Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(32)

“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,” her mother said.

Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall, to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.

Of late, Sebastian had begun to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.

Emmaline sighed. 'Twas a dark day indeed when one's brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.

Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and her mother’s direction.

Emmaline groaned.

Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.

“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed, Mother.”

“Don’t be silly. He is not…”

Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.

As if sensing her daughter’s intentions, she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.

“My dear sister and mother! Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.

Emmaline winced. If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.

Her mother’s brows narrowed.

Emmaline dipped a curtsy and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”

“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake. He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.

A tide of guilt swept over her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”

He grinned. “Better now.”

A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.

From an objective point of view, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.

The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.

“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked.

An inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”

Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?” Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.

Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.

“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.

He laughed, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding ton.

His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed.

The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.

Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.

The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.

“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.

In the end, she settled for running into Lady Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish? For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.

Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder that one must tread carefully.”

The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.