Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(30)

A smile tugged at his lips. “In other words, my lady, how will you know if I’ve actually held my word? Tsk, tsk. I’m insulted. What about a test of sorts? Whoever completes the reading first will have to answer a series of questions about the book.”

Emmaline nodded and gave a slight but firm shake. She had a stronger grip than most gentlemen he knew.

“I bid you good day, my lord. Oh, and one more thing.” She plucked the copy of Glenarvon from his free hand. She turned dismissively to go and pay for her volume.

Drake frowned. “What about my copy?”

Emmaline continued down the long aisle. “That is not my problem.” She tossed over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the shelf at the front of the establishment.

Her victorious giggled echoed throughout the store.

Drake grinned. The little minx.

The gauntlet had been thrown.





Chapter 14

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I sometimes wonder if we had not been betrothed, would Fate have intervened to see us wed anyway? I like to believe so.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake stared up at the canopy above his bed. Eerie shadows, cast by the small fire in the hearth danced off the fabric and walls of his room.

The memories were worse at night. In the late hours, when the inky black fingers of the evening sky had stolen the last of daylight, Drake heard things; sounds, people. The hum was sometimes so deafening he would clamp his hands tightly over his ears and rock back and forth on the edge of the bed, willing the ghosts of fallen friends to release him, forgive him for living when they remained forever on the battlefields.

The irony didn’t escape him—the decision to enlist had been entirely his own. He’d been motivated by resentment for his father’s high-handed manipulation of his life. Drake hadn’t even been allowed the opportunity to decide which university he would attend. Instead, it had been stated in no uncertain terms he would attend Eton and Oxford, just as his father had, and his father’s father, etcetera, etcetera...

Drake had known early on all the responsibilities that went with being the only son and heir to the powerful Duke of Hawkridge. He’d even had a clear idea he would be expected to one day marry for his title. What Drake had resented was being robbed of the choice as a mere boy.

The day Drake had coolly informed his father of his enlistment, the Duke of Hawkridge had slammed his fist onto his desk and threatened to have the King strip him of his commission. When all was said and done, his father hadn’t interfered.

He’d imagined nothing could be more horrendous than the Duke of Hawkridge’s controlling influence. He shook his head.

The time he’d spent fighting had proven just how na?ve he’d been. Amidst the battering cold of icy rain, clad in a mud-drenched uniform, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return to White’s and Brook’s, Gentleman Jackson’s, and all his other frequent haunts.

The day he’d returned from the Peninsula, he’d wanted nothing more than the easy comfort of his former life.

Society had different plans for the returned hero.

The only way Drake had managed to retain his grasp on sanity had been to bury himself in drink, women, and any other mindless pursuits. He’d made it a point to ignore his father’s silent censure.

Drake forced his attention away from dark remembrances and to the novel he’d thrown haphazardly to the bed where it lay untouched…staring mockingly up at him.

Just the thought of his exchange with Emmaline at the Old Corner Bookstore chased away the demons dancing about his haunted mind.

Before she’d taken her leave from the bookshop, Emmaline had wished him luck.

It had turned out he would need it. The shopkeeper had looked visibly distressed that his only two copies of Glenarvon had walked out the door with his two loyal customers, leaving Drake copy-less. So had begun Drake’s quest for the sought after, scandalous novel all the ton was fascinated by.

He’d spent hours scouring bookshops without success. He’d known whom to blame for his inability to attain a copy. At each respective establishment he’d visited, a note had been left with the shopkeeper for Lord Drake. It had contained one line. “Happy Hunting!”

Drake laughed at the memory of it and shook his head. What was it about her? She possessed a buoyant spirit that energized him in a way that reminded him he was very much alive.

In the end, Drake had prevailed and found a copy of the book. To prevent rumor of his reading-search from being bandied about Town, Drake had paid every shopkeeper a small fortune to keep his selection private.

He picked up the volume of Glenarvon and scoffed. What utter rubbish. Why the pages would be better served as kindling for a fire. He thumbed through the book, unable to stifle a smile at the caricatures of some of the tons leading members; Lady Jersey, there, plain for all to see. The patroness of Almack’s fury had been so great, she’d banished the author from the hallowed assembly hall.

Lying down, he dragged another pillow under his head and opened the book.

Only because the minx had a significant lead on him.

Drake gave his head a shake. “I cannot believe I’m reading this.” He fanned the pages, his eyes landing at a random point and read.



“She is even dangerously ill.”

“And pray may I ask of what malady?" he replied, with a smile of scorn.”