Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(91)

Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, remembering that fateful day, when they’d signed the official betrothal contract. A memory tickled the corners of his mind. Recollections suddenly came rushing back to him; he was a boy who’d helped a very young girl to her feet. He’d reached out and touched those auburn locks. He caught a strand of her silken hair between his fingers. “Brown suits you.”

Emmaline’s lips tipped up in a tremulously beautiful smile. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

Drake stroked a hand over her cheek. “I remember it all.”

“I’d ask something of you, Drake.”

He inclined his head.

“I would that you visit London Hospital. The men would be so pleased to see you. And I think it would do you good, as well.”

That was the real motivation behind her request. Somehow, she possessed the insight to know what it had taken him years to realize—in order to be free of the war, he needed to confront it. As long as he ran from the memories, they would continue to haunt him.

The thought of seeing the men who’d shared his hell made him nauseous. His fingers stroked the beloved lines of her face. He was fairly certain there was nothing he could ever deny her. Not even this.

“I will visit with the…men.”

Emmaline’s expression warmed several degrees. She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss she gave him was sweet, soft, lingering.

It tasted like…the future.





Chapter 41

The prickling ease of nervousness climbed up Drake’s back, around his neck, and nearly overwhelmed him with a cloying panic. He tugged at his cravat.

It did not help.

Where was the nurse who was supposed to meet him? An interminable amount of time had passed since he’d arrived at eleven o’clock. He tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece.

Five minutes after eleven.

Mayhap he should leave. He’d simply explain to Emmaline that he’d waited…all of five minutes, and no one had arrived to show him to the respective ward. It might serve him to exaggerate the span of time just a tad. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d— A nurse clad in a stark white dress appeared in the main corridor of the hospital. “My lord, it is an honor.” She dipped a formal curtsy. “I’m Nurse Maitland.”

He lurched forward, the fabric of his greatcoat billowed at the alacrity of his movements. He cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. “Nurse Maitland.”

Drake reminded himself it was just a visit with men who’d seen and done things not much different than he had. He doffed his hat, and beat the small brim of the article distractedly against his thigh.

“May I show you to the wing Her Ladyship visits?”

He’d rather she show him a way out of the hospital. Drake nodded. “Uh-yes, that would be fine.”

“Her Ladyship is a noble, wonderful woman.” Either unaware or uncaring of Drake’s desire to engage as little as possible in conversation, the woman prattled on and on. “She is always generous and so very kind to the men. They greatly enjoy her visits.”

Drake was certain of it. How could Emmaline bring anyone anything other than joy? She had an inherent goodness and warmth that was a tangible force.

“She visits often, I understand,” he murmured.

“Oh, yes.”

The nurse fell silent; the only sound, the soft click of his boot steps and her serviceable shoes on the hall floor. And yet, now that she’d ceased talking, Drake found himself suddenly eager for more information from the woman. He found a yearning to know more about Emmaline.

Drake cleared his throat. “What—what does the marchioness do on her visits?”

From the corner of his eye, he observed the older woman’s smile. “Why, she reads to the soldiers, tells them stories. Brings them floral arrangements and baskets of treats. My lady has visited each week for many years now. I don’t know another person more steadfast and pure of heart.”

Neither did he.

Where he’d spent the interim years since the war carousing, gambling, and womanizing, she had led a far nobler, far more redeeming life.

“Here we are.” She opened a set of double doors and Drake passed through.

In his imaginings of the hospital for returned soldiers, he’d envisioned a drab, dark place with rows upon rows of beds with soldiers lying in stony silence.

With the exception of the rows of beds, none of the images he’d conjured had been correct.

The room, far brighter than he’d imagined resonated with the chatter of men, sharing stories, laughing at ribald jokes. Fresh cut blooms in white porcelain vases had been placed on nightstands beside a number of the beds.

Nurse Maitland saw the direction of his gaze. “My lady’s doing,” she explained. “The flowers are from her gardens. It does add cheer to the room, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does that.”

All as one, it was as if the men present registered the presence of an interloper. Seemingly endless pairs of eyes turned in his direction, leveling him with curiosity and suspicion. He thought he’d feel uncomfortable among them, that the sense of failure which weighted on him would make any meetings awkward. He would not have blamed any one of the men who had served under him and fallen on the fields to feel anything but anger toward him. They would be justified in their feelings.