Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(3)

“Oh dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. She’d read a fair number of poems and gothic novels to recognize certain telltale signs of that which ailed her. The books all indicated one’s heart would race; one would be at a loss for words, and one would forget to breath. Yes, Emmaline knew what the onslaught of symptoms she’d been besieged by indicated—she’d gone and fallen in love.

“My lady?” Lord Drake and her maid repeated in unison.

Emmaline crashed back down to reality. The first thing she became aware of was that her toes were exceedingly chilly. She glanced down into the muddy puddle her slippers now called home and wrinkled her nose. A rather odd-smelling puddle of filthy water, crushed tomatoes, cabbage, and Lord knew what else.

With the tip of her right foot, she pushed aside the stray purple leaf clinging to her other slipper.

“My lady?” Lord Drake interrupted her musings.

Her head snapped up. What did he say? Her mind tried to drag up his recent question so she might form a suitable reply.

“Just splendid.” There, that seemed like a perfectly, splendid response.

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh, well you may find the stench of that puddle splendid but I must insist it is foul. Regardless of who is correct, might I offer you my arm?”

Emmaline wished said puddle were about five-feet-four inches deeper so she could sink beneath its surface.

She stared at his outstretched hand until her maid cleared her throat, and jerked her back to the moment. Emmaline placed her fingers in his. He tucked them into the fold of his elbow and carefully guided her away from the remnants of the cart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

That was the best I could come up with—just thank you? She grimaced and stole a peek from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction to her less than stimulating repartee. Couldn’t she have offered some witty banter, as so many other ladies would have managed?

His expression may as well have been carved from granite.

Emmaline had never been a flirt, so she settled for honesty. “What you did for that peddler...and me, was—heroic.”

If she hadn’t raised her gaze at that precise moment, she would have missed the way his strong, square jaw tightened.

“I would hardly call it heroic, my lady.” His words sounded curiously flat.

Emmaline dug her heels in, and forced him to stop. She motioned to the sea of preoccupied lords and ladies. “Look around, my lord. Look how busy the street is. There are ladies and gentlemen rushing about, and not one of them stepped forward.”

He gently steered her ahead. “That isn’t quite true.”

Emmaline looked at him askance.

“You placed yourself between the peddler and the dandies,” he said.

She beamed.

“What would possess you to do something so reckless?”

An errant lock of hair escaped her chignon and fell across her eye. She blew it back, but it fell right back into place. Forgetting the recalcitrant strand, she again dug her heels in and forced him to a stop.

Emmaline looked up at Lord Drake. “What would you have had me do? Allow them to beat the poor woman?”

A growl lodged in his throat. “I would rather you hadn’t placed yourself in harm’s way.”

If he hadn't sounded so surly about it, Emmaline would have sighed like a debutante at her first ball. Instead she said, “I couldn’t just let them to hurt her. What kind of person would I be if I’d allowed that?”

The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He motioned for Emmaline to continue walking. “A safe one.”

“Ahh, but what is safety without honor?”

He looked at a point over her shoulder. “Honor is an oftentimes overestimated word with little meaning, my lady.”

A frisson of distress traveled along Emmaline’s spine, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, gooseflesh dotted her arms. She hadn’t failed to miss the bleakness in Lord Drake’s distracted stare, and found herself yet again at a loss.

“Might I see you home, Lady Emmaline?”

A cowardly sense of relief that she’d been saved from replying to his previous, baleful statement assailed her. Lord Drake wanted to escort her home? Had he asked, she would have taken tea in the muddy puddle he’d rescued her from. Still, it wouldn’t do to come across as too eager. “I would be grateful, my lord.”

They walked along in silence and Emmaline mourned the passing of each block that brought her closer to home.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and searched her mind for something to discuss. The weather…? What clever young lady would discuss something as mundane as the weather?

“Your earlier actions were brave, Lady Emmaline—and I respect them.”

She blinked. “Well, I really hadn’t been expecting that from you, my lord.”

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “But still foolish.”

“Now, that I expected.”

A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I’ve been boorish, today. Forgive me.”

”Yes, yes, I say you have,” she said, under her breath.

He raised a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmaline nodded. “Very well, since you are begging.” His brow furrowed. “I’m teasing, my lord,” she said. She shook her head. “You’ve been nothing but honorable, brave, and heroic—a true gentleman.” The effusive praise spilled from her lips with all sincerity and she willed herself to silence. Alas, she’d never been one to dissemble.