Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(6)

Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”

Great. First his father, now his best friend.

But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.

He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”

Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”

Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.

Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?





Chapter 3

Dearest Lord Drake, What I am about to write is exceedingly intimate. I pray you will not judge but I can no longer keep silent.

I must confess my deep, adoring love—for gardening.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline couldn’t sleep.

Even if she could, she most assuredly would still be awake. Unlike the majority of the ton, she loved mornings because she appreciated any and all time away from the smug, condescending members of Society.

It had been three weeks since the incident with Lord Whitmore. And in three weeks she hadn’t heard word from Lord Drake. Following the encounter with her betrothed, Emmaline had believed she’d finally garnered his notice and a real courtship was imminent.

She snorted. So much for love.

Or admiration.

Or childish dreams.

With her maid trailing at a distance, Emmaline marched through the western part of Hyde Park, until she came upon Kensington Gardens. The fiery sun peeked just over the horizon, dousing the dawn sky in ethereal hues of burnt flame. She paused to appreciate the light playing off the abundant foliage of the cascading elm. A faint breeze caught hold, stirring the long row of horse chestnut trees. She glanced up and briefly closed her eyes on a smile, as a handful of white leaves sprinkled with red dots fluttered down to the earth. They tickled her skin, and then continued their path to the pavement.

God bless Queen Caroline for having been an avid gardener with the good sense to celebrate the beauty of the land. Men might own the land, but women rejoiced in its splendor.

At last, Grace caught up, her round, girlish cheeks red from her efforts. “My lady, would you like…?”

Emmaline held a hand up. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, my lady?”

Her ears pricked up. “There. A faint whistling.”

Grace fought back a yawn and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t hear anything, my lady.”

Emmaline cocked her head, and listened. There it was again. Almost like the sound of a whipcord slicing through the air. “That.” She started off in the direction of the odd noise.

Grace groaned. “My lady, can’t we just…” Her words were lost as Emmaline’s quick steps put space between them.

Emmaline’s chest rose and fell from the rapid pace she’d set. She chewed her lip and surveyed the area.

Nothing.

Her maid finally caught up, wheezing slightly. She bent over and placed her hands upon her knees, taking in several deep breaths. “My lady, please, stop. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Just rest a moment, Grace. I’ll take a short turnabout. I’ll not go far.”

A flash of gratitude lit the maid’s hazel eyes, and she nodded, brushing away a stray lock of brown hair.

Emmaline hurried down the meticulous stone path that emptied out into one of the many private floral gardens. The collective beauty of the bright array brought her up short. For Christmas, her brother had given her the oddest contrivance. A tube containing loose pieces of glass inside and clever little configurations. He’d told her it was called a kaleidoscope; explaining that “kalos” was the Greek word for beautiful and “scopos” for watcher. All winter Emmaline had pointed the apparatus up at the light and peered through the tube, admiring the shifting patterns of color. Kensington Gardens never ceased to stun her with its vital beauty. With the pale pink of the spotted orchid, the effervescent hue of the violet bluebells interspersed with the lilac-white of the cuckooflower; it was like its own kaleidoscope of nature’s beauty.

She searched the area and her gaze settled on a lone gentleman with his back to her, swinging his walking stick. His fluid movements cut a swath through a blanket of pale blue forget-me-nots, as he severed the heads off the buds.

Emmaline gasped. She raced over. “Whatever are you doing?”

Startled, the tall stranger spun around. Lord Avondale.

His ornate stick soared through the air, and landed with a soft thump amidst the blue blooms. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose. “I assure you, I’ve not come for company.”

If her brother Sebastian, the powerful Duke of Mallen didn’t intimidate her, this reed-thin fellow with his elfin-pointed ears and mottled skin certainly wasn’t going to, either. “And I assure you, sir, the forget-me-nots had far grander hopes than decapitation by your stick on this glorious day.”