The Princess and the Peer (16 page)

Now tonight there was a much-anticipated trip to the theater.
Twelfth Night,
her favorite. Was it a coincidence, or had he remembered her saying how much she loved the play? Then again, did it really matter, since tomorrow would be her last full day in residence?

In the morning, she supposed she ought to write to Mrs. Brown-Jones to confirm her return to the city. Assuming her teacher had returned, she would pack and prepare to say her good-byes the following day.

An aching pang lodged beneath her breasts at the idea. Ignoring the sensation, she forced herself to stop woolgathering and finish getting ready to leave for the theater. Silently, she drew on a pair of white silk evening gloves.

“If you ladies are ready, we should be on our way,” Nick stated.

“Indeed yes,” his aunt declared. “I am as ready as I ever shall be. Now lend me that strong arm of yours, Dominic, so I may make it safely out to the carriage.”

He sent Emma a quick smile. “Of course, Aunt.”

Emma waited as he attended to the dowager viscountess, then followed them from the house to the coach waiting beyond.

Nick sat inside the darkened theater, the play unfolding on the stage below. The performance was
Twelfth Night
, one he’d chosen specifically because Emma had remarked it was her favorite of Shakespeare’s works.

He remembered their conversation in vivid detail—although he tended to remember everything Emma said and did. But that particular discussion had special significance because it had happened the night they’d kissed. He’d hoped
by now to have put it from his mind, but in spite of his best attempts, erasing the memory had proven impossible.

Emma sat on his right, a smile curved across her rose pink lips as she watched the actors. Her eyes were alive with amusement at the glib, quickly paced dialogue.

On his other side, a short distance across the box, sat his aunt, an occasional snore issuing from the older woman’s nose and slackened jaw. She’d drifted off to sleep not five minutes after the play began, startling awake every so often to blink in groggy confusion before dozing off again.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have found her inattentiveness amusing. But lately nothing seemed ordinary, certainly not his life, which felt as if it had been turned on its head and given a very thorough shaking.

From the moment he’d met Emma, nothing had been the same.

Fixing his gaze on the stage, he concentrated on the players, but Orsino and Viola’s comedic misunderstandings held little interest for him. He knew the play and had seen it performed in the past, so his distraction was understandable, he assured himself. But only moments later, he admitted that he was lying to himself.

The play wasn’t responsible for his distraction.

Emma was.

As if he were a planet being pulled by the gravity of a distant sun, his gaze turned toward her.

How lovely she looked; the reflected gleam from the candlelit stage lending her an ethereal glow that put him in mind of an angel. Her upswept golden hair waved like a halo around her head, her skin as creamy and smooth as milk, while her lips were pink, satiny petals, as ripe as they were sweet.

He drew a reflexive breath, his fingers suddenly burning with the urge to stroke the gentle curve of her cheek and the long, graceful line of her throat. His hand ached with the memory of touching her soft skin and savoring the honeyed flavor of her mouth.

Without warning, as if she sensed his appraising stare, she
turned her head and looked straight into his eyes. Her own gaze shone like starlight with rings of rich, velvety blue.

Despite knowing he ought to look away, he couldn’t. Even if his life had been in jeopardy, he could not have torn his gaze from hers in that moment.

Below them, the actors continued their speeches and struts, but he was barely aware of them, too intent on the young woman at his side.

Emma—whom he’d known only a handful of days.

Emma—whom he liked more than he could ever have imagined, and whom he desired with an intensity he could not seem to escape.

Tomorrow would be her final day in his house, their week together nearly done. If he had any sense whatsoever, he would send her on her way and pick up the threads of his old bachelor’s existence. But how could he when she had made such an indelible mark on his life? Even his household felt different with her in it. When she went, she would leave an emptiness behind.

Suddenly he could not abide the thought.

Once she left, would he have any chance of seeing her again? Or would she take a new teaching position, a post somewhere distant that would send her away from him—perhaps forever?

His heart thundered inside his ears, as if he were on the deck of his ship again and had just taken a round of lethal cannon fire.

“Th-the play is good,” she whispered. “It quite makes the story come alive.”

“Yes,” he agreed absently. But he didn’t care about the play. “Don’t go,” he murmured without thinking.

“What?”

“Tomorrow. Instead of leaving, why don’t you stay a few days more? I am sure my aunt would be willing to extend her visit a while longer.”

On his other side, Aunt Felicity slept on, oblivious to the fact that her generosity was being further promised.

“We haven’t had time to see the British Museum yet,” he continued, “or the Tower of London and the crown jewels. I saw a notice in the newspaper about an autumn fair that’s scheduled to be held soon just outside the city. Surely you won’t want to miss that?”

She gave a slow smile. “No, such a loss would be most unfortunate.”

“What say you, then?”

“You truly want me to stay?” she asked wonderingly. “I rather thought…”

“Thought what?”

She hesitated. “That you were tried of houseguests and anxious to send me on my way.”

I should be,
he realized.
I should be contemplating how best to enjoy my impending freedom. But what good is freedom in an empty house?

“You are mistaken,” he said. “You and my aunt are most amiable company.”

“How long would I stay?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A few days. Another week or two.”

As long as it takes to decide if I feel more for you than simple lust, and what to do if that proves to be the case.

She was silent, a minor battle being waged on her lovely features as she debated his suggestion. Then finally, when he thought he could stand her silence no more, she nodded. “Yes, all right. I will stay a while longer.”

He smiled, wondering what insanity had possessed him. Still, he did not regret his offer or her acceptance.

“Good,” he said softly. “That is good.”

He turned back to the play and she did as well. But he barely heard another word of the performance, his thoughts all for her.

A
Scottish autumn chill that felt more like winter hung in the air as Princess Mercedes hurried along one of the academy’s many stone corridors, a pair of leather-bound textbooks, a small stack of musical scores, and the newly delivered post clutched in her arms.

She smiled and nodded to a few of the other girls as she passed, but she didn’t take time to speak, too eager to locate Ariadne. That morning they’d had history and geography classes together in the east tower before separating after the midday meal for additional instruction—Ariadne in advanced Italian poetry while she herself was working to improve her performance on the pianoforte. Beethoven’s Sonata no. 14 in C Minor was playing in her head even now, her fingers absently tapping out a section of the tune against the back of her books.

She checked first in the common room where half a dozen girls were gathered around the fire in a comfortable arrangement of chairs, but didn’t see her friend’s easily identifiable reddish blond head. She went next to the library, but Ariadne was not there either. Aware of one other likely place, she climbed the stairs to the ancient stone and glass solar, abandoned for the most part now in favor of the more modern accommodations to be found elsewhere in the castle.

“Finally!” Mercedes declared, dropping down onto one of the stone benches next to her friend.

Ariadne looked up from her book and arched a pale brow. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes! We’ve had a letter from Emma. It just arrived.”

Clearly interested, Ariadne placed a slip of paper inside her book to mark the page, then set it aside. “Well, let us hear. What does she have to say? Has His Highness finally decided to grace her with his presence, or is she still trapped inside that pristine dungeon of a house?”

Mercedes frowned. “She said it is a very elegant estate. I’m sure she is quite comfortable.”

Ariadne gave a faint snort. “Just because you’re comfortable doesn’t mean it’s not a prison. But we can argue about that later. Open the letter. I want to know the latest.”

Setting aside her burdens, Mercedes broke the red wax seal and unfolded the vellum.

Clearly too impatient to wait, Ariadne peered over her shoulder, glasses perched on the end of her nose. A few moments later, she gave a disdainful sniff. “I knew he would postpone his arrival again.”

“He is regent now, what with the king so very ill. I am sure he has many weighty responsibilities, particularly in these trying times.”

Ariadne rolled her eyes. “The times have been trying for years, and it’s not as if he need worry about being shot or captured now that the war is done. No, he’s arrogant and inconsiderate. If he wasn’t going to join Emma in a timely fashion, he ought not to have forced her to leave school when he did.”

Mercedes was well acquainted with Ariadne’s less-than-flattering opinion of Emma’s older brother. Personally, she had never understood her friend’s dislike of the prince. He had always been pleasant and well mannered, one might even say charming, on the pair of occasions they had met. Yet Ariadne bristled like a hedgehog whenever they were together or he was mentioned.

Once, she’d asked Ariadne why she held such a grudge against him.

“Let’s just say I know his type. That is sufficient.”

If by
type
, Ariadne meant royal princes, then she supposed all three of them knew his type. Beyond that, Ariadne would not explain.

At Mercedes’s side, the other girl gave a knowing hum. “I told you Emma was blue-deviled and trying much too hard not to let on. But oh ho, what’s this? Why, that little minx. I see I didn’t give her enough credit.”

Enough credit for what?

Mercedes read faster, her mouth dropping open as she found the pertinent sentence. “Whatever does she mean she’s left the estate and has found
alternate lodgings
!”

Ariadne laughed. “It means she’s kicked over the traces, that’s what. Good for her.”

Mercedes frowned. “But it isn’t good. If she’s run away, just think of the trouble she’ll be in when they find her.”

Ariadne chuckled again. “
If
they find her. I think it’s wonderful she’s escaped. Maybe she’s finally come to her senses and is going to refuse that match her brother has arranged for her.”

“How can she refuse when so much is at stake? She said herself that she knows her duty and that her nation’s future depends on this marriage.”

With a hand, Ariadne brushed aside such logical objections. “According to the Americans, everyone has a right to personal happiness. Duty be damned, I say.”

“
Arie!
What if someone hears you? You know how the teachers feel about such radical ideas, not to mention the use of rough language.”

“No one comes up here
to hear
. But even if they did, I wouldn’t care.” Ariadne grinned, displaying her white teeth. “As for language, I could teach you words that would turn your ears blue.”

“Yes, I know, and you oughtn’t sneak down to the kitchens at night and talk to the servants.”

“They’re a great deal more interesting than staying up late drinking hot milk and tying my hair up in curling rags.”

“I only do that for Sunday services,” Mercedes defended. “But that is beside the point. I’m worried about Emma. What if something untoward happens to her? I mean, who could she possibly know in that part of England well enough to trust?”

Ariadne paused to consider. “One of the teachers maybe. Didn’t Miss Poole move there? Anyway, I wouldn’t be concerned. If you read further, Emma says that she has taken up residence with a respectable personage.”

“Hmm, so I see,” she said, noticing the sentence in the letter. “Still, if this person is so respectable, then why the mystery? Why not simply tell us where she has gone? And who this individual is, for that matter?”

“Obviously she doesn’t want that old witch Weissmuller dragging her back to the estate.”

“True. But Emma has to know we wouldn’t say anything, not when she’s asked us to keep her confidence.”

Ariadne paused, clearly mulling over her questions. “Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “mayhap the person aiding her would rather not reveal themselves. Maybe they fear being the recipient of royal retribution.”

Mercedes decided not to comment, reluctant to incite a fresh round of Prince Rupert bashing.

“Then again,” Ariadne went on, “my guess is that Emma is just being cautious. You know how she can be, particularly when she feels she is protecting someone—in this case the person helping her and us, her friends. If we don’t know where she is, no one can try to pry the information out of us.”

Mercedes lifted her chin. “As if they could. I do not tattle on those I love.”

“Nor I,” Ariadne agreed resolutely, the two of them suddenly in complete accord. “Now, let us worry no more for the moment. Emma will be in touch again when she can and you will see that all is well.”

Mercedes nodded, trying to let herself be convinced. Even
so, a niggling fist of unease remained, not so much for Emma’s safety now but instead for her future.

“Here we are, apple fritters hot and fresh from the seller,” Nick said as he and Emma stood amid the milling crowd of revelers gathered for the autumn country fair. It was the same one she remembered him first mentioning that night at the theater nearly two weeks earlier—another promised outing that she could now add to her list of adventures enjoyed.