Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (4 page)

A laugh bubbled up from Sophie’s throat. “Mother will be thrilled to have the Duke of Mallen’s sister.” It was no secret Sophie’s mother, Viscountess Redbrooke,
all but drooled like a pug in summer with any mention of the Mallen title.

Just then, there was only one gentleman whose marital status Emmaline cared about…and it most definitely was not her brother’s.

Sophie nodded. “I will let Mother know upon my return.”

Emmaline’s jaw hardened in anticipation of seeing Drake’s face that evening.

Lord Drake, I hope you haven’t put away your uniform, for you, sir, are headed back into battle.

Chapter 5

My Dearest Lord Drake,

For the first time in my life, I am grateful you are not here. I spent hours in the gardens and am bright as a beet. I am not a sight fit for good company.
At least that is what my brother said.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Signora
Valentina Nicolleli, an accomplished mezzo-soprano, had a voice with a deep, rich sultry tone that twined around each note she sang like a sea nymph clinging to the hull of a ship. The sensual quality could be felt from her soaring E sharp to her A flat, which resonated off the theatre walls. The Italian opera sensation’s musical talents, however, had not been what had attracted Drake’s notice.

Studying her from his theatre box, Drake recalled how they’d spent last evening, and his gaze narrowed. Valentina was an inventive, nubile woman, endowed in all the places a man hoped his woman would be generously curved.  And yet, he watched disinterestedly as she pranced about the stage.

“I still don’t see why we have to sit through the blasted show,” Sin muttered. He occupied the seat next to Drake. “It hardly seems fair you’re the one who gets to bed the creature and I’m the one who has to sit through her infernal caterwauling.” His bored gaze surveyed the crowd, then paused, and narrowed ever so imperceptibly.

Drake didn’t bother looking to see what drew his friend’s attention.
“Come, come, Sin, you’d have me believe you’d rather be escorting your mother and dear sister to some other infernal event?”

Sin gave a visible shudder. “No, no, you have the right of it. At least when this blasted
opera is over I can head to the tables. Will you be joining me later this evening?”

Drake gave a short nod. What else was there to do? Lord knew he didn’t want to return to the damned townhouse and deal with his father. Or the nightmares. Restful sleep did not await him at the Duke of Hawkridge’s townhouse.
Peaceful nights had eluded him since…

He shook his head, willing thoughts of war into the deep corners
in which they refused to stay banished. When he’d been a young man, war had seemed like the logical escape from the stringent expectations placed on him by the Duke of Hawkridge. Drake’s life had been planned out for him since the moment of his birth. It had been ordained by his father where he would attend school, who he would wed, and Drake had chafed at the rigid order imposed upon him.

His time
fighting Boney had proven there was nothing logical about war. The day he’d left the Peninsula, he’d longed to return to normalcy. He’d returned to England with a desperate urgency to slip back into the life he’d been familiar with. Consequently, he’d never given much thought to the impossibility of such a feat.

Three years ago, he’d come back from battle, a returned
hero
, greeted with parades and lavish balls; the recipient of public praise and countless honors. All of it had meant nothing to him. All the fanfare had served to do was emphasize his despair. It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s
dark musings. Act I had concluded.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin
asked.

Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies.
The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.

He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to
the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.

He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in
, and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.

He bolted from his seat
just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.

And a hand slipped through
, hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.

“My Lord, how good to see you!”
One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.

Drake froze, a prickle of unease travel
ed up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.

Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh
stood before him, her spine erect, a determined glint in her eyes.

***

Emmaline’s smile stretched so taut she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.

Almost as one, the two gentlemen
seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.

Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.

Stiff, formal, respectful deference.

It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out
when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.

Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “
Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.

She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the
crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”

Three sets of eyes swiveled
to look at Emmaline.

Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she
had
loved about her.

Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.

“Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.

She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal f
arther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.

“But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her, probing, as though he knew her every secret.
Blast him and his arrogance
, she thought, finding the courage to finish her sentence. “Well, I would have been remiss if I failed to greet you.”

Drake blinked and Emmaline knew he recognized that he’d just been delivered a set-down. She rushed on. “I felt compelled to visit your box and discuss your thoughts on the
opera. It has come to my attention from the papers that you have a great affinity for the opera, in particular the capable Mezzo-Soprano Signora Nicolleli.” She furrowed her brow, feigning deep contemplation. “In my honest opinion, I have a preference for the light, airy quality of a lyrical soprano.”

She detected Lord Sinclair’s shoulders rising and falling in what, she felt safe to assume
, was mirth, while poor Sophie scoured the theatre.

To Lord Drake’s credit, or perhaps the better word would be discredit
, he did not so much as flinch. His only telltale reaction was a slight arching of a golden brow as he met her stare. Emmaline glanced away.

“My dear, Lady Emmaline,” In Emmaline’s honest estimation, the words hardly sounded like an endearment. “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”

A subtle reproach coated his hard words. Double blast the man. How dare he make her feel uncomfortable?
He was after all the one who’d abandoned her for two—approaching three—years. And that wasn’t counting the fifteen years that had lapsed in their near lifelong betrothal.

Her lips set tightly. “La, sir, but how else
am I to find out about my betrothed’s likes and dislikes? But I do know you have a preference for mezzo-sopranos, so that is something, no? I look forward to meeting the great Signora Nicolleli and securing an autograph for you. I will be sure to tell her you are an ardent admirer, my lord. We’ll call it something of a wedding gift.”

The lights dimmed and the crowd bustled about, returning to their seats.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Em, I rather think we should return, lest mother worry about our absence.”

Emmaline smiled and favored Lord Drake with an impudent wave. “I’m certain she won’t fret when she learns we were with my intended. You would hardly allow harm to befall us, my lord? I’ve heard such stories of your heroics on the Peninsula, I could hardly feel anything but safe in your company.”

His eyes grew shuttered. “You should never let your guard down regardless of whose company you are in, Lady Emmaline.”

“You are far too modest, my lord. Alas, I must bid you good evening and await our next meeting.” She favored Lord Sinclair
with a smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”

“Likewise
, Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters.” He bowed and nudged Drake until he followed suit.

“Now we must return to our box
,” Emmaline said. “If you’ll excuse us.” She gave a jaunty wave and quite deliberately shoved the curtains back with enough force to send them flapping, and took her leave.

War had been declared.

Chapter 6

Dearest Lord Drake,

My brother has been most stringently critiquing my efforts at painting. He has informed me of the following: I’m terrible at watercolor, awful with pastels, and deplorable with oils. I’ve taken to addressing him as Your Grace. To my amusement, it annoys him quite a bit.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake sputtered around another mouthful of red velvet curtains as Lady Emmaline made her dramatic exit from his opera box. Cursing under his breath, he violently slammed the drapes down, back into place.

He wanted to throttle her. Nay, he was going to throttle her. He counted to three. When he still felt the same way, he counted to ten, and because he couldn’t direct his anger at Lady Emmaline, who’d since taken her leave, he leveled a black glare at Sin, whose broad smile indicated he was far too amused by the turn of events.

“Stuff i
t,” Drake said.

Sin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“This does not bode well.”

“No, it certainly doesn’t
,” Sin concurred.

With the intrusive eyes of the
ton
on them, Drake and Sin could not comfortably escape the theatre without Society taking note. To do so would only fuel gossip about what had transpired in the box, which would result in a lengthy write up in the gossip columns.

They reclaimed their seats.

Drake fixed his gaze on the stage below. He’d be damned if he fed any more into the rabid curiosity of the
ton
who continued to stare at him.

The little termagant. How dare she corner him in his box, and call him out for his behavior? They were not married. It made his cravat tighten painfully around his neck just imagining what married life would be like with Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh. Over the years he’d avoid
ed run-ins with his betrothed. He’d taken deliberate pleasure in refusing to attend any and every formal function his father had requested he attend. The last event he’d gone to at his father’s entreaty had been more than seven years ago, when Emmaline had been a bright-eyed girl.

Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler
three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.

This evening had proved
, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.

He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had
that
detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.

His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.

The meddling gazes of the
ton
swiveled his way.

Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”

“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.

His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.

He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the over-flowing Royal Opera House.  The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.

“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin
said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”

Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and
, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.

He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.

He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.

Christ, where had that thought come from? He
gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” He acknowledged with a sheepish smile.

Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his
exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.

Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.