Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(25)

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t sound like that.”

“No, you sound like that.”

His brow wrinkled as if in annoyance. “Oh, and just what that are you referring to?”

“You sound like my older brother who is trying to find out what I’m up to.”

Sebastian sat back in the squabs of his seat. He drummed a finger on his leg. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to protect you?”

A swell of emotion climbed up Emmaline’s throat and made it difficult for her to reply. For all the responsibilities he’d inherited, and all the obligations that went with being the Duke of Mallen, occasionally there were moments when Sebastian was not the all-powerful peer and simply was her brother.

Emmaline leaned over and took his hand in hers. She gave it a light squeeze. “Of course not. But that is all you needed to say, brother.”

He cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with her show of emotion. “So?” he urged.

He was like a dog with a bone with this one.

She sighed, letting his hand go. “I want a decision from Drake. I want a courtship and a true marriage. He is no longer allowed to run from me.”

Sebastian’s jaw set. “No.”

Emmaline’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t asking you.”

He scowled. “I still feel as though I should tell you how I’m feeling.”

“Fair enough,” she said with mock solemnity.

He opened his mouth to add something when the carriage drew to a halt.

“We’re here!” she called cheerily. Before the groom had even reached the side of the carriage, she leaned across Sebastian and thrust the door open, effectively squashing the remainder of the discussion.

Emmaline accepted the hand from the groom. “Thank you, Charles.”

She accepted Sebastian’s arm and allowed him to escort her up the column of stone steps into London Hospital. The hospital faced White-Chapel Road and was divided by a carriageway. The main entrance led into a receiving room where they were always greeted, before heading to the ward.

Emmaline walked down the stark white halls, and greeted the fifty-five soldiers who now made London Hospital their home.

“My lady, so good to see you,” one soldier called. “Your Grace,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emmaline waved to the soldier. She stopped at his bedside. “Lieutenant Woods, how have you been this fine week?”

The burly red-haired soldier grinned a nearly toothless smile. “Better, now, my lady. Better now!”

Emmaline waggled a brow. “I’m certain you are simply referring to my arrival with Cook’s latest creation. Though I must tell you,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was all I could do to defend the basket from His Grace. I had to slap his fingers in the carriage ride over.”

Woods guffawed with laughter. It blended with the echoing chuckles from the men in nearby hospital beds.

Looking around at her growing audience, she nodded for good measure. “No, truthfully, I gave them a little slap.” She teasingly demonstrated said slap on Sebastian’s fingers, and earned another round of laughter.

Sebastian pointed his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. “I will return after my meeting,” he muttered. His response only fueled the soldiers’ amusement. He turned to the nurse who’d followed them into the ward and handed, Emmaline’s books over to her.

Emmaline gave him a quick buss on the check and then he left. She returned her attention to the basket. “Ahh, let us see…what have we here?” She extracted a raspberry scone and handed the confection to Woods.

He accepted it as though he’d been offered the King’s crown. “My lady,” he said in solemn thanks and then took a wide bite of the treat.

Emmaline sat beside him for a short while, reading some of Byron’s work before she moved on down the rows of beds. She stopped to inquire after each of the soldiers, occasionally reading to those who asked her for a poem.

Then she reached the last bed in the ward.

No buoyant grin met her at this particular bedside. No warmth. Nor amusement. As long as Emmaline had been visiting London Hospital, this bed had been devoid of any trace of cheer.

Emmaline turned to the nurse who’d accompanied her. “Nurse Whiting, I will just be reading here. You can see to the other soldiers.”

“You are always so kind, my lady.” Nurse Whiting dropped a curtsy and turned her attention to a soldier at the far end of the room, calling out for assistance.

With the woman gone, Emmaline shifted her focus to the soldier. “Lieutenant Jones,” she greeted with the same smile she had for each man.

Jones, whose bed was situated at one of the back windows, had his eyes closed and his head directed toward the window. It was much the same. Every time. Sometimes his closed eyes would be pointed to the end of the room. Sometimes out the window.

They very rarely fell on her. They were never open.

Lieutenant Jones had lost an arm in the war. He had been gaunt three years ago. A skeleton of a human being. Since then, he’d gained weight, but seemed trapped within the hell of his experience fighting Boney’s forces.

Emmaline had committed to never abandoning Jones.

She waved one of her copies beneath his nose, so close it wafted his skin with the movement of air.