Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(26)

“Coleridge,” she said.

She waved another.

“Byron?”

And a final copy. “Or Blake?”

She waited.

As usual, there was no answer. “You are always so kind to let me decide. I choose…” She thumbed through the volumes, “…Coleridge today.” She scanned several pages. “Would you know, Lieutenant Jones, my brother had the audacity to tell me you are assuredly disappointed in my reading selection. He called poetry frivolous. Can you imagine that?” There was no outward reaction from Jones. “I told him with utmost confidence that I was sure you approved of my selection. But,” she leaned close and whispered, “upon careful consideration I was forced to wonder if you ignore me because of the poetry.”

For the first time in three years, Lieutenant Jones opened his eyes. They were a startling shade of grey; like a summer sky right before a turbulent lightning storm.

Emmaline gasped, and dropped the volume at his bedside.

Lieutenant continued to stare.

Emmaline smiled. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. The last thing this man needed to see was her weak display of emotion. “Should I take that as a yes or no, Lieutenant? You just let me know. I assure you I shan’t be offended.” Her hand shook as she turned the page and began to read.

A long while later, she glanced up when the soldiers at the front of the ward called out greetings to the Duke of Mallen. She snapped the book of poems closed.

“I must tell you one of my favorite things about you, Lieutenant, is that you are the only gentleman here I am certain isn’t fond of me simply for the treats I bring from Cook.”

She gasped when his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. For all his years of confinement and his lack of physical exertion, his hold felt like a weighted chain on her person. Emmaline stared down at the strong hand that gripped hers. She supposed she should feel some sense of alarm—and yet, she didn’t. Deep inside, Emmaline knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Why do you persist?” His voice came out rusty from ill use. “Why do you not go away? Why can you not let me be?”

Emmaline met his steely grey-eyed gaze square on. “I don’t think you want me to go away, Lieutenant. I think whether you’ll admit it or not, you like me. And for whatever reason, I have grown to like you. Though, I must say you have proven far more amicable when you don’t say anything at all.”

His eyes narrowed, passed over her face, as if he sought the answer to some question she wasn’t privy. He abruptly released her wrist. Then, for the first time in three years—smiled.





Chapter 13

My Dearest Drake,

After scaling down one of the ancient trees outside my bedroom window, I found my mother and father waiting for me at the bottom. They forbade me from climbing that tree ever again. I solemnly assured them I would respect their orders. So I have taken to climbing the trees far away from view of the house!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

For the better part of a fortnight, Lady Emmaline had been there. By there Drake meant, in attendance at every event he attended. With her ability to ferret out his plans, she’d have made a hell of a spy for Wellington.

It begged the question why, at that precise moment, as Emmaline, her friend Miss Winters, and a maid snuck into a bookshop on the corner, did he not want to remain hidden in the confines of his black lacquer carriage? He didn’t pause to pay the silent question rolling around his mind much thought. Drake rapped on the roof of the carriage which came to an immediate halt.

Drake jumped down, and crossed the bustling street to the Old Corner Bookshop. He entered through the single door that set a tinny bell a-jingle and did a quick survey of the establishment.

The adage “Old” seemed rather generous. With an overwhelming scent of stale must, the inside of the establishment was ancient…and that too, might have been magnanimous. The rows and rows of books held a pungent odor of aged leather. Drake ruffled his nose and quelled the urge to sneeze. Clearly, the Old Corner Bookshop was not the most thriving of establishments.

“My lady, Miss Winters, so good to see you both.” The boisterous greeting caught Drake’s ear and propelled him deeper into the shop.

The ladies' murmured response was lost in the rows of shelving.

“Why yes, yes I do in fact have the very novel.” The shopkeeper’s voice had dropped to a clear attempt at conspiratorial whisper, a feat Drake was sure the other man hadn’t exhibited in at least two decades.

Drake’s ears perked up. His betrothed enjoyed literature. What were Emmaline’s reading preferences? Poetry. She struck him as a romantic. The thought summoned a memory from long ago. He was kneeling down beside a five-year-old Emmaline. She’d fallen and he’d helped her to her feet. “Are you a prince?”

He started. He’d all but forgotten that moment in time. It wasn’t particularly something a boy of thirteen would remark upon, let alone remember. But in his mind he could clearly see the five-year old girl’s brown eyes pooled with tears of pain. He remembered the way they’d widened in wonder at the sight of him.

The muffled sound of Emmaline’s whisper brought Drake’s attention back to her circumspect efforts. With a sure-step, he moved deeper into the shop, closer to the voices in discussion, and peered around the edge of the shelf.