Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(41)

Chapter 18

Dearest Drake,

I wonder if you even know my middle name. As my betrothed, I rather feel you should. It is Rose. I’m not much of a rose. Sebastian forever tells me I’m more of a thorn upon the rose. I would like to tell you what I call him, but that wouldn’t be ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake had convinced himself to send ‘round a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, offering up his regrets for their annual ball. After what had transpired earlier that morn, coward that he was, Drake had wanted to avoid his betrothed.

He’d sat down to dash a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, making his excuses. For the better part of an hour, he’d stared down at a blank piece of parchment. In the end, all he’d done was drip black all over his desk.

Lady Emmaline was some kind of enchantress who’d managed to weave a magical spell over him, depleting him of his wisdom, leaving him well and truly—bewitched. For at that moment, in spite of his intentions to avoid her, Drake stood behind the Earl of Mooring’s pink marble pillars and studied Emmaline.

He’d known Emmaline since she was a small girl and had only ever seen her as a bothersome child, the daughter of his father’s very good friend. Then she had become a responsibility…well, a future responsibility, anyway. But sometime, Drake didn’t know when, she’d changed from the little girl who’d been perched on the chair opposite him in her father’s library to a headily desirable woman.

He hadn’t thought of her as a responsibility in a long time. Instead, she’d become a mischievous young woman who defended those in need of defending, who talked to her plants…and of course, liked a good Gothic novel.

And he had fast become enraptured.

The irony was not lost on him; he’d gone to bloody war to avoid the very woman he now so desperately ached for but couldn’t have. This morning’s episode only cemented that truth.

Someone in the ballroom stepped between Drake and his direct line of vision, temporarily blocking Emmaline from sight. “Move,” he whispered, willing the matron away. Drake sidled to the left and peered around the pillar just in time to see Emmaline throw her head back and laugh at whatever Miss Winters had said.

Her smile transformed her.

Then, as if she felt his gaze caressing her, she froze and surveyed the room, until her eyes landed on the pillar that hid his frame. She tilted her neck to the side and her lips turned up in secretive smile as if she knew he was there.

He needed to see her. Not in this clandestine manner, but up close. Suddenly, of their own volition, his feet were leading him from his spot behind the column and carrying him over to her seat.

All day he’d debated what he would say to explain the incident in the gardens. Even as his long strides carried him across the ballroom and to her, he realized he’d run out of time to come up with excuses, but didn’t care. All he cared about was being with her.

“Lady Emmaline, may I have the next set?”

Emmaline’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise and Miss Winters nudged her in the side.

“Ouch,” Emmaline exclaimed.

Miss Winters colored and grasped her elbow. “Oh, dear. I fear I must have done something to my elbow. It seems to be moving erratically.”

Drake arched an amused brow at the young lady, who must have felt she needed to throw in further proof for good measure, because her elbow jerked again.

“See? Why, there it goes again.”

Emmaline glanced down at the card hanging from a string on her wrist. “Although hesitant to leave Sophie in her present condition, I will make an exception and abandon her to accompany you in the next set, my lord.”

She shivered when his hand touched hers.

They took their place at the dance floor for the next set.

The musicians began to play a waltz.

Now that he held her, Drake, who was usually so urbane, didn’t know what to say.

“My lord, are you well?” she inquired haltingly.

He could have pleaded ignorance to what she actually referenced, but he wasn’t that much of a coward.

“I wanted to apologize for…for what happened,” he fumbled, faltered through the apology. “I do not know what overcame me,” he lied. He did know exactly what had overcome him. “I have worried over your welfare.”

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said. “You forget I have an older brother.”

Drake would wager that her older brother had never put his hands on her and if said older brother did, then Drake would beat him within an inch of his life.

Emmaline said nothing else for a moment. “Does…this…happen to you frequently?”

Drake swallowed, and wished for the first time that they’d danced anything other than a waltz, because then there would be a natural separation, and he’d have time to craft a vague response. He fixed his gaze over her shoulder. “It has gotten better, though there are moments when I am…when, it still occurs.” Surprisingly, he felt oddly freed by the admission.

“Do certain things trigger these episodes?”

For the first time in three years, Drake wanted to confide in another human being. He hadn’t shared any part of his transformation with his father or Sin, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fear that they would realize he had a touch of madness. Something about this small slip of a woman, made him want to share this part of himself with her. “Certain noises startle me. The sound of a gun will sometimes trigger a reminder of the war.” He smiled wryly. “Needless to say, I no longer attend hunting parties.” He shrugged. “That is all.”