Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride by Christi Caldwell Page A

annoyance. “My lord.”
    Sin smiled, clearly immune to her displeasure. “Lord Thurmond has been looking for you. I did him the courtesy of letting him know where you were. Ahh, here he comes, now,” he said with a wide smile and for good measure, nodded in the direction of the furious gentleman crossing the length of the ballroom.
    Withholding any hint of society niceties for Sinclair, Lady Smythe gave him an elegant shoulder, and directed her attention to Drake. “My lord, I’m eager to continue our discussion,” she purred.
    Drake offered a non-committal response and sketched a bow. The young widow gave him one last heated look. She shot a black look at Sin, and then sauntered away.
    Sin rolled his shoulders in a mock shudder. “Egads, that scowl makes her hideous.”
    Drake grinned. “Many thanks.”
    Sin waved him off. “Think nothing of it.” He retrieved a champagne flute from a passing tray, and took a long sip. “What you should be thinking about, however, is the gossip you’ve created.”
    Drake didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, he surreptitiously watched Emmaline, seated at the outskirts of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with Miss Winters, her hands spiraling animatedly , like two little tornadoes. All the hurt she’d worn earlier for the world to see, now gone. Instead, she fairly beamed. A vibrant sparkle glimmered in her eyes, like a beacon. The desire to go and bask in her unabashed joy hit him with a physical intensity so strong, he nearly staggered under the weight of it.
    Then Drake became aware of certain other things. With any hint of scandal now gone, the ton had lost interest in gawking at Emmaline. And that was when he made the shocking realization—Lady Emmaline had been relegated to the inglorious fate of wallflower.
    One month ago, such a revelation would have been no revelation at all. Yet having seen her challenge Whitmore, and then himself being the recipient of her saucy boldness, it baffled him that she was not sought after. The hair he’d once thought mousy was really a pleasing shade of deep, rich brown hues, which made Drake imagine just-melted chocolate cascading in rippling waves. Before the end of each night, one errant strand always managed to escape its coif, as stubborn as the lady herself. He found himself giving a very stern, albeit silent, command to his feet to stay planted and not cross the room so he could brush back that lock.
    He took a step forward , then froze.
    Sinclair wore a puzzled expression. “Uh …are you, all right, Drake?”
    Drake ignored the question.
    Either he’d been staring so long it was inevitable, or she’d felt his eyes trained on her because, just then, she looked up and the glimmer he’d spied, flickered out. The distance separating them could not dim the hurt in those amber depths, and he felt like the worst sort of bastard. She wrenched her gaze away.
    “Go to her.”
    Drake wasn’t sure whether the words had been uttered aloud by Sinclair or were trapped in his mind. The seductive strands of a waltz teased his consciousness. The urge to close the distance between them, draw her close into the folds of his arms, and breathe of her oddly alluring crisp lemon scent was a tangible force.
    He ignored Sinclair’s stare. Though truth be told, the only way he’d be able to move his gaze from her delectable form was if somebody were to move him by sheer force. Emmaline’s sinfully delicious lips turned up at the corners , but oddly, in the course of a short time, he’d come to know what each tilt of her lips meant. He’d come to know her smile enough to know this particular one she wore for the ton was a façade—and knew he was responsible for the false show of joy she put on.
    Sinclair seemed to read Drake’s disordered thoughts. “You can make it right,” he said quietly.
    “Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”
    Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you