Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(64)

Winding his way around the front room, Sin steered Drake to his bedchambers. With a grunt he heaved Drake over to the bed.

Drake landed hard and then promptly fell backwards. “Oomph.” He blinked up at the ceiling. “The room is spinning. Howww did White’s manage such a feat?”

“We shall ask the majordomo tomorrow,” Sin promised and, good friend that he was, set to work tugging off Drake’s boots.

Drake flung a hand over his eyes. “I don’t deserve her, you know. Came back a madman.”

Sin paused in his efforts. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. But this is not the time to debate the point.” Once both boots had been removed, Sin took a seat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

“I-I-I’m going to make some changes, maaark my words.”

“I certainly hope so. Your first order should be—”

Drake very much did want some guidance on what his first order should be, but he was so damned drunk that he couldn’t quite string together Sin’s words. And after a bottle of whiskey, he’d at last muted the pain of losing Emmaline to a dull ache.

Closing his eyes, he slid into blessed oblivion.





Chapter 29

My Dearest Drake,

I am a coward. I have not sent you one note in three years. But you haven’t sent me one note either. Are you a coward as well? Or worse, do you just not care?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

After two weeks sleeping at his club, Drake moved back home. There were no questions from the Duke of Hawkridge, no articulation of displeasure. Father and son had settled back into the same stilted, uneasy arrangement they’d had since Drake returned from the war.

Drake tugged back the curtains that covered his bedroom window and peered out at the night sky. His finger traced a distracted path across the pane of the window. Clouds billowed across the moon and blotted out all stars in the sky.

As usual, sleep eluded him. This time, demons from the Peninsula were not the ghosts that drifted about his consciousness, robbing him of an undeserving peace. Instead he was possessed by memories of a feisty, courageous lady with joyful eyes, and imaginings of her with another man.

Drake slammed his fist into the ivory plaster wall beside the window.

The violent movement sent the seemingly forgotten drawstring sack tumbling from the edge of the nightstand. His eyes snagged the article lying on the wood floor.

Since they’d parted, he’d not allowed himself to read the notes Emmaline had written to him. The cowardly part of him hadn’t wanted to acknowledge there had been a young lady named Emmaline, who’d spent hours of her time writing to him, but had been too shamed to ever send him the notes.

Had he always been an utter bastard where she was concerned?

Drake crossed the few feet separating him from the bag, and snatched it up.

Then with far greater care, he untied the silk sack, and pulled out a large stack of notes that were neatly tied with a blue satin ribbon. The top ivory vellum envelope was addressed to Captain Drake.

Drake returned back to bed and lied down. He propped his head on several pillows. Sir Faithful leapt up onto the bed and claimed the spot next to Drake. He petted the dog. “You, too, want to know what she said, do you, my boy?”

He undid the delicate bow holding the letters together, and pulled out the first envelope. Taking great care, he slipped a finger beneath the fold of the thick vellum and withdrew the note.

He patted Sir Faithful on the head, shook out the parchment, and read her words.



Dearest Lord Drake,

There is something I must share with you. It is dreadful and horrible. And if you were reluctant to wed me before this moment, well then (sigh), I am sure you will never want to wed me now. Are you ready? Dare I even put these words to paper? I cannot dance. There you have it. I tread abominably upon my dance master’s toes. I have overheard him speaking with mother. He said he was one broken toe away from finding another assignment.

Having tired of him as a dance master, I ground my heel quite happily upon his foot.

I am awaiting the arrival of my next dance master.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake dragged a finger along the blank ink, tracing the lines she’d made on the page. Odd that such a long time ago, a much younger Emmaline’s hand had stroked the marks on this note.

He set the letter aside and moved to the next. Drake read scores and scores of letters, noting when the tone changed, when the words became the words of a young woman, and no longer a girl who traipsed across the countryside, climbing trees, engaging in mischief with her older brother.

Unlike so many other nights, he willed himself awake. He continued reading until the swell of the bright morning sun appeared on the horizon. Her notes had become a lure he’d been hooked upon, that he didn’t want to be freed of.

He reached for the final remaining note.



My Dearest Drake,

I realize you have not read any of my notes— because I failed to send them. There is so much I’ve yearned to say to you. I’ve longed to ask why you left to fight. I’ve longed to ask what flaws are so inherent in my character that you should never have written me. I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me. Then I wonder if those thoughts are ever pleasant.

I wish you would know I will be a good wife to you. Oh, I might not be biddable and easily controlled, but we will know laughter. When you return, I long to laugh with you.