Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(2)

His actions did not escape Drake’s astute gaze. Lord Drake tightened his grip and the dandy whimpered like a naughty child who’d just had a birch rod put to his person by a too stern nursemaid. “Apologize.”

The young lord turned to Emmaline. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. M-my apologies,” he croaked.

She folded her arms across her chest and nodded pointedly at the old woman. “I say, you rather owe the both of us an apology.”

Whitmore’s eyes rounded with shocked indignation. “You’re mad.”

Lord Drake squeezed again.

“M-My apologies, my lady.”

Her betrothed jerked his chin in the peddler’s direction. “Now, the woman.”

Whitmore blinked; his pale white cheeks flamed a crimson red to match the bright hue of his hair. “Stupid old cow and her rotten vegetables nearly killed us.” He motioned down the expanse of his peacock blue satin breeches. “And look at this stain. Why, Brummell himself would have been proud to wear these.” The young man’s whining tone indicated he considered the attack on his wardrobe to be an equally grave affront.

The peddler’s chin fell to her chest as if she tried to make herself as small as possible.

Unable to remain silent any longer, Emmaline took a step toward the young fop. “Stupid, Lord Whitmore?” Passing a cursory glance over his frame, Emmaline shook her head. She nudged a tomato with the tip of her already ruined ivory satin slipper. “First of all, a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. Secondly,” it was her turn to gesture at the garment in question. “those breeches were ruined long before this incident.”

Whitmore frowned. “I don’t understand, my lady.”

Lord Drake’s chuckle tugged her attention momentarily in his direction. His lips quirked upward in a devastating smile that quickened her heart's pace. “I believe that is the lady’s point, Whitmore,” Lord Drake drawled.

Whitmore’s gasp forced Emmaline’s attention away from her betrothed.

Enraged awareness dawned in the dandy’s eyes. “You witch.”

Emmaline took a step closer to Lord Drake.

A single black look from the marquess forced Whitmore to an ignoble halt. Drake leaned down close to the man and whispered something intended solely for the dandy’s ears.

All color leached from the brute’s cheeks. His head tipped up and down like a bobbing ship caught in a squall on the Channel. “M-my a-a-apologies, my lady.”

Drake dropped Whitmore’s wrist and wiped his hands back and forth as though he’d been sullied by the other man’s skin. His lethal glare froze the coward in his spot.

Whitmore cleared his throat. “What I’d intended to say, my lady, is that your rich beauty robbed me of any sense.” He looked to Lord Drake as he recited each word, indicating they were by no means original thoughts belonging to the jackanapes.

“One more thing,” Drake said.

With obvious reluctance, the humiliated dandy reached into the front of his elaborate, violet-hued floral jacket. He withdrew a bag of coins, stared at it forlornly, and then offered it to the peddler. “Here.”

The peddler’s eyes widened.

“Take it,” Drake said. There was an underlying warmth to his gruff tone.

With downcast eyes, the woman reached out and accepted the bag.

Drake returned his steely gaze to Whitmore. “I suggest you leave.”

When the other man continued to eye the bag in the woman’s hands with a blend of longing and bitter rage, Drake added, “Now.”

Whitmore reached down, scooped up the remnants of his short whip, and then clambered into his phaeton. He shot one last black look at the peddler and Emmaline, before striking his white mount with a piece of his crop. His phaeton resumed its reckless path down the street. Emmaline stared after the carriage, glad to be free of Whitmore’s loathsome company.

When Whitmore had gone, she turned back to the peddler. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my lady,” the woman whispered. Fat teardrops filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffed and dashed a hand across her nose. “My lady, my lord, oi thank you.”

Drake stepped out into the street. The heels of his gleaming black Hessian boots sank into a pile of rotten produce as he effortlessly righted the upended cart. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a bag of coins, and returned to the old woman’s side. “Here.” He gently placed the bag in her dirt-encrusted fingers.

“Oi-Oi, thank you, my lord. Many blessings to you both.” She dipped an awkward curtsy and pushed her nearly emptied cart down the road.

Emmaline watched after her until she’d disappeared from sight.

With the excitement now over, Oxford Street and its passersby returned to their daily humdrum. Lord Drake turned his focus to Emmaline. “Have you been hurt, Lady Emmaline?”

She blinked. Then sighed. Maybe not in that order. Her mind seemed a bit…muddled. Yes, it was muddled. And her heart beat an oddly rapid rhythm in her chest—thumpthumpthumpthump. She tried to catch her breath but failed miserably.

And then realized what had happened. “Oh dear,” she said.

The earlier rage she’d seen in Lord Drake’s jade eyes faded to warm concern. He took a step towards her and Emmaline backed up a step. “My lady?”