Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(21)

Emmaline inclined her head.

“The moment you feel any sadness in Lady Wilcox’ ballroom, the moment you feel the desire to flee—you simply must think of how outlandish you looked with our hostesses fine linens stuffed in your chemise.”

They erupted into laughter and then prepared to face the elegantly clad pariahs swarming the ballroom with a taste for blood. With heads held high they moved across the ballroom. Emmaline caught sight of her brother weaving through the crowd, his expression thunderous. “Great, my brother,” she muttered. She really didn’t need him to make this evening any more difficult than it had already become. “Come, this way.” She tried steering Sophie to the far left corner of the ballroom.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Sophie said, looking around.

“Lost who?”

Sophie shrieked and dropped Emmaline’s arm. “Y-your Grace.”

Sebastian sketched a bow and claimed Sophie’s hand for an absent, perfunctory kiss.

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered beneath his breath. He obviously wasn’t concerned that Sophie was privy to the conversation. Sebastian knew Sophie’s loyalty to Emmaline and was not inclined to shield his anger. He held out his arm.

Emmaline turned to Sophie, who waved her on. “Go ahead, I’ll be over there.” Sophie hurried off to claim a seat amidst the other wallflowers.

Emmaline returned her attention to Sebastian. “You most certainly will not kill him,” she admonished as he led her into the next set. They took their place in line for the quadrille. The orchestra began playing and they moved through the intricate steps of the lively dance.

“Whatever are you doing fawning over him?” His censure was tangible. “Mother is furious.”

Emmaline’s gaze sought out her mother, engaged in conversation with their hostess. Mother caught Emmaline’s eyes and frowned.

Emmaline tried not to feel hurt at her mother and brother’s obvious disappointment. Emmaline and Sebastian were parted, and she was saved from responding, until they came together.

“I am not fawning. He is my betrothed. What would you have me do? Exist in this false world for the remainder of my life? I am already twenty.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but was prevented from speaking by the steps of the dance that once again separated them.

Her brother remained silent when next they came together in the line; his ducal stare quickly surveyed the room. Emmaline knew beyond a doubt who he sought out. She also knew the moment his gaze collided with Lord Drake beside Lady Perfection.

She tapped Sebastian on the arm. “Do you trust me?”

He appeared startled by the question and redirected his attention to Emmaline.

“Do I trust you?” He seemed bemused by her question. “I must be honest, Em, I’ve never given it much thought. You’ve always been my baby sister. I haven’t really seen you as anyone other than the little girl who used to dog my every step.”

Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited until they came together. “I’m no longer the child who cried in your arms when my pony fell ill and had to be put down.”

There was something melancholy in Sebastian’s eyes, as if he’d just realized Emmaline had grown up, that she was no longer a child, and, in fact, a woman. “Of course I trust you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.

“I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”

She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.

The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline, and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.

Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.

Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.

“My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Lady Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.

Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”

Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”

Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.

Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”

Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers. Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”