Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(65)

Since you will never read this, I intend to show you!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

His eyes slid closed, and he brought the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. Except the citrus lemon scent that was hers had long faded.

For fifteen long years he had existed in a world where he was beholden to none, where all he felt, all he knew were his own hurt and disappointments. He had never allowed himself to consider there was any other injured party; a young woman desiring marriage. Instead he had nurtured his anger, kept it close.

He now realized that anger had become a mechanism he’d used to protect himself from the people around him. Emmaline had indeed taught him to laugh again, to feel. She had reminded him he was still human.

It was time he faced life.

He stroked Sir Faithful between the ears and thought about the woman who meant more to him than anyone.

Could he? Should he?

He shoved himself up and rang for his valet to help him into different clothes before starting downstairs. As he walked down the hall, a well-trained Sir Faithful trotted obediently at his heels. The dog came to an immediate stop when Drake halted at one particular room. He rapped on the door and entered his father’s study.

“Father.”

The Duke of Hawkridge set aside the scandal sheet he’d been reading and removed his monocle. “Come in, come in.” He tried to shove an envelope atop the paper.

Drake’s eyes narrowed.

His father didn’t try to prevent him from picking up the offending document.

He scanned the article and made a disapproving sound. “Really, Father? The scandal sheets?” He threw the paper down upon the desk and took a seat.

His father flushed and made a vague motion with his hand. “What is it, son?”

Drake folded one leg at his knee and tapped a staccato rhythm upon the arms of the chair. Sir Faithful yapped once, and Drake leaned down and scratched him between the ears. “I purchased a bachelor’s residence,” he said at last.

His father gave a slight inclination of his head. He propped his chin on steepled fingers, but otherwise showed no outward reaction to Drake’s pronouncement.

“Are you…certain you are—are…interested in being alone?”

Interpretation being; what will you do when I’m not there to help with the nightmares?

He gave his father a long, assessing look.

For the first time, he looked at the Duke of Hawkridge, and realized his strong, powerful father looked—old. A strip of gray peppered the hair at his temples, and the lines of his face, always firm, had softened. He now possessed wrinkles around the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

That moment, Drake was shamed as he realized he was not the only one who had been scarred by the war. The Duke of Hawkridge had witnessed far too many of his son’s nightmares to remain unaffected by Drake’s transformation from man to monster.

Drake held his father’s gaze. “It’s not your fault, Father,” he said.

His father dragged a hand through his hair. The normally steady fingers shook. “What isn’t my fault, Drake? The war? The broken betrothal? The nightmares?” he asked bitterly.

“Any of it. The decision to enlist was mine and mine alone.”

His father pressed his fingers tight against his forehead and rubbed. “Because of your resentment toward me. I—I am so sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

Drake swallowed past a swell of emotion. “I believe at one point I did blame you. For years, in fact. It was wrong of me. Childish.”

The admission, this sudden absolution his father deserved, was freeing. It had not been his father’s fault that Drake had high-tailed it to the Peninsula. Drake had no one to blame but himself. It was also healing to take ownership of the decisions he’d made.

Silence descended upon the room, punctuated by the methodic tick of the clock.

“That blasted betrothal. Seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his father muttered. “What a disaster it turned out to be.”

Drake flinched. It struck somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, to think of the betrothal as a disaster. “Again, Father, it was only because of me. Given all the decisions I made, I could never bring myself to resent the betrothal.” It had given him months of happiness. Filled him with joy.

Sir Faithful nudged Drake’s knee. Drake rewarded him with another affectionate stroke. It had brought him Sir Faithful.

He thought of Emmaline and his gut clenched and unclenched at the pain of loss.

If only he had her…

Go to her, woo her.

“You can pursue her on your own,” the Duke of Hawkridge said into the quiet.

Drake didn’t move. “The nightmares, Father.”

“Maybe she can help you.”

“I cannot place this burden on her.” He had placed enough burdens on Emmaline, he could not, nay would not, add this one. “No matter how much I care for her, no matter how it fills me with rage at the thought of any gentleman courting her, I have to face the reality—I’m a madman.”

His father scoffed. “You are no madman. You were affected by what you saw and did. You’d be a madman if you weren’t affected by those experiences.” He arched a brow. “I made decisions that I felt were in your best interest. How much did you appreciate it? Perhaps you should let Lady Emmaline decide for herself if she would stay and fight these demons alongside you.”