Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(45)

“Lieutenant?” she asked hesitantly.

Jones remained silent.

Don’t do it, she willed herself. Don’t ask.

She had to know what happened to Valiant. It was a piece that explained what had transformed Drake into the very serious man who was now unable to laugh with ease or sincerity. “What happened to Valiant?”

Jones looked away with a sad shake of his head. “Not a story fit for a lady’s ears.” He also clearly respected Lady Emmaline too much not to share with her what he knew, because he sighed and continued. “After we were forced into retreat, Wellington spent the winter reorganizing the forces. Whenever there was a battle, Captain Drake would find a tree far from the battle, and tie that dog up. Battle of Vitoria was a big one.” It had been the one that ultimately crumpled Napoleon’s forces in Spain. “We were in some serious hand-to-hand combat with the Frenchies. That dog, my lady, must have known his master was going to need him, because he gnawed through those ropes and wandered amidst the battlefield with that chewed rope still bound around his neck, searching everywhere for the Cap’n.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she battled back a wave of pain. She loathed the question stuck on the tip of her tongue. “Did he find him?”

Intuitively she knew that he had.

Jones nodded again. “Found him fighting two Frenchie bastards. Pardon, my lady,” he hurried. Red infused his cheeks.

“Fine, fine.” She felt the same way about the men who’d tried to kill Drake. She urged him on, needing to hear, needing to know.

Jones went on. “That dog,”

Valiant, she silently corrected. His name was Valiant.

“Launched himself at one of the bas—uh, Frenchies, who had his knife at the captain’s throat. Grabbed onto his leg and bit, tearing at the man’s breeches. It allowed Captain Drake to…, to…take care of the other man. But the other fellow, well, he grabbed that rope and wrenched that dog’s neck. Broke it just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she imagined Drake standing there, fighting for his life, and seeing his faithful companion killed in front of him.

Just like that.





Chapter 20

My Dearest Drake,

I think it unfair I cannot have a dog of my choice. When we are married, you have to promise me we might have a dog and that I may choose its breed. I think I should like a Shetland Sheepdog….perhaps we can even have some sheep.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake strode down the pavement ignoring the curious stares and whispers being directed his way by the lords and ladies who strolled down the street. His Hessian boots drew to an immediate, jarring halt when he reached his destination. With purpose, he stomped up the townhouse steps, and tucked the wriggling bundle of fur into the crook of his left elbow.

He slammed the knocker with his right hand, while holding onto the four-pound devil in his opposite arm. The pup sunk razor like teeth into the flesh of his fingers until Drake winced as a hot trickle of blood dotted his flesh.

Drake raised his fist to again pound the wood panel when the door opened.

He fished a calling card out of his pocket around the squirming mass and handed it to the blank-faced butler. “Lord Drake to see His Grace.”

The staid man studied the card, and then peered down a hawk-like nose at the yapping pup. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “Right this way.” He turned, as if expecting Drake to follow.

Drake was ushered into the Duke of Mallen’s library.

Mallen lifted his eyes from the papers he had been studying but didn’t bother to rise. “Drake, this is a surprise.” His tone said it was not a happy one.

“Mallen.” He set the pup on the floor and the little beast set to work chewing the edge of Drake’s boots. He winced. “Your sister sent me a dog.”

Mallen’s head quirked to the side. “A dog?”

Said dog scrambled up onto one of the two leather-winged chairs facing the Duke of Mallen’s enormous desk, and yapped at the befuddled peer.

“The pup seems to be a good judge of character,” Drake drawled beneath his breath.

Mallen’s brows converged in one, annoyed line. “Your dog is going to destroy my chair.”

Drake glanced down to see the mangy beast who was using all his energy to dig a hole through the surface of the leather. “It’s not my dog.”

Mallen shoved his seat back, scraping the dark wood of the floor, and stood. “You barge into my home with...”

The door opened and the Duchess of Mallen sailed into the room which sliced into Mallen’s scathing diatribe. “Lord Drake, how very good to see you.” A smile wreathed her ageless face.

“Always a pleasure and honor.” Drake’s attempt at politeness was ruined by the dog that jumped off the chair and ambled back over to him. The mangy thing stood on hind legs and began to scratch at the fabric of Drake’s breeches.

“If that were true, I’d imagine we’d see you more frequently, Drake.” She glanced down at the puppy and let out a sound of happy surprise. “Oh, you’ve brought your dog.”

Drake sighed. “He’s not my dog.”

She either failed to hear him or chose to ignore his response, for in a very un-duchess-like move, the Duchess of Mallen went down on a knee and called the scruffy black dog over. The puppy yapped, and proceeded to run in circles around her. “My, you are full of energy,” she cooed, occasionally landing a pat.