Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(52)

It hadn’t been enough that he’d lost control in front of her. Hell, that time should have been the first and last he’d allowed himself to be in her presence. But he’d persisted—because he was a selfish, filthy bastard who’d cared more about how she made him feel, how she made him forget.

Drake should be grateful this had happened. Now he could at least spare her hurt. He could take it on as his own. In fact, Drake should be glad for it.

So why wasn’t he? Why did he wish the day had continued along as he’d imagined.

He would have marched up Mallen’s steps with an armful of the white flowers he and Emmaline had lain amidst and then asked for her hand.

Her endless brown eyes would have sparkled with merriment and shock when he told her he wanted to make her his wife.

Mallen would bang his fist on his desk and glower at Drake with displeasure.

Drake dropped his head into his hands and pressed his fingers against throbbing temples, and continued to cradle Sir Faithful close. Excruciating headaches usually followed the episodes. He welcomed the pain this time for it helped dull the agonizing feeling of his heart being ripped piece by piece from his body.

The pain prevented him from thinking about how close he’d come to having it all.





Chapter 23

My Dearest Drake,

Is it silly that, when you return, I want you to court me?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline fairly raced through Hyde Park in a manner that would have earned gasps of disapproval from Society members—if they’d been present, of course. She had sent Drake a note, claiming her picnic as the prize for their Glenarvon challenge.

That had been a week ago. Well, six days to be precise, which to Emmaline may as well have constituted a week.

In that time, there had been no acknowledgement, no return note, no teasing banter, no sudden appearance at a ball or musicale. Nothing. It had been as though everything she’d shared with Drake had been nothing more than a fleeting fantasy.

Emmaline had begun to think he’d never again contact her.

Until yesterday.

At last, Drake had replied to her request

“My lady, can you please slow down?” her maid called out in a panting gasp. The sound of gravel kicking up furiously punctuated her breathless request.

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. A twinge of guilt hit her. She sighed and slowed her steps. The ivory drawstring bag dotted with blue beads she held in her right hand swung against her side.

“My lady, would you like to rest soon,” Grace suggested.

Emmaline drew to a full stop on the Serpentine Bridge, which marked the boundary between Hyde Gardens and Kensington Gardens. Her abrupt movements sent Grace stumbling against her.

“Beg pardon, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced down at the parchment in her hands. “Fine, fine,” Emmaline said. She studied the note.



My Dearest Emmaline,

Would you do me the honor of meeting me in Hyde Park at Kensington Gardens? I shall be there at five o’clock in the morning. That is if it isn’t too early.

Yours,

Drake

Emmaline squinted off into the distance. A lone figure stood with his back to her and Grace. Attired entirely in black, there was something ominously dark about him.

Emmaline turned to Grace. “Please, wait here.”

Emmaline didn’t wait to see if Grace did as she was ordered. Instead, she hurried toward her betrothed.

Drake stood with his back to her. His gaze trained on the indigo and pale lavender hues traipsing across the early morning sky.

It was Sir Faithful who gave her a barking greeting. Drake’s broad frame stiffened as she approached but he didn’t so much as turn to look at her.

She fell to her knee. “Hello, Sir Faithful. How have you been, my boy?” She rubbed the spot between his eyes and he leaned into her touch.

“Emmaline,” Drake greeted, his tone deadened.

Emmaline stood, her pale blue muslin day gown rustling on a wisp of wind. “Why have you not returned my notes?” She heard the edge of hurt betrayal underlining her words. “I don’t understand. One moment, you seem to enjoy my company and then you disappear. It is as though you are two people.”

He stiffened.

“I believed you had come to care for me,” she whispered. “Can’t you even look at me?”

Drake spun around; his flat emerald eyes leveled her. She took a faltering step backwards, unprepared for the cold gaze he passed over her. He arched an icy, indifferent brow.

“I really don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was as frigid as a January freeze.

One hand attempted to smother a gasp wrenched from inside her heart while the other dropped the bag she’d carried with her.

It hit the gravel path with a soft thud.

She angled her chin up and refused to be cowed. She didn’t know where she found the courage for the next words. “I’ve waited fifteen long years for you. I’m no longer a girl. I can’t continue as we are.” She held an outstretched hand towards him. “It’s breaking my heart.” The words stripped her of her remaining pride.

He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed. It was a foul curse she’d only heard uttered by her brother once, and that had been the day their father died.

“Emmaline, I believe you have made too much of—of,” his hand slashed the air, “this.” He motioned between them.