The Princess and the Peer (2 page)

The moment the words left her mouth, Emma wished she could retract them, seeing the stricken expression on Ariadne’s face. Of all people, Ariadne had the most reason to know about the reapportionment of lands in Europe. First had come the tragic death of her family during the war. Then, only a few weeks ago, she had learned the dreadful news that her nation was being dissolved, its lands annexed by another country. As Ariadne had remarked at the time, she was a princess now in name only, left without a country or a home.

“I can well understand the prince’s desire to defend and maintain his kingdom,” Ariadne said in a deliberately calm voice. “But that doesn’t mean he has to do so by marrying you off to a man three times your age.”

“Twice,” Mercedes piped up in a helpful tone. “I believe King Otto is in his late thirties.”

Ariadne gave an indelicate snort that would have earned her a scold from the headmistress had she heard it. “Twice? Three times? He is far too old for a girl of eighteen. Surely your brother could have come up with a solution other than forcing you into a cold, dynastic marriage.”

Taking the letter back from Mercedes, Emma folded it neatly in half. “If he could, I am certain he would have done so. Rupert loves me,” she added, trying to reassure herself as much as the others.

“Perhaps. But he loves his country more,” Ariadne said.

Emma drew in a breath. “Father is old and ill and Rupert will succeed him soon. He is simply doing his duty.”

Silence fell as the three young princesses contemplated Emma’s fate.

“I suppose your news is only to be expected,” Mercedes mused with a sigh of resignation.

“Mercedes, how can you say such a thing?” Ariadne turned to her, aghast. “Have you no care for Emma’s feelings?”

Before Mercedes could defend herself, Emma broke in.

“No. She’s right,” Emma said in a firm voice. “Having a marriage arranged for me should not have come as a surprise. It is the way things are done—at least it is if you are royal.”

“But, Em—” Ariadne began.

Emma shook her head, ignoring the knot of misery wedged like a stone within her chest. “Life is not like one of the Minerva Press novels the other girls are always sneaking into school. As much as each of us might dream of finding a true and perfect love, of meeting a gallant knight who will sweep us off our feet and give us a lifetime of happiness, such ideas are naught but fantasies. Other girls, even aristocratic ones, may hope to find affection in their marriages. We do not have that luxury.”

“We should,” Ariadne declared bitterly. “You’ve said yourself how wrong it is that women are bartered and sold into wedlock, no better than pawns on a chessboard.”

She met her friend’s outraged expression, a numbness spreading through her veins. “Yes, but the time has come to put aside girlish dreams. We are princesses, born to a life of privilege and wealth. With such rewards come obligations. Much as I might wish for more, for love, I shall fulfill my duties.”

“Without so much as a protest?” Ariadne said.

“What would be the point when I shall only lose in the end?”

Ariadne huffed in disgust. “Perhaps I am an idealist—yes, yes, I know that I am—but nothing shall ever change for our sex if we remain silent.”

“You’ve been reading too many texts by Mrs. Wollstonecraft
and her like,” Emma remarked, well aware of the radical literature her friend managed to sneak into the castle with the help of a like-minded correspondent who hid the works inside the dry religious tracts Ariadne received in the post.

“The bluestockings are shockingly daring,” Mercedes remarked in a hushed tone. “Personally, I wouldn’t have the nerve.”

Ariadne sent her an encouraging look. “You have a great deal more nerve than you think, if only you would apply yourself to the effort.”

Mercedes shook her head. “You’re the brave one, Arie. I could never go against the rules. If my parents even knew we talked of such things…” She gave a delicate shudder.

“Or mine,” Emma agreed. “Which is why I must go when my brother sends the coach.”

Mercedes’s mouth turned down, and she dabbed at her suddenly damp eyes with her silk handkerchief. “The letter said you are to leave next week. Must you go so soon?”

The pain in Emma’s chest returned at the reminder. “I expect I must.” A sudden burst of fear rushed through her. Leaning forward, she reached for the other girls’ hands, clutching them inside her own. “Promise me we won’t lose touch. Promise me that, no matter what, we shall always remain friends. That we shall visit. That we shall be each other’s strength, comfort, and best hope.”

“Of course we shall,” Mercedes exclaimed. “I could not bear to lose you. You know that.”

Emma waited, unsure of her other friend’s answer, especially in light of their disagreement. But then Ariadne’s hand tightened around hers, gripping hard and fast. “Yes, you have my faithful promise,” Ariadne said. “The three of us are—and shall always be—the very best of friends. Sisters not by blood but by choice.”

“Sisters by choice,” the three of them solemnly recited together. “Forever.”

“H
ow is it possible that my brother has been delayed again?” Emma demanded nearly a month later, her nuncheon growing cold on her plate. “He was supposed to arrive by week’s end.”

“Unforeseen circumstances have arisen,” her chaperone, the Duchess of Weissmuller, responded. “The prince sends his apologies and begs your continued indulgence, Your Highness. As you know, he is an extremely busy man.”

“But how much longer will he be? And why did he not write to me himself?”

The duchess, who was the widow of Rosewald’s former ambassador to Britain, raised a single jet-black eyebrow at Emma’s outburst. “That is for the prince to know and for you not to trouble yourself about.”

Her chaperone’s dark eyes were cool with reprimand—not surprising, Emma knew, since the middle-aged woman didn’t approve of outbursts. Nor did she approve of questions from young ladies who were in possession of too many opinions.

“His Highness sent word through his envoy that he shall arrive in due time,” the duchess added, raising her wineglass for a careful sip. “Until then, we must be content to wait.”

Oh, must we
? Emma repeated sarcastically to herself.

But she
had
waited.

And waited some more, confined inside a large estate on the outskirts of London.

In the three weeks since her arrival from the academy, she’d seen nothing beyond the estate’s boundaries. And to think she’d considered herself isolated in Scotland. How mistaken she had been.

As for companionship, there was only the duchess, the servants, and a dance master who had come twice to the house in order to refresh her abilities on the dance floor. But even the prospect of future balls and entertainments had done nothing to lighten Emma’s spirits. Because, in spite of the luxuriously appointed house and grounds, she’d come to know how the canaries felt, trapped inside their elegant cages in the upstairs drawing room. Did they cry out for freedom when they sang? she wondered. Did they wish, as she did, to take flight?

If only she were allowed to visit London and see the sights, visit a shop or two, the passing weeks wouldn’t have seemed nearly so bad. But any visit to London must be an official one with a presentation at the English court—or so Duchess Weissmuller informed her whenever Emma dared broach the topic. Until Rupert arrived, she wasn’t to go anywhere.

If he ever does arrive!
she thought, thoroughly exasperated with her older brother.

Daily, she wished she were back at Countess Hortensia’s Academy with Ariadne and Mercedes. She’d exchanged several letters with them, always taking care to sound far less miserable than she truly was. After all, she didn’t want to alarm them with the truth. Instead she talked about the house, the army of servants, the delicious food, and the beautiful pianoforte that she had the luxury of playing anytime she liked, day or night. She told them about all the places she planned to see in the city. But for now such ideas were nothing more than wishful dreams.

Speaking of wishes, she mused with wry irony, she wished with all her heart that Rupert would change his mind about the dynastic marriage he planned to arrange for her—or at
least allow her some say in it. King Otto was a stranger, after all. She hadn’t even seen a likeness of him, so how could she possibly contemplate becoming his wife? Or bearing his children? Or reigning for a lifetime at his side? The very idea made her throat tighten and her palms grow slick with perspiration.

And so, as the long, slow, dull-as-dishwater days crept by, her doubts and her fears increased until she itched for freedom. So much so that she sometimes felt as if she might burst out of her skin.

Saints preserve me,
she cried inside her head.
I have to get out of this house! I cannot breathe anymore!

Abruptly, she shoved her chair back from the dining table and stood.

The duchess looked up, her eyes wide. “What do you think you’re about? Pray be seated and finish your meal.”

Emma shook her head. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I wish to be excused. I’m not… I am not feeling well.”

“Not well? Have you need of the physician? I will have him summoned immediately.”

“Oh no, that will not be necessary,” Emma said. “I am merely tired and wish to rest.”

Duchess Weissmuller gave her an assessing, narrow-eyed stare. “Very well,” the older woman said. “You may go. I shall have your supper sent up on a tray, so you will have sufficient time to restore your energy.”

“That would be most kind.”

Forcing herself not to rush, Emma left the room.

Many hours later, Emma lay awake in bed, staring blindly into the early-morning darkness. Beneath the bodice of her prim linen nightgown, her heart beat in palpable strokes, her nerves stretched tight.

Panicked and bored.
That’s how she felt.

Panicked and bored, trapped and desperate for a respite from this prison. Because, no matter how luxurious her surroundings, that’s precisely what this place was.

A prison.

And just like a prisoner, she longed to break free of her cage and run, to savor the sweet taste of freedom like raindrops on her tongue. She wanted to do as
she
wished for a change rather than following the strictures and demands of her parents and brother and the duchess, who had all the liveliness of a moss-covered boulder. Even her lady-in-waiting, Baroness Zimmer, who had been with her since she was a child, could offer little in the way of consolation.

“You must be patient, Your Highness,” the baroness advised. “You must trust in the wisdom of those who are older and wiser than yourself.”

But Emma didn’t trust; she chafed.

Chafed against her surroundings. Chafed against her boredom. Chafed against the dictates of those who had decided her future for her without any thought to her own wishes—a future that frightened her more than she cared to admit.

If only she had a few days to be free, a week in which she could be herself without all the trappings that came with being a princess. The aristocratic girls at the academy led such simple lives really. One couldn’t help but envy them and the carefree days they would enjoy once they left school. In the spring would be a London Season, when they would attend balls and parties and all manner of exciting entertainments as they searched for a husband. Even after marriage, they would be burdened with few of the same duties and obligations that came with her life. As a princess, she wasn’t even allowed to decide what time to awaken in the morning or retire at night for bed.

What she wouldn’t give to see London for herself rather than from a lofty perch inside a royal carriage. How she longed to have an adventure of her own without her every step being watched and each word critiqued. If only she could visit the city without having to wait for Rupert’s arrival. If only she knew someone in the city with whom she could stay.

Yet wait, perhaps I do know someone!

Abruptly, she sat up in bed, the covers falling away.

Miss Poole had been her English teacher at the academy until last year, when she had resigned from her post in order to marry a London solicitor. Miss Poole—Mrs. Brown-Jones now, she corrected herself—had been her favorite teacher, and they had maintained a friendly correspondence since her departure. Emma knew without question that her old teacher would welcome her gladly.

But would the other woman be willing to give her refuge, knowing she had run off? Would she let Emma stay with her for a few days so she could enjoy the city? Of course, she wouldn’t have permission to leave the estate. Then again, Mrs. Brown-Jones didn’t need to know that—at least not right away.

A week. Just one week to enjoy herself to the fullest, and then she would willingly return home again and suffer whatever consequences might await. Was that too much to ask?

Did she dare?

Oh yes, she did…

Before she could lose her courage, she tossed the covers aside and leaned over to light a candle. Climbing quickly out of bed, she hurried across to her dressing room and pulled down her smallest portmanteau.

Dominic Gregory, Earl of Lyndhurst, rubbed his fingers over his night’s growth of dark beard, then smothered a yawn as he reached for the neatly pressed newspaper on the silver salver near his elbow.

“Shall I draw your bath now, my lord?” Puddlemere asked, the valet waiting with patient attentiveness. “Or would you prefer to take your coffee first?”

Nick—as Dominic preferred to be called—looked up from where he sat at the round walnut table in his bedchamber, autumn sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows that overlooked the garden of his London town house.

His town house. How odd the thought.

Even now he had to keep reminding himself the town house was his, since the knowledge still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Nor had he grown used to being waited on hand and foot by his brother’s ever-efficient staff.

His staff now too.

Damn Peter for having the bloody bad taste to go off and die, he thought for what must have been the thousandth time. And double damn Peter for saddling him with his title, his possessions, and his never-ending mountain of responsibilities.