Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(84)

She closed the door on a soft click and then moved down the hall. Generally, all candles would have been extinguished. Yet here, in Drakes home the lit sconces illuminated her way. Eerie shadows danced and flickered off the walls around her and she frowned as a shiver of nervousness stole along her spine.

“Don’t be a ninny,” she said into the quiet, soothed by the sound of her own voice. Still, she picked up her pace, unsure of her next destination. Emmaline came to a long hall that split into two directions. She paused, chewing her lip.

Well, she wasn’t going to find him standing still. Turning down the hallway that would lead her to the rooms on the left side of the townhouse, she approached the first door and poked her head inside. It was a parlor. She wrinkled her nose. A very dark and dreary parlor devoid of feminine frills and adornment. She would see to that.

Emmaline moved to the next door and found what she assumed was Drake’s office. It too, was empty. Continuing on, she noted a flicker of a light under the crack of one doorway, and made her way over to it.

She gently turned the handle and pushed it forward. Seated in a leather winged back chair, with his legs propped on a table in front of him, Drake stared off into the flickering flames of the lit fireplace, an opened book, seemingly forgotten on his lap. Sir Faithful rested soundly at his feet.

“Drake?”

Drake did not give any indication that he’d been startled by her unexpected appearance. Sir Faithful, however, raised his head drowsily to determine who’d intruded on his sleep, before giving a big yawn and resting his head on his paws.

“He is not much of a guard dog,” she said, breaking the thick silence.

He finally spared her a brief glance. “Emmaline.” His tone was flat.

Emmaline wet her lips nervously. “You left me.” She flinched at the hurt little accusatory edge to her words.

Drake looked away, but not before she glimpsed the blankness in his expression. “I’m not tired.”

Was this the same man who’d made sweet love to her mere hours ago? Emmaline cleared her throat. “That isn’t possible. After the wedding? Our travels?” Our lovemaking.

His jaw set stonily. “I slept in the carriage.”

Emmaline sidled closer. “It is past two o’clock in the morning.” The fireplace flame danced off the gold lettering of the book on his lap, pulling her attention to that which had drawn him away from her bed.

She started. And then her lips twitched with gloating amusement. The Castle of Wolfenbach.

Drake saw the direction of her notice and flushed. He shifted in his seat as though he was a naughty child caught pilfering treats from the kitchen.

“Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Are you reading a Gothic novel?”

Drake reached out and before she could anticipate his intentions, he dragged her across his lap and began nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. He trailed his tongue along the skin until she shivered. His skilled fingers inched her modest dressing gown up, higher, and higher, so her naked thighs were exposed to the night air.

She swatted at his fingers. “You didn’t answer me.”

He proceeded to nibble the corner of her lip. “I think you can see I was,” he said on a silken whisper.

She angled her head away from him. “Stop trying to distract me. Apologize.”

“I’m trying not to be offended by your lack of interest in my advances, love,” he drawled.

“Apologize,” she pressed, fighting the allure of his seductive smile.

Drake sighed. “I’m sorry for kissing you…”

Emmaline laughed and took another playful swipe. “Don’t be a great lummox. Tell me I was right, and how wonderful a good Gothic novel is.”

Drake laid his head back on the leather of the chair and shook his head back and forth. “Are we truly having this discussion now?”

She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”

“I still hold your gothic novels are over-dramatic, ridiculous—“

Her gasp quashed his tirade. “You cannot disparage them and then read them clandestinely. It’s—”

“May I finish, my lady?”

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest. “Finish.”

Clearing his throat, Drake continued. “It is true. Since I stumbled upon you at the Old Corner Bookshop and read Glenarvon, I found, to my utter amazement,” he muttered beneath his breath, “they do indeed make for occasionally bloody, interesting reading. So, I offer my most humble apologies, my lady. You were indeed correct. A gothic novel can be very entertaining.”

Emmaline leaned down and placed a long, slow, lingering kiss upon his lips.

His hand resumed its earlier ministrations, climbing the path of her white thigh, higher, higher, just to the juncture of her thighs, when she swiped at him again.

Drake’s hand fell to the arm of the chair. He sighed. “Yes?”

“That isn’t all,” she reminded him.

Drake’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t?

“No, it isn’t. You left me.”

Just then his fingers parted the folds of her womanhood. In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, her body responded eagerly to his touch. With a keening moan, she arched into his hand, writhing helplessly in his lap.

“Stop,” she panted, shimmying away from him. She flung the skirts of her nightgown back down into place.