Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(47)

“I thought you weren’t keeping him,” Mallen pointed out.

“Be quiet.”

Drake, Emmaline, and the Duchess of Mallen ordered in unison.

Mallen crossed the room and scanned the array of sweets artfully arranged on the tray, before settling on a cherry tart. He took two bites and then popped the remainder into his mouth. “So much for being one of the most powerful peers in the realm. I don’t even have power in my own library,” he muttered around a mouthful of treat.

The duchess folded her hands and looked from Emmaline to Lord Drake, a contemplative gleam in her eyes that Drake didn’t like in the least. Apparently smoothing over conflict was inherent in a mother’s nature.

“Emmaline, my dear, I’m afraid Lord Drake is correct. You cannot simply give him a dog. Especially if he doesn’t want it.”

Emmaline shot a look of hurt betrayal at the duchess, and Drake thought she might stick her tongue out at him.

The duchess turned to Drake. “And you, Lord Drake, it is hardly gentlemanly to return a gift.”

Emmaline’s expression turned victorious, and he gritted his teeth.

Drake could handle one small duchess. He inclined his head, his tone solemn. “Your Grace, you are indeed correct. It is an unpardonable affront to reject any gift. That was never my intention. I simply cannot bring this dog into my home.”

Emmaline and Mallen emitted matching snorts at his flowery speech.

The Duchess glared at the both of her children and returned her attention to Drake. “I’m sure there is a solution so no one’s sensibilities are hurt.”

“Yes, there is. Lord Drake can keep Sir Faithful and say thank you,” Emmaline volunteered. She crossed the room and selected a cherry tart before Mallen could finish off that particular flavor.

“I am not keeping him and that is final.”

Emmaline gave a flounce of her head.

Drake shot a hopeful glance in the duchess’ direction but it would appear her efforts at restoring civility had collapsed.

Carrying the tart on an embroidered napkin, Emmaline crossed to Sir Faithful and offered the pastry to the little black pup.

Drake’s eyes slid closed. “You cannot feed a dog cherry tarts.”

Emmaline paused mid-motion. Sir Faithful scratched at her hand, and she shifted her attention back to the pup. She popped a piece of the treat into his mouth and patted him on the head. “For someone who does not want him, you are fairly well-versed in how to handle his care.”

He took a step in her direction. “Anyone would know not to feed him dessert treats.”

“Anyone would know Sir Faithful is a perfect name for a faithful dog.” She took a step closer to him until they were a hands-length apart, both breathing heavily, the spectators in the room, once again, irrelevant to their exchange.

Emmaline’s lips parted. Drake’s emerald gaze dropped to those lips and he forgot whatever words he’d intended to speak.

He studied Emmaline’s flushed cheeks. She really was—lovely.

Even in her ridiculous, oversized hat.

Especially in that silly bonnet. It put wicked thoughts into Drake’s mind; he and Emmaline in an open field on a hot summer day. He would tug the article from her head and release the luxurious brown locks so they fanned about them…

A stream of something warm and wet snapped him from his reverie.

“Your dog is pissing on my carpet, Drake,” Mallen drawled.

Drake glared at him. “My dog is pissing on my boot.”

“Gentlemen, language,” the duchess scolded.

Emmaline clasped her hands to her chest and favored Drake with a radiant smile. “So, you are keeping him?”

Drake gave his clouded head a shake. He’d never said that.

The duchess gave a little clap of her hands. “Lovely news! Then it is settled!”

And just like that it was settled.

He had a dog.

A dog named Sir Faithful.

Whether he liked it or not.

And since he was only admitting it to himself, he could secretly acknowledge, he wasn’t altogether displeased with Emmaline’s gift.





Chapter 21

My Dearest Drake,

I am never going hunting again. It is cruel and awful. I feel as though I lost the wager after all. Sebastian felt so bad about my tears, he promised never to go hunting again.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

For all intents and purposes, it was late in the evening.

Or early in the morning. Most of the civilized members of the ton had abandoned the evening’s revelries and were safely ensconced in their beds, sleeping away too much drink and overly rich food.

Drake walked at a brisk pace through Hyde Parke, the little black pup admirably keeping stride with his steps.

Sleep—a fickle friend—eluded Drake. He supposed he should be thankful for it. At times like this, when his nerves were frayed, when his mind was exhausted, the nightmares came in their worst form.

In his dreams, he would see things: fallen friends, fellow soldiers, images of men wandering through battlefields dazed, severed limbs held in their hands.

He drew to a sudden halt and fixed his gaze out at the gardens before him. Sir Faithful, tired from his efforts, sat dutifully beside Drake’s feet.

On nights such as these, Drake often walked through the emptied streets and visited an eerily silent Hyde Park. He always managed to find some small measure of solace in the gardens. The smell of the fragrant flowers served as a reminder that he had survived.