The Princess and the Peer (13 page)

“All you need is one,” he murmured encouragingly. “So make it count.”

Her stomach settled, the anxiety melting from muscles she hadn’t even realized were stiff. She took a moment to dry her hand on the handkerchief inside her pocket before positioning the dart between her fingers.

Now, what had she done before?

Instinctively she searched for the same feeling she’d had before, looking for the balance and the ease. She took aim, blocking out the noise of the men and the room around her so it was only the target and the dart. Then, just like before, she pulled her arm back and threw, closing her eyes the second the dart left her hand.

Noise erupted around her, but she couldn’t tell if it was cheers or curses.

“Open your eyes, Emma,” Nick said, his low, silky voice very near her ear. “You won.”

“A
unt Felicity once again sends her regrets and says that due to her present fragile state of health, she will not be joining us for dinner tonight,” Nick informed Emma that evening as they stood together in the Lyndhurst House drawing room.

“Should a physician be sent for, then, if she is so very ill?” Emma asked with obvious concern.

Nick arched a mocking brow. “I did put that very suggestion to her, as it happens, and was informed that doctors are charlatans and quacks, and if I call one she will write me out of her will. Not that I would find that event such a tragedy, but it is the sentiment that counts, I suppose. She seemed to rally well enough to offer a few other choice words about impertinent young relations before she kicked me out.”

“So she isn’t really ill?”

Nick gave an ironic shrug. “No more than usual. Mostly I suspect she doesn’t want to be put to the bother of dressing for dinner.”

He watched Emma’s pretty pink lips part on a relieved laugh, the vivid blue of her eyes sparkling like sunlight over a lake. He gazed into them for a long moment before forcing himself to turn away and walk toward the liquor cabinet.

“A glass of wine before we go in?” he offered. “Symms decanted a rather excellent Madeira this afternoon.”

Her smile widened in a way that made him wonder if wine was something she wasn’t offered very often. He supposed given her age and former occupation that she didn’t have much occasion to drink.

“Yes, please,” she said enthusiastically, bouncing on the toes of her slippers.

He nearly laughed at her obvious delight, struck by how beautiful she looked this evening. She wore a simple yet elegant gown of ecru satin, her golden tresses pinned neatly at her nape, a single pearl hanging from a gold chain around her throat.

He couldn’t help but be glad he would have her all to himself tonight. So far she had proven to be amazingly enjoyable company. More than enjoyable, he realized, remembering their lively and unexpected game of darts that afternoon. He didn’t even mind that he had lost his bet.

Pouring drafts for them both, he returned to her side and handed her a glass.

The wine was a deep shade of ruby, one that complemented the rosy pink of her mouth as she took an eager swallow. His gaze lingered, watching as the tip of her tongue darted out to catch an errant drop. Her lips glistened and he wondered how they would taste, wet with wine.

“Careful there,” he murmured. “You haven’t had any dinner. That will go straight to your head.”

She arched a pale eyebrow and met his gaze. “Considering the hearty fare I consumed at the public house, I don’t believe there is much cause for worry.”

He shrugged. “Even so, I would advise taking that in slow sips.”

With an almost minxish defiance, she took another enthusiastic swallow.

“Don’t blame me if you turn up foxed,” he warned with a wry smile.

She paused, cocking her head as if the term was not familiar. “Do you mean inebriated?”

“I do, yes,” he said, even more amused than before.

“Well, I won’t,” she promised gamely. “Get foxed, that is. As for the blame…”

The words trailed off between them. As they did, blood began to warm his veins, the luscious fragrance of lilacs and honey teasing his nose. Her scent reminded him of spring sunshine and garden breezes, light and effervescent and so intoxicating he imagined her slightest touch would leave him feeling drunk.

How easy it would be to lean closer,
he thought.
How simple to press my mouth to hers and sample what is sure to be pure delight.

Instead, he resisted, reminding himself that she was a guest under his protection—an innocent who wasn’t wise to the intimate and deeply pleasurable games of desire.

He took a measured drink from his glass.

A light tap came at the door and he looked across to find the butler standing in the doorway. “Dinner is ready, my lord.”

“Thank you, Symms. Shall we?” he said, offering his arm to Emma.

Companionably, the two of them strolled to the dining room.

Rather than be seated at opposite ends of the long mahogany table, Nick had asked for places to be laid next to each other. Emma sat on his right, the Madeira removed and replaced by a fresh vintage that paired better with the first course—a creamy oyster bisque.

He watched as she sampled the new wine. “Good?”

“Oh yes. This one is even better than the first.”

“Eat,” he urged, dipping his spoon into the bowl of gently steaming soup that had been laid before him.

She did as commanded with her own bowl, her expression clearly conveying her approval of his cook’s effort. “Oyster bisque. One of my favorites. How did you know I love oysters?”

“A lucky happenstance. They are one of my favorites as well.” He ate a mouthful of the succulent broth and decided not to mention the shellfish’s reputation as an aphrodisiac. “So what else is a favorite of yours?” he asked instead.

“Oh, any number of things.”

“Such as?” he asked when she made no effort to elaborate further.

A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “Heavens, how can I be expected to say on only a moment’s notice?”

“All right, then. I see I shall have to be more specific. What would you say to us playing a variation of twenty questions?”

She sent him a curious look. “Do you still have that many questions to ask me after our conversation this afternoon?”

“Most definitely,” he said, realizing he could fill a book with all the questions he had for her and still not be done.

“And shall I have a chance to ask you twenty questions in return, my lord?” she ventured.

“If you like.” He smiled agreeably.

“Then, by all means, proceed.”

He paused for a moment, then began. “What is your favorite color?”

She rolled her eyes. “That is an easy one. Purple.”

“Your favorite play?”

She swallowed another mouthful of soup, then patted her lips with her napkin. “Shakespeare or other playwrights?”

“Either, but Shakespeare will do.”

“
Twelfth Night.
It’s by far his wittiest and most romantic.”

“Leave it to a female to be swayed by romance.”

“Leave it to a man not to be,” she quipped, a twinkle glinting in her hyacinth eyes.

He smiled at her riposte before pausing to quaff a mouthful of wine. “Based on that remark, I presume you prefer Mozart to Beethoven?”

“Actually, I like them both. But were I forced to choose, then yes, Herr Mozart would be my preference.”

He paused, eating another spoonful of soup while she did
the same. “What of literature? Pray do not tell me you are a devotee of the Minerva Press.”

An incriminating blush stole over her cheeks. “I have read my share, but then what young lady has not?”

He chuckled and ate more soup.

“Do not laugh. Some of the tales are quite elucidating.”

“Oh, I am sure.”

“If you are going to belittle my tastes,” she said in mock affront, “then you can save the rest of your questions for another woman.”

The smile eased from his face, turning into something far more serious than he’d intended. “But I have no questions for any other woman. You are the only one who holds my interest at present. The only one who fascinates me enough to want to know more.”

And she does fascinate me,
he realized.
Far more than she should. Far more than is good for either one of us.

His gaze locked with hers, watching her dark pupils dilate inside their rings of velvety blue and her lips part on a sweet susurration of breath.

He forced his eyes away. “As for belittling your tastes,” he continued in a thick voice, “that was not my aim. Pray forgive any offense I may have caused.”

“None taken,” she said softly.

With a nod, he picked up his wineglass. “What other authors and poets do you enjoy? Miss Austen, perhaps? Even the prince regent cannot find fault with her stories.”

“I am afraid I have not had the pleasure of reading Miss Austen’s work, but I do have a partiality for Sir Walter Scott. I find Blake and Wordsworth quite captivating as well. And then there is Goethe, although I have to take care not to read his
Faust
late in the evening for fear of suffering nightmares.”

“Talk of the devil can do that sometimes,” he agreed. “So you know Goethe, do you? Not a typical choice. I find that far too few Englishmen, and even fewer women, take the time to seek out the Continental authors.”

She paused for a moment, an odd expression crossing her
face before it disappeared. “My interests are wide and varied, you will find.”

“I suppose a governess has more reason than most to broaden her education.”

Rather than comment, she raised her glass of wine to her mouth, playing the rim against her lower lip for a moment before she drank.

He had to pull his eyes away again.

“Feel at your leisure to borrow whatever you might enjoy from the library,” he offered, as she set down her glass. “My brother was an avid reader, and I admit to a love of the written word as well. I collected a number of volumes during my travels, which I have since added to his shelves here at the house—to
my
shelves, I mean,” he corrected.

He fell silent, his thoughts going suddenly to his brother. Despite the past few months, he couldn’t walk into the library without remembering Peter, without feeling like an interloper for blithely using his brother’s possessions as if they were his own.

But Peter would not have begrudged him, he knew. In his life, Peter had been a generous man, and nothing about his death would have altered that fact. Even after Nick’s estrangement from their father, Peter had never held it against him, taking pains not to lose touch. Nick remembered how eagerly he’d looked forward to Peter’s letters and the connection they gave him to the home and people he had left behind.

Then the letters had stopped.

He’d been ashore in Portugal when he’d found out the reason, when he’d learned there would be no more letters—ever.

Pushing aside the memory, he reached for his wine and tossed it back in a single gulp. Glancing over, he found Emma watching him, her eyes filled with surprising compassion and understanding.

And she does understand,
he realized, aware that she must have lost loved ones too, since her family was gone.

He half expected her to ask about his momentary introspection.
Instead, she quietly turned the conversation back to where it had left off. “What subjects do
you
read? You mentioned an interest in collecting.”

Tension eased from his shoulders. Smiling, he began to tell her.

Finished with the soup, their plates were cleared and the next course served—a delicate white fish in a cream sauce with a colorful accompaniment of autumn vegetables. As they ate, he resumed his earlier questioning.

“Favorite time of year?” he prompted.

“This time. Autumn,” she replied.

“You don’t find it melancholy?”

She shook her head. “I love the trees, all the reds, oranges, and yellows of the leaves as they turn. And the wonderful crunch they make underfoot once they’ve fallen to the ground. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine hiding in them, disappearing into the forest like some mythical creature who is free to run and roam. But there was always a nursemaid or governess about, so I had scant opportunity for real adventure.”

This time it was her turn to fall silent. Then abruptly she smiled. “What of you, my lord? What is your favorite season?”

“Summer, of course. It’s the best time for sailing. We have a lake near Lynd Park, and I used to take a small sloop out and sail her from dawn till dusk. My mother complained that by August I looked more like an Indian than the younger son of an earl, but what did I care when I was having so much fun?”

She laughed, clearly imagining him as a rebellious, sun-browned youth.

Her laughter continued through the rest of dinner, dying down only long enough for her to eat a few bites here and there.

As for Nick, he scarcely did much better, too entertained to pay more than scant heed to the meal. He was surprised when dessert was laid, the time having passed so quickly and
so pleasantly. “Shall we take our tea and coffee in the drawing room?” he suggested.

Emma nodded, her pretty white teeth showing as she flashed him a fresh grin.

Rather than pouring himself a cup of coffee from the silver service the footman carried into the drawing room after them, Nick crossed to the sideboard and reached for the crystal brandy decanter. With a bow, the servant excused himself.

“May I have one of those?” Emma asked from where she sat on the nearby divan.

Nick arched a brow. “A brandy, do you mean?”

She nodded. “I promise I’m not foxed, despite your earlier concerns that I might become so. Well, not much anyway,” she amended, after he sent her a penetrating look.

“If I give you some of this,” he said, indicating the rich russet brown liquid inside the decanter, “you may have cause to retract your assurances.”

“Just a taste,” she wheedled. “I’ve never had brandy.”

“Nor should you have.” He sighed. “Why is it you seem so determined to test my resolve tonight?”

She gave him a look of absolute innocence. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”