Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(51)

Since he’d lain Emmaline down on the garden floor and pleasured her, he’d worn a perpetual smile. To be more precise, he’d seemed to be in a state of happiness since she’d come into his life. Emmaline’s joy had been infectious and he’d been her willing victim.

A startled shriek rent the air, punctuated by a resounding metallic crash. Servants seemed to materialize out of nowhere and hurried to the mishap. A two foot silver vase lay on its side amidst a cluster of white flowers. The young maid who’d dropped the floral arrangement wept into her hands.

Her blubbering blended with the cacophony of sound as servants rushed to clean the mess.

Drake’s eyes remained riveted on the glint of the metal urn. The maid’s cries wavered in and out of focus, until they were replaced with the agonizing shouts of his fallen men.

As if slammed by a cannon ball to the stomach, Drake’s body jerked. With a bellowing roar wrenched from deep inside his soul, he dropped to his knees and covered his ears, in an attempt to blot out the deafening sound of grapeshot ricocheting off each corner of his mind.

Drake’s eyes flitted around like that of a cornered animal. His horrified gaze landed on the earth strewn with destroyed flowers, and waited. When no bodies fell, in an attempt to flee, he darted past the horrified men around him. He willed his legs to pump faster, lest he be caught in the thick of the battle.

A powerful hand snaked around Drake’s arm. He cried out. Thrashing violently, he leveled his opponent with an elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The hiss of exhaled breath fired like kindling just about to catch. The man held onto Drake with fierce determination, but Drake refused to surrender because if he did, he’d be at the mercy of the French bastards.

“No, no, no!” Drake roared.

“Drake, I won’t hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Drake stilled. When the man’s grip lightened, Drake wrested his arm free, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairwell.

The Frenchie was on him again. He knocked Drake’s knees out from under him, tackling him to the ground. The action knocked the breath from Drake with a powerful whoosh, and something flew out from his jacket front. He heard the soft ping, ping, ping, as it skidded across the white Italian marble floor.

White Italian marble floor?

“Drake? Drake?”

“My lord?”

Drake struggled beneath the weight of the bodies that pressed him down.

Bodies. There were more than two.

Drake? My lord?

His breath was coming hard and fast on deep gulping gasps for air.

Think, Drake. Why would the French be calling me by my name? Think. Where were the echoing shots? He waited for the sounds that never came.

All energy drained from him and he rested his forehead upon the hard cool surface of the marble, which penetrated his haze of horror.

It had struck again.

He blinked down at the floor but his vision blurred, blending the surface. He wanted to cry. A trickle of wetness trailed a path from his cheek and fell upon his lips.

Nay, he was crying.

He became aware of his father helping him up, gathering him in his arms as if he were no more than a boy.

Except he wasn’t a boy. He was a battle-scarred man who would never be normal again.

His whole frame shuddered with the jarring return to reality.

“It’s fine, Drake,” his father whispered. He stroked his back. “You can leave, Winchester.”

It wasn’t fine. In fact, Drake wanted to toss his head back and rail at a non-existent God.

He stiffened and took a staggering step away from his father and remembered. Remembered this humiliation had been witnessed by a host of servants, servants who would surely talk. Then the entire ton would know. She would know. His gut churned. He was going to be ill.

“Not one member of this household will speak on what happened here,” his father said, correctly interpreting the direction of Drake’s thoughts. There was an air of ducal confidence to the promise.

Drake took another step backward, placing much needed distance between them.

His father’s throat bobbed up and down, displaying his unease. He held an outstretched hand toward Drake. “Don’t, Drake. Don’t turn from me.” It was an order. It was not a ducal order, but rather the words of a father demanding his child not shut him out.

Drake ignored him and, without another word, turned on his heel and climbed the last stairwell. He walked at a brisk pace down the long hall and finally reached his chambers. He shoved the door back with an aggravated force and entered, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.

Drake leaned against the closed hard panels of the oak door, borrowing the strength to stand. The hum of the room’s quiet fell in cadence with the heavy sound of his breathing.

When he thought he could move again without collapsing into a heap of shame, he dropped to the floor and sat with his body flush against the door.

Sir Faithful bounded across the room, and ran excitedly about Drake’s feet. The dog climbed up in his lap, and favored Drake’s face with a coarse, pink-tipped lick.

A bitter laugh escaped Drake, which he buried in Sir Faithful’s neck. “I should have known better.”

Instead, he had deluded himself into believing this defect in him, this tendency to lose control, would not prevent him from finding happiness with Emmaline. The memory of her, the taste of her lips, the sweet sounds he had swallowed within his own mouth, had all allowed him to pretend he could be more than he was. A monster bound for Bedlam.