Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(20)

Drake reached for a flute of champagne from a passing servant.

Seeming to feel Emmaline’s stare, he looked directly at her with a veiled, faintly mocking expression. He raised his glass in her direction and downed the contents, before he again directed his attention to Lady Smythe.

The earlier solace she’d found was crushed in his deliberate attempt to humiliate her. This time, Emmaline couldn’t stifle the ball of anguish that crept steadily up her throat, the pain so overwhelmingly sharp it nearly choked her. She could feel the lords and ladies gawking at her, the snickering harpies, the pitying looks. Suddenly it was too much.

“Get me out,” Emmaline pleaded, fumbling for Sophie’s hand. If she didn’t leave, she thought she would crumple in a heap. How the ton would love that. She wouldn’t give them, or him, the satisfaction.

“Hush, silly! We hardly need His Lordship thinking he’s won this battle.” Sophie’s stern reprimand steadied Emmaline.

“They are watching me,” Emmaline whispered. She stole a quick peek around and noted the stares directed her way.

Her humiliation gave way to blinding rage.

“Yes, they are.” Sophie guided Emmaline from the ballroom to an empty withdrawing room. Closing the door behind them, Sophie directed her attention to Emmaline. “We need to freshen you up.” She pinched Emmaline’s cheeks—hard.

“Ouch!” Emmaline yelped at the firm pressure.

“Sorry, you were looking pale,” Sophie explained, not sounding at all apologetic.

On a sigh, Emmaline dropped unceremoniously into a King Louis gold-painted seat. She stretched her legs out in an undignified fashion, closed her eyes, and wished when she opened them to be anywhere other than where she currently sat. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true…she’d prefer the seclusion of the retiring room to that infernal ballroom. At least in here she was spared from hearing the tons snickering remarks.

Sophie sunk to the floor at and rested her cheek on Emmaline’s soft silk skirts. “I think this is going to be more difficult than you or I expected,” Sophie conceded. “I mean, what other peer of the realm would shirk his responsibilities all these years and carry on so, under your nose?”

Emmaline flinched. “I don’t want to be his responsibility, Sophie.”

Sophie hesitated. “What do you want, Em?”

And for the second time that night, and in her life, Emmaline had been asked what it was she wanted.

What do you want? A voice silently jeered. Do you want him to love you? Court you? Whyever would he do something so foolish when he could and did have any number of beautiful ladies? No, Emmaline had been a fool on many scores. She couldn’t even speak those words to her dearest friend.

Sophie was kind enough not to press Emmaline. She picked her head up and angled a glance at Emmaline. She spoke haltingly. “You couldn’t believe after just a few exchanges, Lord Drake would change his opinion?”

Emmaline chewed her lip. “No—no. I-I had hoped…” Her words trailed off. Because, naively, that had been what she’d hoped. Hearing it from Sophie’s lips indicated it had been no more than a fairytale constructed from balderdash.

She thought about Drake standing beside Lady Smythe, flirting shamelessly with the voluptuous widow. Emmaline glanced down at her own, less than stellar attributes, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly fair,” she muttered.

“What is?”

“Lady Smythe should be so generously endowed while I, while I…” Emmaline made a vague gesture over her own less than impressive décolletage. Leaning forward, she puffed her chest out and then, realizing how ridiculous she must look, lolled back against the cushions of the chair, throwing a dejected hand across her eyes.

A bark of laughter escaped Sophie. “Ah, here. These are just the thing!”

Emmaline dropped her hand from her eyes and watched her friend reach onto a nearby table for a stack of linens, wrinkle them into a sizeable ball, and thrust them at her.

Emmaline reached for them and made quick work of stuffing them into the front of her gown. The two women glanced down at Emmaline’s new endowments and promptly burst into laughter.

After their giggles had abated, Sophie glanced up. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “It really is a shame you’re hiding in here. He is, after all, the one who has behaved like an absolute cad.”

Emmaline blinked several times. “You know, you are right. Why should I cower behind closed doors while he enjoys a grand evening?”

Sophie shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”

Tugging the balls of linen from the front of her gown, she set them on Lady Wilcox’ table and took to her feet. “I am not going to hide.”

Sophie popped right up beside her. “Brava, my dear!”

The more Emmaline thought about Drake, the more infuriated she became. “His interest in Lady Smythe stemmed from nothing other than his desire to lash out at me.” She lifted her hand up, mimicking her betrothed’s movements. “And his mocking salute with that champagne flute. Why, he may as well have shouted ‘victory’ from across the ballroom.”

Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. “This battle has gone to Lord Drake, but it is just one battle.”

The two women marched arm in arm, through the antechamber, until Sophie placed a staying hand on Emmaline’s arm. She looked at her with somber eyes. “You must promise me something, Em.”