Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(13)

Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.

This evening had proved, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.

He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had that detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.

His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.

The meddling gazes of the ton swiveled his way.

Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”

“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.

His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.

He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the over-flowing Royal Opera House. The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.

“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”

Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.

He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.

He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.

Christ, where had that thought come from? He gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” He acknowledged with a sheepish smile.

Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.

Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.





Chapter 7

My Dearest Lord Drake,

Feeling confident you can keep a secret, I can admit my insatiable curiosity. Father and Sebastian are often availing themselves to brandy. I wonder…what is the appeal? I am therefore planning my own secret experiment...

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“Well, this has been a disaster,” Emmaline groused beneath her breath.

She slipped out of the Viscount Redbrooke’s box. Sophie trailed along at her side. This time a diligent maid followed right on their heels.

The thrum of the orchestra blended with the chorus filled the auditorium. The haunting melody echoed throughout the theatre and lent a dramatic feel to their movements.

The high E belonging to a particular soprano, Emmaline decided, was largely flat. It rent the opera house, muffled only slightly by the chatter of the ton. Her opinion had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the high E came from the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress.

Sophie’s brow furrowed. She glanced over her shoulder toward her brother’s box. “Mother is going to be livid.”

The Viscountess had not made one mention of the ladies’ visit to Lord Drake’s box. Her erect form and snapping eyes had conveyed the extent of her displeasure. It also explained why Sophie’s maid dogged their movements.

Beset by an onset of guilt, Emmaline bit the inside of her lip. “She might not have noticed.”

Sophie wrung her hands. “She would be the only one in the theatre, then.”

On the heels of that statement, Emmaline imagined Sebastian and Mother’s displeasure the following morning. She groaned aloud. In the end, it would appear the first battle had been won by Lord Drake.