Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(12)

Three sets of eyes swiveled to look at Emmaline.

Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she had loved about her.

Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.

“Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.

She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal farther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.

“But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her, probing, as though he knew her every secret. Blast him and his arrogance, she thought, finding the courage to finish her sentence. “Well, I would have been remiss if I failed to greet you.”

Drake blinked and Emmaline knew he recognized that he’d just been delivered a set-down. She rushed on. “I felt compelled to visit your box and discuss your thoughts on the opera. It has come to my attention from the papers that you have a great affinity for the opera, in particular the capable Mezzo-Soprano Signora Nicolleli.” She furrowed her brow, feigning deep contemplation. “In my honest opinion, I have a preference for the light, airy quality of a lyrical soprano.”

She detected Lord Sinclair’s shoulders rising and falling in what, she felt safe to assume, was mirth, while poor Sophie scoured the theatre.

To Lord Drake’s credit, or perhaps the better word would be discredit, he did not so much as flinch. His only telltale reaction was a slight arching of a golden brow as he met her stare. Emmaline glanced away.

“My dear, Lady Emmaline,” In Emmaline’s honest estimation, the words hardly sounded like an endearment. “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”

A subtle reproach coated his hard words. Double blast the man. How dare he make her feel uncomfortable? He was after all the one who’d abandoned her for two—approaching three—years. And that wasn’t counting the fifteen years that had lapsed in their near lifelong betrothal.

Her lips set tightly. “La, sir, but how else am I to find out about my betrothed’s likes and dislikes? But I do know you have a preference for mezzo-sopranos, so that is something, no? I look forward to meeting the great Signora Nicolleli and securing an autograph for you. I will be sure to tell her you are an ardent admirer, my lord. We’ll call it something of a wedding gift.”

The lights dimmed and the crowd bustled about, returning to their seats.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Em, I rather think we should return, lest mother worry about our absence.”

Emmaline smiled and favored Lord Drake with an impudent wave. “I’m certain she won’t fret when she learns we were with my intended. You would hardly allow harm to befall us, my lord? I’ve heard such stories of your heroics on the Peninsula, I could hardly feel anything but safe in your company.”

His eyes grew shuttered. “You should never let your guard down regardless of whose company you are in, Lady Emmaline.”

“You are far too modest, my lord. Alas, I must bid you good evening and await our next meeting.” She favored Lord Sinclair with a smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”

“Likewise, Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters.” He bowed and nudged Drake until he followed suit.

“Now we must return to our box,” Emmaline said. “If you’ll excuse us.” She gave a jaunty wave and quite deliberately shoved the curtains back with enough force to send them flapping, and took her leave.

War had been declared.





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.