Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(62)

“I asked him, Em.”

“I-I know.” She’d heard the whole exchange.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your answers.”

Not as sorry as I am.





Chapter 28

Dearest Lord Drake, I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline



Drake strode down St. James Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.

News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.

The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.

Drake’s jaw twitched. Apparently not even his club would serve as a sanctuary. He looked straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the gentlemen who were as eager as the matrons at Almack’s for a juicy morsel of gossip.

His progress across the club was halted by a bold dandy attired in gold breeches and a flamboyant orange jacket. The man stepped into his path, slowing Drake’s path to the empty table in the far, far corner. Drake held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the offending hues. The candlelight flickered and bounced off the shine of the dandy’s satin fabrics. Why, with the seemingly constant rainy days in London, all they needed to do was drag out this fop to brighten the sky.

“My lord—”

“What?”

Drake’s dangerous whisper echoed around the still of the room. The gentlemen seated, drinking their traitorous French brandies and placing bets, drew in a collective, audible breath.

The color blanched from the young man’s cheeks. “Uh-I-uh…p-pardon me.” He scurried off like a rodent being chased by the house cat.

Drake deviated from his path and headed toward the famous betting book. He picked up a pen and scribbled a wager into the infamous log. Slamming the pen into the crystal inkwell, he marched over and at last reached the table furthest from the crowd of gentlemen.

A hesitant majordomo approached. He cleared his throat. “My lord is there something—?”

“A bottle of whiskey,” he growled.

With lightning speed, a bottle was procured, along with a tumbler.

Drake picked up the bottle and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor into the glass. He tossed it back and welcomed the fiery trail it burned down the back of his throat. His lips twisted up in a grimace. God, it was a foul brew. He’d hated it when he was in Oxford and he hated it even more now. But he’d be damned if he picked up a bloody bottle of French brandy. All in all, the vile stuff would serve the very same purpose. He again reached for the bottle and sloshed liquid to the rim. Before the night was through, he had every intention of getting mind-numbingly foxed.

Just then, his eyes snagged on the copy of the Times, resting on the table. The corner of his eye ticked, once, then twice. And because he’d developed a taste for self-torture, he reached for the offending paper and proceeded to skim. There it was. On the front page, in dark bold print were two familiar initials.

Lady E. F.

Why didn’t they print the entire bloody names anyways? Every last bugger in the whole bloody kingdom knew each lord or lady mentioned by initials in the scandal sheets. So why stand on ceremony?

They should have out with it already. The paper should come right out and say: The Earl of Waxham has launched a whirlwind courtship of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh.

With fingers that shook, he poured several more fingerfuls into his empty glass. God, he thought he might be sick. He wanted to blame it on the amber brew, then he tortured himself with the excerpt once again. Nausea roiled and it was all he could do to keep from casting up the accounts of his stomach right there in the middle of White’s.

Waxham hadn’t wasted any time. It had been four bloody days since Drake had signed those damned documents. Four days of regrets. Four days of despair.

In each of the four sleepless nights, he’d railed at himself for signing Mallen’s bloody papers. Why hadn’t he told the other man to go to the devil?

Because of her. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about Emmaline. Drake didn’t merely desire her. He ached for her with a pain-like ferocity. Her happiness and safety meant more to him than even his own. A bitter laugh escaped him. Who would have believed, the emotionless Lord Drake would ever come to care for the same lady he’d spent his life avoiding? Oh, it was the kind of drivel poets wrote about, the kind of nonsense he himself scoffed at.

Until her.

He’d told himself countless times she was better off without him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. Other times he honed in on those words stuck in his mind. Drake willed himself to accept her loss so he could move forward and be free of her sorceress-like hold.

Instead his want for her grew stronger. The feelings swelled each time he read her name.

But this—thoughts of her and Waxham—it was too much. He was strong. He wasn’t that strong. He’d rather face down a line of Boney’s men than confront this horror.