Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(19)

“Like what?”

“Like you have wicked thoughts in your innocent head.”

Emmaline’s breath caught and she opened then shut her mouth several times, as if she were trying to formulate a suitable response to his insult. It would seem Emmaline could be flummoxed.

He was a complete and utter bastard.

And, as though Drake needed further affirmation of that truth, his mind traveled a path of silken kisses and seductive caresses. He became aware of the feel of her delicate waist under his hand. The fine satin russet gown did little to veil the warmth of her skin. He yearned to strip the fabric from her body and run explorative hands along her satiny flesh. He wanted to move his hand lower, tug her skirts up, and caress her.

Emmaline winced and he realized he’d unconsciously gripped her hand too tight. He flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax his hold. He studied her hand using it as a lifeline back from the path his mind had wandered.

Except…

They really were lovely fingers. He imagined them wrapped about his length, stroking, squeezing, teasing… His breath came hoarse. Where had that thought come from? But it was too late. The forbidden thoughts were there as he held her in his arms.

Had he thought her figureless? Her breasts, though not large, were the size of small, firm apples. God, if he didn’t have a taste for the forbidden fruit. Now he knew the trial Adam had been presented with in that garden of temptation, understood why he’d thrown away Paradise. The curve of her waist flared nicely under his fingers, and he wanted to reach lower, grasp her buttocks, and tug her to his center. Drake gave himself an invisible shake, reminding himself where in hell they were.

Emmaline licked her lower lip. “My lord?” she whispered.

Drake’s eyes fell to those full red lips that haunted his dreams and he dipped his head, a hairsbreadth from capturing them. He was going to kiss her, right there, in the midst of the dance-floor and he gave not one damn that every last peer present would bear witness.

“The dance has ended.” Emmaline brought Drake’s forbidden musings to a staggering halt. He became aware of the fact they were standing in the middle of an emptying dance-floor.

Drake’s body jerked and he set Emmaline from him as though he’d been speared with a bayonet. When had he looked at Emmaline and seen beauty instead of obligation and responsibility? His heart raced with panic.

He dipped a mocking bow and clapped his hands in a deriding fashion. “Brava, my girl. You have gotten what you wanted. How neatly you’ve inserted yourself into my life.” With that, he spun on his heel, and abandoned her amidst the emptied dance floor.

He truly was a bastard.





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 oval-shaped 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.