Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(95)

“Emmaline needed you,” Drake said.

“As she did you.”

Ah, there it was, the subtle thrust and parry. It would be easy to dislike Mallen…if he weren’t so damn loyal to Emmaline. That the other man loved her and hated Drake for having abandoned her all these years, well…it was rather hard to feel any ill-will toward someone who felt that way toward his wife.

“I’m here now, Mallen.” Drake sketched a respectful bow. “If you will excuse me, I have to return home.” I miss my wife.

Drake had nearly reached the entrance.

“Drake,” Mallen called out, halting Drake in mid-stride down the hall.

He turned on his heel and waited for Mallen to speak.

“Tell Emmaline to throw out the bonnet I’d given her. Tell her I said her bonnet is just fine.”

Drake angled his head. Hell, he’d never figure the other man out. “Certainly, Mallen.” With that he left.

There was something he very much needed to tell his wife. Something that had been long over-due—and it wasn’t going to be about her bonnet.





Chapter 42

Emmaline sat back on her heels and surveyed the overgrown boxwoods. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, considering the bushes. A trickle of perspiration dripped from her brow. She removed her bonnet and swiped the back of her hand across the moisture.

Emmaline reached into the front pocket of her apron and withdrew a pair of pruning shears when a warm, wet tongue lapped the salty trace of sweat from her hand.

“Oh you loyal, loyal, boy.” Taking a momentary break from her efforts, she sat down with her legs drawn to her chest and proceeded to shower Sir Faithful with some deserved attention.

He made a moaning growl of approval and promptly flipped to his belly.

She laughed and scratched the sparse patch of fur on Sir Faithful’s underside. “How do you think your master is doing this afternoon?”

Sir Faithful gave a little yelp in response.

“Good, do you?” she answered for him.

Her brow wrinkled. She hoped Drake’s time at London Hospital didn’t cause him further distress. Emmaline had thought Drake might kindred spirits in the men who’d come to mean so much to her. She’d prayed Drake might find that which had eluded him for nearly four years—peace.

Emmaline did not delude herself into believing one visit would exact a miraculous transformation over Drake. She worried, however, that he wouldn’t want to return to London Hospital. And she couldn’t ask him any more than that from him. She did not presume to know what his life had been like on the Peninsula. It would therefore, be unfair for her to make requests that could very well cause him greater angst.

She gave Sir Faithful one more pat and then returned her attention to the boxwoods. “My poor forgotten, beautiful dears,” she praised them. “You must know you are utter perfection to me. You have not heard that enough, have you?” She clucked her tongue.

“I would say the same to you, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. Drake stood by the wrought-iron bench. He had a riding crop in one hand and beat it against his muscled thigh.

She placed her pruning shears in her apron pocket, and made to rise.

Drake walked over in three long strides, took her hands in his, and guided her up.

She wet her lips. His inscrutable expression gave her little indication of what he was thinking or about his trip to London Hospital. “Drake. How was—?”

He took her into his arms. His lips, a mere hairsbreadth apart from her own, tickled her skin with the faintest trace of coffee. “I love you.” He kissed her in the gentlest meeting of lips.

Emmaline’s knees went weak, but he caught her to him. His fingers undid the fraying blue satin ribbons of her bonnet. He gave a gentle tug, and then tossed the article aside. It caught a faint spring breeze, and then fell onto a nearby bush.

Emmaline’s heart raced with a giddy sense of joy. Oh, she’d known Drake had come to care a great deal for her. What man, after all, would share his poetry and humble himself before a tableside of strangers?

Tears welled in her eyes, and the elegantly white linen fold of his cravat blurred.

Drake’s finger traced the fullness of her lower lip, careful not to cause further pain to her bruised cheek. “Do you hear me? I—love—you.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.

Emmaline leaned into his caress. “I love you, so much. I think I always have.” She had loved him her entire life. There had been the inquisitive five–year-old girl who had loved the boy of three and ten who’d helped her to her feet. She had loved the man who cared so powerfully for his soldiers and a dog named, Valiant.

Drake drew her closer to him, lowering his cheek against the top of her head. He inhaled deep. “I’ve never deserved it.”

Emmaline wrapped her arms about his waist and held onto him tight.

Drake tilted her chin up. “Do you know when I fell in love with you?”

She shook her head.

“I spent the entire ride from London Hospital trying to figure out that very question. Do you know what I realized?”

“What did you realize?”

“There was no one time, Emmaline. There wasn’t one particular moment. It was a collection of so many memories and moments with you. When I saw you challenge Whitmore and his crony. The night you approached me at the opera, and then that next morning when you sent around that outrageous note. Or the day I spied you purchasing one of the most scandalous Gothic novels from the Old Corner Bookshop.” His throat moved up and down. He fixed his stare at some point beyond her shoulder. “The day I…lost control in your gardens and you just held me…it was the first time I hadn't felt alone since I’d returned from the Peninsula.”