Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(23)

“Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”

Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you even know what that means?” The stinging words made Drake wince.

It wasn’t the first time that evening Drake had been appalled by his own words and actions. “My apologies,” he said gruffly.

Sin shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought.”

How could he not? Drake wondered at what point he’d lost the veneer of humanity that had once allowed him to fit in this world. What had happened those four years on the Peninsula that he now didn’t know how to be civil to his betrothed or best friend? Emmaline’s and Sin’s glaring disappointment in him was just one more stark reminder that he no longer fit in with civilized society—that he was better with vipers like Lady Smythe.

His gaze swallowed Emmaline. But, if he didn’t crave an emotional entanglement, why couldn’t he look away from her?

She desired love. She spoke of a family. God help him, when she’d spoken of her desires in that far-away husky whisper, she made him want to scale the walls, climb through a window, into the sky and retrieve the moon and a handful of stars for her.

Unlike him, Emmaline remained unscathed by the ugliness of life. The center of her existence was still their betrothal…that hadn’t been the case for him in years and years. At one time the obligations of his betrothal had seemed like the worst fate. What a blithering fool he’d been.

Sin looked from Drake to Emmaline. “Her hair is merely brown, you know?”

Drake gave his head a shake. “It’s like the color of Belgian chocolate, you fool.”

“Same with her eyes, just brown,” Sinclair pointed out.

“They are not brown. Why, they are more of a whiskey hue with a hint of…”

God, what was happening to him?

His friend gave him a triumphant look and with steely determination, Drake resolved to cease staring at his betrothed.

Sin opened his mouth to speak and Drake glared him into silence.

Regardless of the length of their friendship, Drake neither wanted nor needed Sin interfering with his betrothal agreement.

“So you do not have feelings for the young lady?”

Drake sipped his champagne. “None at all.”

“Which would probably mean you wouldn’t care if she has to deal with the likes of Whitmore, again?” Sin dangled.

Drake’s gaze flew across the room. His hands balled into tight fists. Whitmore and Emmaline. Without a word, Drake strode toward his betrothed. By god that cowardly fop had better not cause her any distress or he’d end him right there with Society as his witness.

“Well, I guess I have my answer,” Sin called after him.

***

Rage dripped from Lord Whitmore with such ferocity he put Emmaline in mind of one of her brother’s hunting dogs who’d gotten so ill he’d frothed at the mouth. “You little fool,” Whitmore bit out.

Emmaline’s hand flew to her breast at the vulgar declaration.

“Whitmore, as crass as usual.”

She spun around and discovered Drake at her shoulder. The lines of his face were set in a hard mask. A slight tick at the corner of his eye, the only indication of his fury. He offered a perfunctory bow to both her and Sophie, and then turned his attention to Whitmore.

The young dandy’s cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of white.

Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.

A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”

Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.

The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.

Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.

Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.

“M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.

“Tsk, tsk…I’m beginning to notice a rather unseemly trend, Whitmore,” Emmaline said.

Drake inclined his head. “I believe the young man needs to inform his mother of how callously he’s been treating young ladies.”

Whitmore’s sputtered and he gripped Drake’s arm. “Please, I implore you. Do not let my mother know,” he said, his gaze skittered off to land on the rotund, graying woman conversing with the host and hostess.

“What do you think, my lady? Miss Winters? Do you think I should inform Lady Whitmore?" Drake asked.

Whitmore’s eyes bulged. “Have a heart.”

Sophie tapped her chin. “I don’t know. What do you think, Em?”

Drake arched a golden brow in Emmaline’s direction. “Yes, what do you think, my lady?”