Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(11)

Studying her from his theatre box, Drake recalled how they’d spent last evening, and his gaze narrowed. Valentina was an inventive, nubile woman, endowed in all the places a man hoped his woman would be generously curved. And yet, he watched disinterestedly as she pranced about the stage.

“I still don’t see why we have to sit through the blasted show,” Sin muttered. He occupied the seat next to Drake. “It hardly seems fair you’re the one who gets to bed the creature and I’m the one who has to sit through her infernal caterwauling.” His bored gaze surveyed the crowd, then paused, and narrowed ever so imperceptibly.

Drake didn’t bother looking to see what drew his friend’s attention. “Come, come, Sin, you’d have me believe you’d rather be escorting your mother and dear sister to some other infernal event?”

Sin gave a visible shudder. “No, no, you have the right of it. At least when this blasted opera is over I can head to the tables. Will you be joining me later this evening?”

Drake gave a short nod. What else was there to do? Lord knew he didn’t want to return to the damned townhouse and deal with his father. Or the nightmares. Restful sleep did not await him at the Duke of Hawkridge’s townhouse. Peaceful nights had eluded him since…

He shook his head, willing thoughts of war into the deep corners in which they refused to stay banished. When he’d been a young man, war had seemed like the logical escape from the stringent expectations placed on him by the Duke of Hawkridge. Drake’s life had been planned out for him since the moment of his birth. It had been ordained by his father where he would attend school, who he would wed, and Drake had chafed at the rigid order imposed upon him.

His time fighting Boney had proven there was nothing logical about war. The day he’d left the Peninsula, he’d longed to return to normalcy. He’d returned to England with a desperate urgency to slip back into the life he’d been familiar with. Consequently, he’d never given much thought to the impossibility of such a feat.

Three years ago, he’d come back from battle, a returned hero, greeted with parades and lavish balls; the recipient of public praise and countless honors. All of it had meant nothing to him. All the fanfare had served to do was emphasize his despair. It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s dark musings. Act I had concluded.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin asked.

Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies. The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.

He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.

He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in, and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.

He bolted from his seat just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.

And a hand slipped through, hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.

“My Lord, how good to see you!” One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.

Drake froze, a prickle of unease traveled up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.

Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh stood before him, her spine erect, a determined glint in her eyes.

***

Emmaline’s smile stretched so taut she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.

Almost as one, the two gentlemen seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.

Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.

Stiff, formal, respectful deference.

It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.

Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.

She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”