Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(35)

Mallen and Emmaline’s discussion a short while ago replayed in Drake’s mind. His gut tightened as an emotion that felt remarkably like jealousy reared its head. Just seeing Waxham seated beside Emmaline did something to Drake; something he did not like at all. He wanted to storm the room, drag Waxham up by the lapels of his jacket, and throw him out of the bloody recital hall.

It felt—primal.

Why should he care that Emmaline’s smile was far too warm or her proximity to Waxham too close? Drake’s hands balled into tight fists as he took in the overt glances the interloper directed toward Emmaline’s too low décolletage.

How dare she flaunt herself so freely under his nose, in front of the ton, no less! His first order of business in the morning would be to pay a call on her and demand more appropriateness when they were amidst Society.

Drake focused on her flagrant display with Waxham and his own indignation at being made a fool of in front of the lords and ladies in attendance. His ferocity had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d come to care for Emmaline.

Nothing at all…

Except…

Waxham whispered something else close to Emmaline’s ear.

And the feeling of wanting to tear the man apart did not feel like nothing at all.





Chapter 16

My Dearest Drake,

When I tend the gardens, I talk to my plants. Do you find that odd? Sebastian does. He teases me mercilessly about it. I told him my plants make for far better company than him.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“You have a visitor, my lady.”

Emmaline sat back on her heels so abruptly her elbow knocked the collection of gardening equipment she’d set haphazardly against the wrought iron bench. The array of metal shovels and hoes shifted, but managed to remain fixed to their spot.

Emmaline rubbed her injured elbow. “Can you direct my caller here?”

When the servant had left, she tugged the straw bonnet off her head, swiped her forearm across the sheen of perspiration that dampened her brow.

She’d not been expecting Sophie, and had planned on dedicating her day to cleaning up the weeds that had decided to infiltrate her London haven. They both had a mutual love for gardening and Sophie was usually eager to help. Emmaline set her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons underneath her chin.

Emmaline returned her attention to the lilies of the valley. She’d cultivated the sweet-smelling woodland plant several years ago. According to legend, the small, pure white buds represented a return to happiness and therefore, it was one of the flowers she liked to share with the soldiers who resided in London Hospital.

She trimmed back some of the buds, set the delicate ivory bellflowers into the basket next to her, and returned her attention to the next dainty row that needed rescuing from a cluster of weeds.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful, my dears. I’ve been busy in pursuit of my betrothed, and I feel my efforts in that score have only resulted in my neglect of you. It is unpardonable and I shan’t let it happen again.” She tugged a particularly stubborn weed that had wrapped around the base of the plant. She twisted it first left, then right, before yanking it straight up. “You are a tenacious one,” she muttered.

“I would say the same of you, Lady Emmaline,” a masculine voice drawled.

Emmaline careened backwards and landed in an inelegant heap upon her derriere at Drake’s feet. She stared overly long at the tips of his perfectly shined black Hessian boots and gave thanks for the wide brim of her flat-brimmed hat that shielded the stain of mortification that warmed her cheeks.

Sebastian had forever mocked the bonnet, but now, more than ever, Emmaline had a deep appreciation for it. The brim kept Lord Drake blessedly out of view. When her face had cooled, she tilted it back. “You are not Sophie.” The words came out faintly accusing.

Drake’s firm lips twitched at the corners. “No, I am certainly not Miss Winters.”

Emmaline toyed with the weed she still held in her hand. She could only imagine what Lord Drake thought about his betrothed working in a garden like any common servant. If he’d been scandalized by her preference for a gothic novel, well then this offense was surely tantamount to treason in his pompous eyes.

He continued to study her with that unreadable expression. The man must be a marvel at the gaming tables. She dropped the weed and scooped up a small bit of warm, moist soil, and sifted it through her fingers. A thin, slimy worm became caught between her fingers. She released the creature. It slithered off, deeper into a safe patch of ground away from prying hands—out of sight.

A sigh of envy escaped her. Lucky creature. What she wouldn’t herself give to have the ground open and swallow her deep into its hold of invisibility. She cast a hopeful gaze to the sky, willing the Good Lord to assist with a miracle.

Several moments later, Drake cleared his throat.

Emmaline sighed. Apparently the Lord was attending to more important miracles than rescuing one peculiar young lady from a healthy bout of humiliation.

She dusted her hands together. “Lord Drake.”

Drake held out a hand.

Emmaline glanced down at her mud-spattered fingernails, and then placed it in Drake’s, marveling at the strength of his long fingers wrapped so securely about hers. He effortlessly guided her to her feet, and she wondered that he should be so unaffected by the feel of their joined hands when it had sent her heart racing.