Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (24 page)

The only indication Emmaline had heard his confession was the subtle pressure she applied to his hand interlocked with hers. Time crept by. He awaited her rejection, her pity, and what was more, he would understand that rejection.

Her eyes flitted back and forth across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His words emerged on a hoarse whisper. “How could I have shared that with a young lady I barely knew?”

Emmaline sat back on her heels. “I thought it was because of me. I thought you didn’t want to see me.” It seemed those words  were directed more to herself. “I thought…” She shook her head and gave him a sad little smile. “To think, I took your absence as a personal slight. I believed you were too engrossed with your own merriment, that you couldn’t take time to pay your respects. How odd, to now know, you needed me just as much as I needed you.

Drake stared at a point over the crown of her hair. He inhaled the faint scent of lemons, which always clung to her.
It represented purity and filled his senses with the heady aphrodisiac of hope. “How many
what ifs
there are. What if you had sent your letters? What if I had written you? What if I had shown up and paid my respects the day your father passed away? What would our life be like at this moment?”

The amount of regret he
carried seemed enough to fill the Thames River.

But he had to tell her the whole of it. He could not offer her marriage without the truth laid out between them. Even if the truth could cost him
—her.

“
I still have nightmares…and as you witnessed, the episodes.” He studied his hands a moment. “They come less frequently than when I first returned from the Peninsula, but they are still there. I…” He swallowed. “Fear the war turned me into a madman. The day I visited you in your garden, I put my hands on you and it almost killed me. I cannot make you my wife, without you knowing everything there is to know.”

She reached a tremulous hand out and with a fleeting caress, stroked his tense jaw. “I wrote you a note. It was about a dream I’d had. The war was over—”

“I was wandering about a field, lost.”

“I wrote, if you are lost
—’”

“I will help you.” He finished and felt his throat bob up and down under the force of his emotion.

Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.

“I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

Drake pressed his forehead against hers.

He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Emmaline rose up on her knees and brought her eyes level with his. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”

Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his
. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”

Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted
.

A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”

Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.

Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.

“Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”

Chapter 3
4

For the third time in Drake’s life, he crossed into the Duke of Mallen’s office for a meeting that would determine his future. It did not escape his notice how Mallen failed to rise when Drake entered the room. Nor did the stoic man offer any greeting. Instead, he watched Drake with a hawk-like intensity, as if he feared Drake were a thief from the Seven Dials with intentions of absconding with the family jewels.

Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far from the mark.

When it didn’t seem as though the duke had any intentions of offering him a seat, Drake motioned to the leather-winged chair in front his desk. “May I?”

Mallen rapped distractedly on the desktop, the first indication of the other man’s unease. “As you wish.”

Drake settled into the seat and folded his ankle at the knee. He could easily understand Mallen’s
dogged protectiveness of Emmaline. Though Drake had no siblings, he imagined if he did, that the last thing he’d allow was for his sister to wed a rogue like himself; especially after she’d been hurt by said rogue. In fact, in thinking on it, Mallen had been far more magnanimous than he Drake would have been. Hell, Mallen would have been justified calling him out.

Mallen’s fingers ceased their distracted movements. “Have you come to sit and stare at me all day?” Mallen’s words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

Drake shifted in his seat. “No, not at all, Your Grace.”

Mallen fixed him with a hard stare.
“So, of a sudden, it’s Your Grace?”

This wasn’t going as Drake had planned. Might as well come out with it.
“I’ve come to discuss your sister,” he said evenly.

A muscle ticked at the corner of the duke’s right eye
. He leaned across the desk. “Oh? To discuss my sister?”

He took a fortifying breath. “I want to ask for her hand
—”

“You are either mad, arrogant, or both.”
Mallen pointed a finger in Drake’s direction. “For fifteen years you haven’t paid Emmaline any notice. Not until she asked me to sever the arrangement did you decide to court her and that is only after the gossips dragged her name through the scandal sheets. Tell me, why would I ever consent to turning the person I love more than anyone else, over to you?”

“Because I…” Drake tried to force out a suitable response.

But no words emerged.

That was the rub of it—Drake couldn’t
give one bloody reason Mallen should allow him Emmaline’s hand in marriage. Mallen possessed one of the most revered titles in the kingdom and therefore wouldn’t be impressed by Drake’s status as heir to a dukedom. Nor could Drake drum up one redeeming quality that he possessed to garner the other gentleman’s respect.

Nor could he come here and believe that he might erase fifteen years of neglect.

He did know that his only desire was to spend every minute of the rest of his life married to her. That thought consumed him like a conflagration. He wanted her, nay, needed her, and even if it meant spiriting her off to Gretna Green, he was determined to wed her.

“I’m waiting,” Mallen said.

No argument would ever be sufficient for the other man.

He settled for honesty. “I need her.”

Mallen scoffed. “You need her.”

She had become his sustenance. “Yes, I need her like I need water and air to breathe.”

The Duke groaned. “Please spare me any further of your meager attempts at poetry.”

Drake’s collar grew unbearably tight at mention of his recitation the prior evening, and he gave his cravat a tug. In spite of Mallen’s scornful words, he forced himself to press on. After all, he hadn’t expected to saunter into the Duke’s office, request Emmaline’s hand, and receive the other man’s blessing. He steeled himself. “I’m not being poetic. I need
—”

Sebastian swiped the air with an angry hand. “
You think I care what
you
need? I care about what she wants and needs. And as her brother, I can say with great confidence that you sir, are not it.” Mallen’s voice had climbed in volume.

Drake remained quiet. Mallen
’s tightly coiled frame indicated he was spoiling for a fight. Drake wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. To do so, would invite Mallen to toss him out.

The
duke slammed his fist on the desktop. “Damn it. Say something.”

Uncrossing his knee, Drake leaned forward
. He held his palms up. “Listen, Mallen. You don’t like me. Which is fine because I don’t much like myself. With the exception of a handful of moments in my life, I am hardly proud of who I am. I’ve got a surly disposition, I’ve carried on with more widows and opera singers than I can list.” He plowed ahead of the Duke’s black expression. “I can go on and on. But Emmaline makes me wish I were a better person. More than that, she makes me want to be a better man— for her.”

Silence descended, punctuated by the tick of the mantle clock. Mallen scrubbed his hands over his face
looking like a man twenty years older. “Damn you and that argument.” He dropped his hands and continued to eye Drake with a hard look. “Do you love her?”

Drake paused, frozen by the other man’s question. There it was, again. The question—did he love her? Did he love her? He couldn’t fathom life without her; knew it would be a desolate existence. Before Emmaline he’d hardly managed a sincere laugh or smile. Having grown up motherless and then living the life of a soldier, he’d never really
given much thought to the sentiment.

“
That isn’t your business.”

Mallen
jumped up from his seat and stormed out from behind his desk, clearly prepared to argue the point with Drake.

Drake walked over to the duke. Only a hairsbreadth separated them.
“Let me stop you, Mallen. It is my intention to wed your sister and I assure you it is her intention to wed me. Emmaline wants your blessing and because of that, I’m asking you to accept my suit. But, I’m going to marry her with or without your approval. Is that understood?”

The door
opened and both men spun around at the intrusion.

The duchess stood framed in the doorway.
“You will most certainly give your blessing, Sebastian.”

“Mother,
I am handling this—”

“Poorly,” the Duchess of Mallen cut in. She claimed Drake’s hands. “So you’ve finally come to your senses, I see.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been bewitched by your daughter.”

It was the truth, but it was also the right thing to say. A smile reminiscent of Emmaline’s played about the
duchess’s lips. “I wondered when you would at last realize that.”

Mallen raked an angry hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for my mother and my sister, the answer would be, no.”

Drake strove for graciousness. He knew what the capitulation cost Mallen.

Drake
nodded solemnly and stretched out his hand out. “Thank you.”

Finally,
Mallen accepted Drake’s hand. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

Emmaline stepped into the room.
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Sebastian.”

The sight of her there in a pale pink creation trimmed in delicate lace, her eyes shining with adoring love and joy, caused Drake’s heart to pick up a swift beat.

Mallen threw his arms up. “Lovely, so glad you could join us. Why don’t we call in Carmichael and the entire household staff for this meeting?”

Emmaline ignored her brother and glided into the room, coming to a stop before Drake.

He bowed low. “My lady.”

“My lord.”

He needed to feel her skin against his, needed some kind of assurance that she was real and not the phantom creature who’d visited only in his peaceful dreams. He took her hands in his. “We are to be married.”

Emmaline
stepped into Drake’s arms like it was the only place in the world she belonged—and mayhap it was. He held her close. With a hand that trembled, Drake stroked her cheek. He forgot about Mallen. The duchess. The war became a distant memory. He forgot about everyone and everything, but her and the feel of her soft, slim body in his arms. It turned out everyone else had been right after all. He did love her.

Imagine that.

“Get your hands off my sister.” Mallen snarled.

Drake jerked back to reality and placed appropriate distance between h
im and Emmaline.

“Six months.”

He really should have been paying far closer attention to the duke. “I’m sorry?”

“
Not as sorry as I am,” Mallen muttered. “A six month betrothal—”

Emmaline gasped.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Duchess of Mallen said.

“Three,” Drake countered.

Mallen’s jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Six months. You waited fifteen years, what is another six months?”

Emmalin
e set her hands on her hips. “Really, Sebastian?” She looked to her mother for intervention.

“Three weeks,” Drake reiterated over the crown of Emmaline’s chocolate waves.

“You are mad. Absolutely not. Why, why the planning, the preparation, the scandal—”

The
duchess took her son’s hand between hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I never took you for one to get weighed down with wedding details.”

“Six months is rather a ridiculous length of time, no?” Emmaline argued.

Mallen looked from Emmaline to Drake and then his mother, like something of a caged animal. “I—I…”