Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(55)

Drake’s stare wandered away from her precious face as his mind tripped down a path of remembrance. In spite of how it had appeared to Emmaline, he had indeed cared about the loss she’d suffered. He had meant to go to her.

It was that moment when he realized with certainty—he could not fight for her. The great hurt she still carried with her, a hurt she was more than entitled to, symbolized a divide that would forever keep him from being worthy of her. He had failed her too many times.

“I am sorrier for that than you can ever know,” he said. He flinched when her soft, delicate fingers caressed his cheek.

Hesitating just a moment, she reached up on tiptoe and placed a sweet, lingering kiss on his lips.

It tasted like good-bye.

Without a word, she turned on her heel, and left.





Chapter 24

My Dearest Drake,

I have just returned from London, where I found the most delightful straw bonnet for my gardening! I shall never be beet red again!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake stood rooted to his spot. The scent of Emmaline seemed to linger and he feared if he so much as moved, he’d waft the citrus scent of her off into nothing more than a memory. He stood so still his shoulders ached.

Time passed at an interminable crawl.

Sir Faithful nudged him in the leg until he looked down. The loyal fellow favored Drake with a sad, accusing brown-eyed stare. “I’m a fool, Sir.”

Sir Faithful yapped in agreement.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He hadn’t felt anything in the three years since he’d returned and now he should feel it all: pain, happiness, despair. He hated the swell of emotion that threatened to carry him away.

Over the past three years Drake had constructed a wall around himself; a barrier against the outside world. In a few short months, Emmaline had taken it down brick by brick until she’d exposed him as a scared and hurt man.

Even as he cared for Emmaline, in that moment, Drake hated her for forcing him to face the lie he’d been living. He’d tried his damnedest to bury himself in empty pursuits, whoring and gaming. And those were no longer enough and would never be enough.

Now the only thing he longed for, craved like air he breathed, was her.

And she was gone.

He wanted to slam his fist into something. There was no one to release his pent up fury on…except…

Drake turned on his heel.

He retrieved his mount and headed to the home of the one person he could direct his wrath upon.

When he arrived at his destination, he flung the reins to a waiting boy and threw him a sovereign and promised another when he returned. Drake strode up the townhouse steps and banged his fist on the door.

A wide-eyed butler opened it. “My lord, I shall…”

Drake stormed past the servant and started up the stairway. “Where is he?”

The graying butler’s skin turned ashen. “My lord,” he squeaked, and hurried up the steps, two at a time. “He is still abed, if you…”

Drake’s long legs had already outdistanced the butler, and the other man’s words trailed off. Drake continued on down the hall.

Having, of course, never visited Sin in his bedchambers, he wasn’t entirely certain which rooms the bastard occupied.

It did, however, give Drake some matter of satisfaction to kick in each closed doorway, sending them bouncing off the wall with a resounding boom.

Half-way down the hall, he kicked in one more door, and heard an answering groan.

“Get up,” Drake thundered, entering the chambers. He crossed over to the bed and tugged down the mound of blankets. He tossed them to the floor.

Sin draped an arm across his eyes seeming to care more about the intrusion of light than his naked form which had been exposed. “What has you in such a foul temper?” he groused, and dragged a pillow over his eyes.

Drake fished the note from his pocket and flung it at his friend. He began to pace. “What is this about? Where are your loyalties, that you would assist Emmaline in her maneuverings?”

Sin tossed aside the blanket and sat up slowly. He reached over the side of the bed and picked up his robe. “Whatever are you talking about?” Sin asked as he jammed his arms within the sleeves. He reached for the note, read it, and set it aside. “Oh, this.”

Drake’s movements were drawn to a jerky halt. He fixed a glare on his traitorous friend. “Oh, this? That is all you have to say?” Anyone else would have been terrified by the bloody calm in Drake’s words.

As if to show Drake how terrified he in fact was, Sin stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He stood and belted his robe at the waist. “You were in need of a push,” he said matter-of-factly. His bare feet padded across the plush Aubusson carpet.

Unmindful of the early hour, Sin strode over to the drink cart situated against the curtained window, and poured a healthy glass of whiskey. Very deliberately, he swirled the contents of the glass and then took a long, slow swallow, until he’d polished off the brew. He set the empty glass down.

Drake clenched his fists at his side, knowing his friend was trying to stir his ire. He took a deep breath. “It isn’t your place to meddle in my life. I neither want, nor need your interference. I’ve had to deal with my father’s maneuverings. I don’t need yours as well.”

Sinclair picked up his glass and refilled it. He studied Drake almost quizzically. “Are you sure of that?” He took a sip of whiskey. “Can you honestly say you’ve been happy since you returned from the war? For the love of God, Drake, you’ve gamed and whored more than even I can keep up with. And tell me? Has it brought you happiness?”