Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(4)

“We’ve arrived,” he said.

Emmaline shook her head, but Lord Drake gave a slight nod.

She looked up at the white finish of her brother’s townhouse and groaned.

Lord Drake’s gaze snapped to her. “Are you certain you were not injured earlier? Did you turn your ankle?”

He had a look as if he were about to draw her skirts back and peek for himself, which sent her heart sputtering wildly.

If she’d been brazen or clever, she would have feigned an injury blocks ago. But alas… “No, no. I assure you, I’m fine.”

Her brother’s aging butler pulled open the front door. Emmaline jumped, and pressed a hand to her breast. Goodness, the man could shock a ghost.

Lord Drake took a step away from her and offered a deep bow. “I am glad you were uninjured. I bid you good day, my lady.”

Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and continued down the street. Emmaline stared after him until his figure faded from sight, and then entered the townhouse.

She’d been betrothed to Lord Drake for fifteen years. In that time, their contact had been limited to passing greetings and letters she’d written to him—letters which she’d never bothered sending. This, could therefore, be considered the first real interaction she’d had with him…and in a heroic fashion, he’d come to her aid. Perhaps he’d been so captivated by her act of bravery, as he’d called it, that he, too, had fallen madly in love with her. Even now, he might very well be strolling down the streets, unable to formulate a coherent thought, unable to think about anything other than the sight of her.

Emmaline sniffed. “What is that smell?” She looked down and her nose scrunched at the stench clinging to her skirts. Why, he surely failed to even note the rotten fruit smattered all over her beautiful ivory gown.

Yes, she was certain Lord Drake would begin courting her.

Any day.





Chapter 2

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake weaved in and out of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.

He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.

“What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.

Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”

Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the opened bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.

“Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”

Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in."

“Sinclair?”

“Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”

Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”

Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”

Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.

Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”

Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.

Drake kicked him under the table.

“Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”

“My boots.”

“Why do—”

“Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”

“Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first waters. She’d hardly an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”

Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”

“Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.

Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”

“I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.

Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”