Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(33)

Lady Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.

Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”

Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”

“Lady Emmaline,” Lady Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.

Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning you.” Every single member of the ton knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.

An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her blonde curls and then left on a huff.

Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh. Emmaline gave him a sly wink.

Drake’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.

“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”

Fury fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.

Sinclair leaned close and whispered back. “He does appear bothered.”

Drake took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.

His manacle like hold on her person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form, pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.

His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.

She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment. Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”

Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line. “You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”

Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck, and she felt the color leech from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you are a fool, my lord.”

His turbulent jade-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.

No words he uttered could ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage. The lout!

She found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.

“Move,” she snapped.

Damn him.

Drake looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”

And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response, she leaned up and kissed him.

He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.

The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.

Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.

It was that same moan that seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.

Emmaline touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.

And yet…he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.

The detachedness of his response threatened to shatter her composure. How could he kiss her with such fever and then withdraw into this shell of a man? Something must have shaped him into a detached person incapable of warmth and affection.

The alcove curtain stirred.

“Emmaline?”

The sound of Emmaline’s name being called from behind the fabric had the same effect as a bucket of freezing Thames water being dumped over her. She went motionless. Her gaze darted around the cloaked alcove, and collided with Drake’s. “My brother,” she mouthed.