging butler pulled open the front door. Emmaline jumped, and pressed a hand to her breast. Goodness, the man could shock a ghost.

  Lord Drake took a step away from her and offered a deep bow. “I am glad you were uninjured. I bid you good day, my lady.”

  Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and continued down the street. Emmaline stared after him until his figure faded from sight, and then entered the townhouse.

  She’d been betrothed to Lord Drake for fifteen years. In that time, their contact had been limited to passing greetings and letters she’d written to him—letters which she’d never bothered sending. This, could therefore, be considered the first real interaction she’d had with him…and in a heroic fashion, he’d come to her aid. Perhaps he’d been so captivated by her act of bravery, as he’d called it, that he, too, had fallen madly in love with her. Even now, he might very well be strolling down the streets, unable to formulate a coherent thought, unable to think about anything other than the sight of her.

  Emmaline sniffed. “What is that smell?” She looked down and her nose scrunched at the stench clinging to her skirts. Why, he surely failed to even note the rotten fruit smattered all over her beautiful ivory gown.

  Yes, she was certain Lord Drake would begin courting her.

  Any day.

  Chapter 2

  My Dearest Lord Drake,

  I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Drake weaved in and out of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.

  He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.

  “What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.

  Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”

  Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the opened bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.

  “Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”

  Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in."

  “Sinclair?”

  “Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”

  Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”

  Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”

  Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.

  Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”

  Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.

  Drake kicked him under the table.

  “Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”

  “My boots.”

  “Why do—”

  “Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”

  “Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first waters. She’d hardly an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”

  Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”

  “Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.

  Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”

  “I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.

  Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”

  Drake forced himself to take a casual sip. He thought about his chance encounter with Lady Emmaline. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, hailed in the papers as some kind of war hero, he’d gone out of his way to avoid his betrothed. He’d been tied to Lady Emmaline for more than half of his life, and yet knew next to nothing about her. As much as he wanted to find out more about the intriguing creature, he was loathe to show any outward interest, even to his friend. Oh, the fun Sin would have at his expense. “I happened to come upon Lady Emmaline this afternoon.”

  Sinclair arched a dark brow. “Oh?”

  Since the moment Drake had witnessed Emmaline place herself between the old peddler woman and a gentleman’s riding crop, aside from concern for her well-being, he’d been unable to think of anything but his betrothed. Before that moment, if you’d asked him if a lady of Quality would ever risk her own safety for a common woman on the street, he’d have scoffed at the ludicrousness of such a notion. Now, the image of Lady Emmaline, like some kind of warrior princess defending her keep, would be an image forever emblazoned on his mind.

  Drake shifted uncomfortably. “For the last time, what do you know about the lady?”

  Sin shrugged. “I don’t know much about her.”

  “Not much? You know next to everything about everyone.”

  “I know she’s a wallflower.”

  Drake sat back in his chair, flummoxed. “Impossible.” A woman whose eyes could blaze with such life while challenging two men could never be a wallflower. Wallflowers were content to be dull creatures seated on the sidelines, escaping any notice. They were not clever young ladies with cheeky retorts.

  Sinclair leaned forward in his chair. “Oh?”

  Drake’s skin heated. Good God, he couldn’t be embarrassed. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. No, surely it was just that his cravat was too tight. “I had an encounter with Lady Emmaline a short while ago.”
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  When Sinclair’s brows shot up to his hairline, Drake realized his words could be mistaken for something more lascivious in nature.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

  Like a babe looking for a story from his nursemaid, Sin propped his arms on the table and stared at Drake with impatient eyes.

  Drake sighed, and then proceeded to recount the events he’d witnessed. When he concluded his story, Sin sat back heavily in his chair, with arms folded across his chest. “Humph.”

  “That’s it? Just ‘humph’?”

  Sinclair raised one brow. “What would you have me say? Sounds like a rather dangerous thing for the lady to do.”

  Discounting the fact that Drake had the very same reaction with Lady Emmaline, he took a long swallow of whiskey. “You are missing the point, Sin.”

  “Oh? And what is the point?”

  Drake dragged a hand through his hair. Was the point that his betrothed had bewildered him? Or was the point that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment he’d seen her challenging Whitmore and his crony?

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the past three years, he’d forced thoughts of Lady Emmaline from his mind. He’d ignored the contract between them. If he’d returned from the Peninsula as the same man, fulfilling his duty to her would have been somewhat easier. Not palatable but an obligation he would have fulfilled, nonetheless.

  “If you admire her, perhaps you should claim her.”

  Drake grunted.

  Sin raised his tumbler in mock salute. “I imagine marriage based on mutual admiration is a good deal more than most unions are built from.”

  Drake thought about his feisty intended, her eyes sparkling with flashes of defiance and courage, her rose hued lips made for sinning, pursed tight with fury. He silently tacked desire to Sin’s components of a successful marriage.

  Drake picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. At this rate, he’d be drunk before supper. “There is no mutual admiration.”

  His friend scoffed. “No? Are you really so modest to believe she couldn’t admire you?”

  Drake set his tumbler down hard enough to rattle the table. “For what? I’m…”

  A madman. A monster. A beast. If he were less of a coward he’d come right out and share the truth with Sinclair. Consumed by restive energy, his gaze skimmed the club. Some gentlemen laughed uproariously while others chatted with friends and acquaintances. Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been at ease around other people, too.

  Sin didn’t press his line of questioning, and for that Drake was grateful. Instead, his friend reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. Then, he leaned over and filled Drake’s glass. “I’m assuming it was quite a sight seeing Lady Emmaline challenge a gentleman.” He paused. “As much as one can consider Whitmore a gentleman.”

  Drake smiled and toyed with the rim of his glass. “I thought I could no longer be surprised by a woman. I learned otherwise, today.”

  “Sounds like marriage to the lady might not be the worst of fates.”

  Drake made an impatient sound. “Marriage to me isn’t in her best interest.”

  “You are the most honorable man I know,” Sin said.

  There it was again. That word he loathed with every fiber of his honorable being. Emmaline had described his actions as honorable, had looked at him as some kind of hero. He managed a half grin for his friend. “That isn’t saying much about the men you know.

  Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”

  Great. First his father, now his best friend.

  But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.

  He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”

  Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”

  Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.

  Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?

  Chapter 3

  Dearest Lord Drake,

  What I am about to write is exceedingly intimate. I pray you will not judge but I can no longer keep silent.

  I must confess my deep, adoring love—for gardening.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Emmaline couldn’t sleep.

  Even if she could, she most assuredly would still be awake. Unlike the majority of the ton, she loved mornings because she appreciated any and all time away from the smug, condescending members of Society.

  It had been three weeks since the incident with Lord Whitmore. And in three weeks she hadn’t heard word from Lord Drake. Following the encounter with her betrothed, Emmaline had believed she’d finally garnered his notice and a real courtship was imminent.

  She snorted. So much for love.

  Or admiration.

  Or childish dreams.

  With her maid trailing at a distance, Emmaline marched through the western part of Hyde Park, until she came upon Kensington Gardens. The fiery sun peeked just over the horizon, dousing the dawn sky in ethereal hues of burnt flame. She paused to appreciate the light playing off the abundant foliage of the cascading elm. A faint breeze caught hold, stirring the long row of horse chestnut trees. She glanced up and briefly closed her eyes on a smile, as a handful of white leaves sprinkled with red dots fluttered down to the earth. They tickled her skin, and then continued their path to the pavement.

  God bless Queen Caroline for having been an avid gardener with the good sense to celebrate the beauty of the land. Men might own the land, but women rejoiced in its splendor.

  At last, Grace caught up, her round, girlish cheeks red from her efforts. “My lady, would you like…?”

  Emmaline held a hand up. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what, my lady?”

  Her ears pricked up. “There. A faint whistling.”

  Grace fought back a yawn and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t hear anything, my lady.”

  Emmaline cocked her head, and listened. There it was again. Almost like the sound of a whipcord slicing through the air. “That.” She started off in the direction of the odd noise.

  Grace groaned. “My lady, can’t we just…” Her words were lost as Emmaline’s quick steps put space between them.

  Emmaline’s chest rose and fell from the rapid pace she’d set. She chewed her lip and surveyed the area.

  Nothing.

  Her maid finally caught up, wheezing slightly. She bent over and placed her hands upon her knees, taking in several deep breaths. “My lady, please, stop. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Just rest a moment, Grace. I’ll take a short turnabout. I’ll not go far.”

  A flash of gratitude lit the maid’s hazel eyes, and she nodded, brushing away a stray lock of brown hair.

  Emmaline hurried down the meticulous stone path that emptied out into one of the many private floral gardens. The collective beauty of the bright array brought her up short. For Christmas, her brother had given her the oddest contrivance. A tube containing loose pieces of glass inside and clever little configurations. He’d told her it was called a kaleidoscope; explaining that “kalos” was the Greek word for beautiful and “scopos” for watcher. All winter Emmaline had pointed the apparatus up at the light and peered through the tube, admiring the shifting patterns of color. Kensington Gardens never ceased
to stun her with its vital beauty. With the pale pink of the spotted orchid, the effervescent hue of the violet bluebells interspersed with the lilac-white of the cuckooflower; it was like its own kaleidoscope of nature’s beauty.

  She searched the area and her gaze settled on a lone gentleman with his back to her, swinging his walking stick. His fluid movements cut a swath through a blanket of pale blue forget-me-nots, as he severed the heads off the buds.

  Emmaline gasped. She raced over. “Whatever are you doing?”

  Startled, the tall stranger spun around. Lord Avondale.

  His ornate stick soared through the air, and landed with a soft thump amidst the blue blooms. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose. “I assure you, I’ve not come for company.”

  If her brother Sebastian, the powerful Duke of Mallen didn’t intimidate her, this reed-thin fellow with his elfin-pointed ears and mottled skin certainly wasn’t going to, either. “And I assure you, sir, the forget-me-nots had far grander hopes than decapitation by your stick on this glorious day.”

  The man angled his head. “They’re just plants.”

  Emmaline’s eyes slid closed. Whitmore and the fruit. This idiot and flowers. It was a wonder men held the power they did.

  “They are flowers,” a deep voice said dryly.

  Emmaline spun on her heel so quickly, her foot slid. She fought to maintain her balance.

  Lord Drake.

  Their gazes caught and held. Emmaline’s heart fluttered in her chest.

  Then she remembered Drake’s blatant disregard since their meeting three weeks prior. Her mouth tightened. The bounder had better have some choice words for Avondale’s treatment of the flowers to redeem himself.

  Drake shifted his attention to Lord Avondale.

  “Avondale.”

  “Drake.”

  They exchanged bows.

  Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. Drake’s pleasant greeting of Lord I-Kill-Poor-Defenseless-Flowers was certainly not the fierce rebuke she’d hoped. “Ahem.”

  Drake sighed. “My apologies. Avondale and I go back to university days. Avondale, may I present Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? Lady Emmaline, Lord Avondale.”