Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride by Christi Caldwell

you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.
    “I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”
    She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.
    The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline , and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.
    Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.
    Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.
    “My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Lady Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.
    Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?
    She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”
    Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”
    Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.
    Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”
    Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers. Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”
    Oh God, forget a whipped horse…Whitmore had landed a solid blow, right in her gut. His victorious expression said he knew it.
    Sophie clamored to her feet. “You odious little creature. How dare you come over here? Why, do you know who Lady Emmaline’s brother is?"
    Whitmore ignored Sophie.
    “What do you want, Whitmore?” Emmaline drawled. She’d run out of patience for the "odious little creature," as Sophie had dubbed him.
    He turned blood-shot yellow eyes to Emmaline. “Why, I would like an apology of course.”
    Emmaline blinked. “That is all you want? An apology?”
    He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.
    “Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”

 
    Chapter 11
    Dearest Lord Drake,
    My brother has informed me that though I’m no great beauty I’m a woman of character, which is more important than anything else. I solemnly reassured him that even though he is not the most intelligent gentleman, he is certainly the most pompous.
    Ever Yours,
    Emmaline
    Drake was bored.
    And frustrated.
    And annoyed.
    With himself, and the woman prattling on and on at his arm. If he’d been paying an iota of attention to whatever she was saying, he was certain there were a number of sexual innuendos buried within her words.
    His eyes caught Sin’s form cutting a path through the crowd, and sighed.
    He owed Sin.
    Sin stopped before them, and bowed to the widow. “Lady Smythe, stunning as always!”
    Her ice blue eyes, flashed with