Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(50)

Emmaline gasped. She was going to catch fire from her need and set Hyde Park ablaze.

Her head fell back when his lips left hers. He nipped the corner of her lips, her cheek, and then he caressed her neck with his lips. The unshaven scruff of his beard tickled her skin. She giggled.

Drake didn’t even break his ministrations, his hands releasing her breasts from the bodice of her gown. The peak of her nipples hardened under his stare. “Is there something that amuses you, my lady?” he asked huskily, not waiting for a reply as his mouth lowered to her breast. With deliberate slowness he drew the ripened bud into his mouth. He gently suckled, laving the peak, and then flicked it teasingly with his tongue.

Emmaline’s head fell back.

Drake switched his attention to the tip of her other, neglected pale white mound.

Emmaline gasped aloud. She twisted her fingers into the silk strands of his golden hair. “Drake, show me more.”

The cool of the morning air slammed into her bare legs, as he slid her skirts up, higher, and higher, to her knees. His fingers skimmed over her belly, and then before she could comprehend what he was doing, his hand delved between her legs.

It was as though everything were sapped from within her. Emmaline collapsed in his arms. He sat down, atop a bed of white cerastium, and moved her onto his lap while his expert fingers continued to work her.

Drake slipped another finger into her and began to move them; in, then out, in then out, until she bucked under his hand. “Yes,” she cried softly.

He continued to stroke her, playing with the pliable nub of her center. Emmaline supposed she should feel a sense of shame but couldn’t drum up one single rational thought about the indecency of what they were doing and where they were doing it.

All she knew was him.

She closed her eyes and undulated beneath him, searching for more.

His lips reclaimed hers. “Come for me, love,” he urged, his voice a husky command.

Come? What on earth did he mean? Pressure built inside her, unfurling like a rapidly growing weed, taking over everything. Her cry was lost in his mouth. She frantically arched her hips as he rung every last bit of pleasure from her.

And then she collapsed, replete with the gift he’d given her.

So that was what he’d meant. She laid her cheek alongside his and felt her breath fanning his.

Drake’s fingers played with the tresses that had tumbled from her knot and covered them like a blanket. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

Emmaline’s throat worked. She knew she was no great beauty but when he said it like that, in those emotion-laden words, she believed him.

He kissed the slight birthmark just below her temple.

“What an interesting spot for a birthmark. Rather unique…just like you.”

He brought her skirts down and she finally, reluctantly, pulled back.

She looked at him through heavy eyes. “I won the challenge, my lord,” she reminded him huskily.

He laughed and kissed her once again for good measure. “Yes, my lady. You certainly did win.”





Chapter 22

My Dearest Drake,

Does a man who is betrothed still propose to the lady he is betrothed to? I would imagine it would be more romantic if he did.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

He was going to marry her.

Drake expected to be consumed by anxiety at the thought of relinquishing bachelorhood. He’d always believed marriage symbolized the death of a gentleman’s freedom.

Yet oddly today, he had no reservations. It wasn’t obligation that drove his decision. Nor his responsibilities to the ducal line. Somewhere along the way, it had become about him and Emmaline—as it should have been.

Sir Faithful barked.

He glanced down apologetically at the pup. “No, you cannot come, my friend.” Sir Faithful dropped his head back between his paws and gave him a long, sad look.

“I’ll tell you what, Sir. Soon I’ll bring her back here as your mistress, then you can see the both of us.”

That was apparently too much for the pup to understand. He just cocked his head sideways, tongue lolling out, and continued to study Drake.

Drake returned his attention to his plans for the morning, feeling once again like a soldier about to embark upon a decisive battle. Why had he fought this? He thought of all the time he’d wasted, thought of his leaving to fight on the Peninsula, when what he’d been fleeing had turned out to be a person who made him smile more than he had in years.

He glanced down at the ring resting on the bureau top. The eight carat emerald nestled amidst a cluster of diamonds, glittered in the morning light. It had belonged to his mother, and the duchess before her, and the duchess before her. And it would be Emmaline’s. He picked it up, studied it, and then placed it in the inner fold of his midnight jacket.

His valet appeared in the doorway. “My lord, as requested, your mount has been readied.”

Drake nodded and made his way below stairs, to the foyer.

He was met by the usually staid, butler, Winchester.

This time Winchester’s weathered face was wreathed in a smile that went from one ear to the next. As if he knew Drake’s special business. Which shouldn’t really surprise him. Winchester had always managed to glean Drake’s intentions before he himself even really knew.

“My lord!”

Drake grinned back. “Winchester.”