Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(8)

Emmaline bristled at the condescending edge to his words. “You did just laugh.”

Drake took a step toward her and she retreated. He continued to advance, and this time she held her ground. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. The faint hint of coffee lingered on his breath, tickled her senses. The rising sun played with the strands of his flaxen hair, and created a pallet of golden hues and a memory intruded.

He was thirteen and she five. With his blonde crown of curls, he looked like a prince. Her innocent heart had danced with excitement at the prospect, and she had wanted to ask him if it were true. Even back then, his lips had been bent in a serious frown as he ignored her completely, and the question had died on her lips.

“Is this to become commonplace, my lady?”

She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”

“As you should be. Interrupting a gentleman’s solitude.”

She ground her teeth.

Drake touched the line of her jaw. “If you continue to grit your teeth so hard you are going to give yourself a megrim.”

Under most any other circumstances she’d have delighted in her betrothed’s touch. Not, however, on this occasion. His insolence stirred her blood. She removed his finger from her person. “I was not apologizing.”

“You said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

“For not understanding your question,” she snapped. “You asked if this was to become commonplace.”

A lull of silence descended. Drake eyed her with an unfathomable expression. “Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I to constantly be rescuing you from a series of scrapes?”

Emmaline fought back a wave of indignation. “I didn’t ask or need to be rescued by you.”

“My lady?” a voice called softly.

Emmaline and Drake spun to face her startled maid at the entrance of the gardens.

“We are leaving, Grace.” She gave a toss of her head. “And you, my lord, can return to, whatever consumed your thoughts before you came to my rescue.” She executed a perfectly respectable, deep curtsy. “You clearly need to work toward developing a greater appreciation for all life.”

The air left Drake’s lungs on a sudden exhale. “You are indeed correct, my lady.”

His agreement brought her up short. She quickly recovered. Giving a toss of her head, she nodded. “I bid you good day, my lord.”





Chapter 4

Dearest Lord Drake,

I attended my first play. I informed my mother and father that if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a duke, I would have had a career on the stage. Of course, that would have required I be a competent actress and singer—which sadly, I am neither. Still, I enjoy the stage tremendously. Perhaps we will one day attend the theatre together.



Ever Yours,

Emmaline

One hour and twenty-five minutes, and one long walk later, Emmaline’s fury was still a palpable force with life energy. The rub of it all was that she couldn’t single out what had left her most infuriated.

Drake’s disregard for the flowers.

Or Drake’s disregard for her.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew very well the reason for her upset.

She stomped up the steps of her brother’s townhouse. Carmichael, the family butler with his uncanny ability to know when visitors had arrived, pulled open front doors and she sailed through the entrance.

“My lady, Miss Winters is here. I took the liberty of having her wait in the Yellow Parlor.”

That brought Emmaline up short. She looked at the butler and smiled her first smile since…since…

Two very arrogant males had shattered her attempt at solitude. Her smile fell.

“Thank you, Carmichael.” She marched to the parlor. A visit with Sophie Winters was just the thing she needed.

Emmaline entered the room.

Her friend sat on the sofa, covetously eyeing an array of pastries and various other confections Cook had prepared.

The tray rested beside an unopened copy of the London Times.

”Hullo, Sophie.”

Sophie looked up. A smile wreathed her full, heart-shaped cheeks. “Em, I hope you don’t mind my early….” Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Emmaline plopped into the seat beside Sophie. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. She could say with a great degree of certainty that in her twenty years she’d been wrong on many scores.

At this precise moment, some things stood out more than others.

She’d been confident that upon reaching the advanced age of twenty she would have at least three things settled.

Firstly, she would have a home of her own.

Secondly, there would be a dog to cuddle with on cold days.

And, lastly, a husband to also cuddle with on cold days.

As it was, sitting on the chintz sofa in her brother’s parlor, she did not have a home of her own. Nor, for that matter did she have a dog. And most of all, she unequivocally did not have a husband. What she did have, as she had for the better part of her life, was a betrothed.

“Em?”

Emmaline shook her head. “I came upon a brute cutting the heads off a bed of forget-me-nots.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “What cad would do such a thing?”

Finally, a rational person.

“Lord Avondale.” She chose not to mention Lord Drake’s involvement. Giving her fingers something to do, she snapped up the copy of the Times.