Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(76)

Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.

“I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

Drake pressed his forehead against hers.

He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Emmaline rose up on her knees and brought her eyes level with his. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”

Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”

Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted.

A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”

Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.

Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.

“Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”





Chapter 34

For the third time in Drake’s life, he crossed into the Duke of Mallen’s office for a meeting that would determine his future. It did not escape his notice how Mallen failed to rise when Drake entered the room. Nor did the stoic man offer any greeting. Instead, he watched Drake with a hawk-like intensity, as if he feared Drake were a thief from the Seven Dials with intentions of absconding with the family jewels.

Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far from the mark.

When it didn’t seem as though the duke had any intentions of offering him a seat, Drake motioned to the leather-winged chair in front his desk. “May I?”

Mallen rapped distractedly on the desktop, the first indication of the other man’s unease. “As you wish.”

Drake settled into the seat and folded his ankle at the knee. He could easily understand Mallen’s dogged protectiveness of Emmaline. Though Drake had no siblings, he imagined if he did, that the last thing he’d allow was for his sister to wed a rogue like himself; especially after she’d been hurt by said rogue. In fact, in thinking on it, Mallen had been far more magnanimous than he Drake would have been. Hell, Mallen would have been justified calling him out.

Mallen’s fingers ceased their distracted movements. “Have you come to sit and stare at me all day?” Mallen’s words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

Drake shifted in his seat. “No, not at all, Your Grace.”

Mallen fixed him with a hard stare. “So, of a sudden, it’s Your Grace?”

This wasn’t going as Drake had planned. Might as well come out with it. “I’ve come to discuss your sister,” he said evenly.

A muscle ticked at the corner of the duke’s right eye. He leaned across the desk. “Oh? To discuss my sister?”

He took a fortifying breath. “I want to ask for her hand—”

“You are either mad, arrogant, or both.” Mallen pointed a finger in Drake’s direction. “For fifteen years you haven’t paid Emmaline any notice. Not until she asked me to sever the arrangement did you decide to court her and that is only after the gossips dragged her name through the scandal sheets. Tell me, why would I ever consent to turning the person I love more than anyone else, over to you?”

“Because I…” Drake tried to force out a suitable response.

But no words emerged.

That was the rub of it—Drake couldn’t give one bloody reason Mallen should allow him Emmaline’s hand in marriage. Mallen possessed one of the most revered titles in the kingdom and therefore wouldn’t be impressed by Drake’s status as heir to a dukedom. Nor could Drake drum up one redeeming quality that he possessed to garner the other gentleman’s respect.

Nor could he come here and believe that he might erase fifteen years of neglect.

He did know that his only desire was to spend every minute of the rest of his life married to her. That thought consumed him like a conflagration. He wanted her, nay, needed her, and even if it meant spiriting her off to Gretna Green, he was determined to wed her.

“I’m waiting,” Mallen said.

No argument would ever be sufficient for the other man.

He settled for honesty. “I need her.”

Mallen scoffed. “You need her.”

She had become his sustenance. “Yes, I need her like I need water and air to breathe.”

The Duke groaned. “Please spare me any further of your meager attempts at poetry.”

Drake’s collar grew unbearably tight at mention of his recitation the prior evening, and he gave his cravat a tug. In spite of Mallen’s scornful words, he forced himself to press on. After all, he hadn’t expected to saunter into the Duke’s office, request Emmaline’s hand, and receive the other man’s blessing. He steeled himself. “I’m not being poetic. I need—”