Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(69)

Sin sighed. “So when is this courtship to ensue?”

Drake shook his head. “Not right now. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Soon.”

Sinclair tapped the edges of his chair.

The rhythmic sound grated until Drake snapped. “You must have something to say.”

“I’m certain Mallen won’t go for it.”

Drake gazed into the depths of his drink wishing he could divine the answers within the swirling amber liquid. “No, no, that is a certainty.”

Sin leaned forward in his chair. “What makes you certain the lady will be amiable to your suit?”

Recent memories of last evening’s waltz filled him. He could still feel the heat of her skin, still see the smile playing on her lush, seductive red lips, hear her laughter. “Last evening at the Thompson ball—”

Sin slashed the air with his hand. “Yes, yes. I heard all about the Thompson ball. Anyone who is anyone has, in fact. A waltz, however, does not a courtship make.” He inched again to the edge of his seat. “As much as I want to see you happy, I don’t want to see you hurt again by Lady Emmaline.”

Drake tossed back the contents of his glass and growled. He didn’t like the way Sin was pinning the state of his unhappiness on Emmaline. “I was the one responsible for Emmaline’s decision to sever the betrothal. Not the young lady.”

Sin cradled his drink between his hands, studying Drake over the edge of the glass. “I understand the lady is entitled to her sense of injury. You, however, are my main concern. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve known enough hurt.”

“You’re mothering me, Sin.”

Sin bristled. “Well, you are in desperate need of mothering.”

Drake glanced at a point just over Sinclair’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. How could Sin ever know that the ache of losing Emmaline was far greater than any physical pain? “I need her.”

Sin didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Do you…love her?” The word came out halting. Men didn’t speak of these things.

Drake grimaced. There it was again. That question. Did he love her?

“I don’t know.”

Sin held up his tumbler in mock salute. “You’d better have more of an answer for the lady than that.”

“I will not lie to her. I want there to be honesty between us.”

His friend snorted. “Trust me, when presented with the choice of honesty or love, a lady will always choose love.”

In spite of his friend’s words, Drake had already made up his mind to share with Emmaline the demons that had held him back. He’d confess to her about the affliction that had haunted him since he’d returned from war. He would, as his father suggested, allow her to decide for herself if it was too much of an albatross.

Still the idea that she might reject him…sweat popped up on his brow. What if it were too much for her? What if she wisely decided he was not worth it?

After all, what had he brought her other than heartache?

“What is it you require of me?” Sinclair asked, his tone, uncharacteristically sober. “You know I will do anything to help you.”

Drake reached down and stroked Sir Faithful between the ears. “I need guidance on how to woo a lady.” He sat up and then fished around his front pocket. Drake stared at the parchment a moment and then handed it over to Sinclair.

Sin laughed and accepted the parchment. “And you think I might be able to help you? You, the one recognized throughout Society as being an expert with matrons and debutantes alike?”

Drake shifted in his seat. “That is a gross exaggeration.” He nodded to the paper in Sin’s hands.

Sin glanced down at the heavily marked sheet with extensive cross-outs and too much ink. His brow furrowed.

“It’s a poem.”

“Uh, yes, I see that,” Sin said.

Drake snatched the sheet back and proceeded to study it. “It’s rubbish.”

“I take it the poem is for Lady Emmaline?”

It didn’t escape Drake’s notice that his friend didn’t counter his statement about the quality of the poem.

Drake set the paper aside. “No, it’s for Mallen. Of course it’s for Emmaline.”

Sinclair laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

“So glad you’re amused,” Drake muttered. “Emmaline wanted to be courted. She deserves to be courted.” His eyes went to the impressive bouquet of flowers he’d had delivered earlier that afternoon…to himself. They rested on his desktop, or rather they sat wilting on his desktop.

Sinclair followed the direction of Drake’s stare. “Uh, they’ve begun to wilt.”

“Yes, yes they have.”

Drake had spent last evening and the better part of the morning laboring over a poem. Then, he’d ordered the flowers. He looked over at the buds again. The dying flowers. The poem, though shit, was finally complete. Who’d have figured it would be so bloody difficult to put words to paper?

Sin cleared his throat. “So when you said you intended to court Lady Emmaline, just not today or tomorrow…that wasn’t altogether true.”

Drake surged from his chair and strode across the room. He shoved back the damask curtains and stared out the window into the dark night sky.