Page 29 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
Like a naïve idiot, Drake thought Nora loved him. When she sent him off to the war, tears streaming down her face, a letter claiming she would wait for his return forever pressed carefully against Drake’s heart, he knew he was the luckiest man alive. For the next two years, anything soft in him was burned away except his love for Nora. He committed sins earning him a seat next to the Devil in hell, endured torture cruel enough to break most of their men, and saw his faith in humanity slowly die one innocent victim at a time.
In the Anglo-Afghan war, there were no heroes, only once honourable men drowning in a sea of corruption. Nora was Drake’s only hope of innocence, love, loyalty. Her promise to wait for him kept Drake sane in the stinking hole their battalion was forced to share when the Afghan soldiers took them prisoner. During the worst of his torture, he closed his eyes and remembered Nora’s lilting voice, her scent of sweet peonies, hersoft fingers on his arm, and her warm lips pressed against his own.
But he had been wrong. Nora didn’t love him. She loved his title. One brother was just as good as the other to Nora as long as that man held the wealth and power of the Earl of Tetly.
Enraged and intent on confronting her, Drake arrived on his own front doorstep – as his brother had taken over the London townhouse – and demanded an explanation for Nora’s actions. When she first saw his ruined face, she nearly fainted. Nora grabbed his brother’s arm and hid behind him as if Drake were some kind of hideous monster.
‘I don’t care about the title. I would never marry a beast like you. No woman would. You’ll never produce an heir. We’ll inherit everything one day. I’m happy to wait.’ She fairly hissed the words at him as if he were the one to blame. As if he were the guilty party in this.
He threw them out of his house that night, though his brother begged him to act like a gentleman and show some mercy. It was only the presence of his commanding officer and best friend, Lieutenant General Killian, who stopped him from committing fratricide on that horrific day.
He swore to never again trust a woman, to never allow his heart to be swayed by a pretty face, and to avoid the treacherous fairer sex at all costs. He also developed a rather dim view of younger brothers.
Jealousy consumed him for months. Food tasted like sand. The sun held no warmth. Life was just something he suffered through a day at a time until the relief of death. He lived in complete darkness. But slowly, with the help of Killian and the missions assigned to him by the prime minister, he found purpose again. His life was muted, lacking the bright colours of his past, but it was also fulfilling to a degree. And quiet. Controlled. Living in the shadows provided him with the peaceof solitude. He learned well from his disastrous mistake. Never trifle with the plague of love if one wished to survive.
But now, Millicent threatened his carefully constructed calm. She shone like a beacon in the darkness, and he was terrified to walk into her light. What might be illuminated?
Focusing on the mission and ignoring the charming, stunning, funny, intelligent woman at the end of the table was his only way forward.
Still, something stirred within him. Forgotten desire. An echo of love’s glory. A memory of its warmth.
Since when did I let fancy run free, polluting cold, clear reason?
Since meeting Millicent Whittenburg.
They must have a distant marriage. It was the only way he could maintain his sanity. But did that mean he couldn’t indulge in his lust before sending her away? His imagination spun at the idea of stripping Millicent naked and licking every one of her freckles. Gorging on her cream and cinnamon skin.
‘Franklin St George will be arriving tomorrow with his wife.’ Reynard’s words destroyed Drake’s erotic fantasy, pulling him back to the present.
Drake forced his mind to focus on the mission. ‘Yes. We need to watch him carefully. The prime minister believes St George might be working in league with his uncle.’
‘Really? The Earl of Scarborough might be involved? He and Lord Chancellor Hargrave are old cronies, are they not? That could be quite the scandal.’ Reynard took a healthy portion of pheasant pie and cut into the flaky pastry.
‘That is why we are on this job and not Scotland Yard. Who knows how far up the chain this treachery reaches?’ Drake speared an unsuspecting pea, imagining it was a very small version of St George’s head.
‘Generally, I hate wedding ceremonies, and wedding parties are even worse, but I’d put money on yours beating all others, Drake. You should be proud of yourself for turning a celebration of nuptials into the investigation of our careers.’ Reynard waggled his eyebrows and smiled around the food in his mouth. Annoyingly, the expression was charming on him when any other person would look disgusting.
‘Quite.’ Drake raised an eyebrow at Reynard.
He should be excited about the opportunity to determine who was orchestrating this sex-trade ring. Instead, he found his mind – and gaze – wandering to Millicent.
She looked up from her plate and caught him staring. Slowly, she lifted her spoon to her mouth, licking gravy from the silver cutlery like a cat lapping at milk. Or a courtesan licking… something else. Drake’s skin tightened as blood rushed to his cock.
Damnation!
She could have easily slid her gaze over to Reynard – as most women would – but instead, she remained locked onto him.
How was he supposed to keep her at arm’s length when all he wanted to do was grab her hand, haul her up to his room, and barricade the door against anyone trying to interrupt them? She would be the death of him. And for once, he wasn’t opposed.
The next four days of wedding celebrations would be the death of Millie. She was exhausted. Making her excuses after their meal, she claimed a megrim to avoid the dreaded after-dinner gathering and escaped to her rooms.
While Millie enjoyed socialising, a smaller group – especially their particular combination of guests – could be far morechallenging to navigate than a large crush. She hoped Philippa didn’t kill her stepmother over sherry. A distinct possibility given the daggers Philippa was throwing Patricia’s way during dinner. More importantly, she hoped Patricia held her sharp tongue. She was far more likely to draw blood with it than Philippa might with her myriad of hidden weapons.
Millie called for Penny to come and help her prepare for bed when she first reached her room, but the maid had yet to arrive. She wandered around her bedchambers, her fingers trailing along the papered walls, over the smooth wood of her writing desk, along a dustless windowsill. She hated to admit it, but Major General Drake’s country estate was perfectly suited to Millie. The colours of her rooms, the Gothic darkness of the stone edifice, the understated elegance of Drake’s furnishings. If she had been given carte blanche to redecorate, she wouldn’t change a thing. It was oddly frustrating that a man so horribly matched to her had the perfect house.
She let her fingers slide over the oak door connecting her room with his. It was disconcerting to be so close to Drake’s sleeping quarters. With a twist of her wrist and push of her hand, she would be in his bedroom.
I should waltz in there and give the man a heart attack.
