The Princess and the Peer (24 page)

“Of course, my dear. If there is anything else I can do—”

“No, there is nothing.”

And there never would be. After all, how could there be when her heart lay in a thousand shattered pieces, never to be mended again?

Avoiding the older woman’s far too knowledgeable gaze, Emma turned and made her way from the room.

“E
mma has written again!” Ariadne declared three weeks later from where she sat near a window in her bedchamber.

Subdued afternoon sunlight shone through the narrow Gothic-style glass panes, additional illumination provided by the lighted candles she had placed in strategic locations throughout the room. A fire burned at a healthy pace inside the wide stone grate, the flames driving some of the early-November chill from the room. A woven wool rug and draperies in shades of starry blue and forest green helped to warm the room as well, lessening the austerity of the stone chamber.

“Oh good, what does she have to say?” Mercedes closed the door behind her and hurried across the room, lowering herself into a nearby chair. “Is she still in London?”

Ariadne pushed her spectacles more securely upward along her nose, then bent her head over the missive. She scanned the contents, deciphering Emma’s narrow flowing script without difficulty.

“Yes, she’s still there.” She continued reading. “But she’s not staying where she was when last she wrote. No! She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t, couldn’t what?” Mercedes asked, leaning forward
with her elbows bent atop her knees in a most unregal manner.

“Gone back.” A sense of deflation ripped through Ariadne as if she were a balloon that had just received a good sharp stab with a pin. “Emma’s returned to the estate. Apparently her brother has arrived at long last.”

A moment of silence fell as Mercedes mulled over the news. “Well, that’s good, is it not?” she ventured tentatively. “Being at odds with one’s family is never easy.”

Another silence ensued; a light wind took the opportunity to fill the void by rattling the window frame.

“Was the prince very displeased that Emma left without permission?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ariadne leaped to her feet, unable to contain her hiss of disapproval. “She escaped. She ought to have at least used her defection to some advantage before turning tail and slinking back. Here, you take this.” She thrust out the letter. “I cannot bear to read further.”

Mercedes regarded her with the wide-eyed, forbearing expression she adopted whenever Ariadne was in one of her so-called tempers before accepting the missive.

Ariadne strode to the fireplace, her pale lavender skirts swinging with each step. Silently, she drew to a halt and gazed at the red-tongued flames licking the stone sides of the blackened grate.

“Shall I read on?” Mercedes inquired.

Ariadne waved a hand without turning.

Mercedes apparently took the gesture as one of agreement. “She returned almost a month ago. Prince Rupert huffed and puffed and threatened to punish her at first, but he has since forgiven her. She says she was staying with Mrs. Brown-Jones the entire time.” She paused and looked up. “We ought to have thought of her immediately, now that I think on it.”

Mercedes raised a fingertip to her mouth and chewed the edge of her nail for a few seconds. “But if that were the case,
why did Emma not just tell us where she was? Why all the secrecy?”

“Because she wasn’t staying with our old teacher, if I don’t miss my guess. At least not the entire time she was away. Go on.”

Mercedes frowned, then lowered her gaze to the letter once more. “She’s having an entirely new wardrobe made up. She’s to be presented soon at the English court. They are holding a grand ball in celebration of their visit. Of her betrothal, nothing has been said yet. Apparently… apparently the king plans a visit near Christmastide and the announcement will be made soon after.”

“So she’s going through with the marriage?”

“Yes. She—” Mercedes paused, the rest of her words dwindling away.

Slowly, Ariadne turned. “She what?”

The other girl lifted her eyes and met her gaze. “She sounds dreadfully unhappy.”

“And so would you be if you going to wed some old man.”

Mercedes shook her head. “Perhaps, but I sense that it is something more, something she’s not telling us. Of course, I may be wrong, since one can only discern so much from a letter. But still, she seems… despondent.”

Ariadne’s forehead drew into lines; she extended her hand. “Let me see that again.”

Quietly, quickly, she read her friend’s words, seeing what they said as well as everything they did not.

Mercedes was right.

Emma gave a faithful report, but that is all it was—a report without life or vibrancy. Had she not signed her name, Emma’s letter could have been written by a stranger.

More disturbed than she cared to admit, Ariadne walked across the room and sat down at her desk. Opening a drawer, she extracted a sheet of paper, then reached for her quill pen and bottle of ink.

“What are you doing?” Mercedes asked curiously.

“Writing to her brother. Surely even Prince Rupert cannot be so cruel as to deny his sister the comfort of her friends.”

“But what about our classes and the rest of term?”

“Term will be over soon enough, and I can see no great difficulty if we leave a few days early. In the meantime, we shall finish our lessons while arrangements are made. You and I are going to England to see Emma. Then we shall discover exactly what is amiss.”

“If you would indulge me yet again, Your Highness, might I ask you to raise your arm another inch?”

Emma shifted, the faint jab of a pin startling her out of her reverie. She sent a blank stare toward the diminutive dressmaker, only then truly taking note of her.

Despite the woman’s frantic activity over the past forty-five minutes and the continuous hum of conversation between her and her assistants, Emma had managed to drown out most of that day’s dress fitting. It was a skill she’d honed to near perfection over the last month, since her return to the estate. She had become quite adept at being physically present for an event yet able to divorce herself mentally from the proceedings.

Generally, no one seemed to mind; her attendance was often all that was required at the small gatherings and intimate dinner parties given in honor of her brother.

“What do you require?” she said, looking directly at the modiste.

The tiny woman paused, a piece of chalk and a tape measure clutched inside her small hands, a long paper filled with straight pins draped like a boa constrictor over her neck. Offering a slight smile of apology, the older woman looked away. “Only a few more minutes of your time, Princess. We are very nearly finished.”

Emma resisted the urge to shrug, scarcely caring either way. What she did—or did not do—made little difference to her lately. She bathed and dressed, ate and slept, letting her ladies-in-waiting advise her where she ought to be next and
exactly what she should be doing. At moments she felt as if someone else were living her life and she was observing it all from afar. Often she did not feel like herself—or feel at all, for that matter.

She supposed she ought to take a more active interest in her life, but each time she cracked open the door on her emotions, the pain would come rushing back—a pain that was nearly unendurable. And so she slammed the door closed again and let the distraction take hold once more.

She did not think of
him
—at least never deliberately, since that was something else she could not bear. Only at night, when her defenses were at their weakest, did the memories creep upon her, leaving her to wake with wet, tearstained cheeks, his name a forbidden whisper on her lips.

But he was in her past, and whatever it took, that was where he must stay.

Dutifully, she raised her arm.

The dressmaker resumed her pinning.

Emma had just begun to drift away again when the great double doors to her dressing room flew open and a slim woman with silvery blond hair strode inside. The elegant skirts of her cerulean satin gown swished around her trim ankles, a set of matching sapphires glinting at her throat and wrist. An equally exquisite pearl that looked big enough to have cracked the shell of the oyster that had borne it rode on her right hand. A plain gold band that signified her once married, but now widowed, state, adorned her left.

In spite of her being a widow and the mother of two young daughters, she was still young herself, only seven-and-twenty. Her ivory skin was smooth as a debutante’s, her features undeniably beautiful. The shape of her deep-set blue eyes and pert nose were similar to Emma’s, enough so that there could be no mistaking the fact that they were sisters.

Walking briskly forward, Sigrid, Duchesa d’Tuscani, halted a few feet in front of her and conducted a head-to-toe inspection of the dressmaker’s work before clasping her hands against the healthy curve of her bosom.

“Stunning,” she declared. “No one attending this Saturday’s ball will be able to take their eyes off you. The English prince we are to meet may stumble over his own feet in his haste to make your acquaintance.”

This time Emma did not restrain the urge to shrug; the reward for her impertinence was a new jab from the sharp end of one of the many pins holding the dress together. She scowled, wishing suddenly that she could return to her bedchamber and sleep.

“The gown will be ready in time?” Sigrid questioned, ignoring Emma’s little display of rebellion in order to consult with the modiste.

“Oh yes, Your Highness,” the woman assured. “My girls and I shall work day and night to ensure the prompt delivery of Princess Emmaline’s wardrobe.”

Sigrid gave a regal tilt of her head. “And mine as well, I presume? I can wait on a few pieces, if necessary, but I must have the ruby satin for the ball. Nothing else will suffice, you understand.”

The dressmaker nodded deferentially. “That gown is a top priority as well. I have hired five new seamstresses to work on your commission and no other.”

Sigrid sniffed as if she expected no less, then brushed a hand along her skirt—one of several new gowns she’d already had made since her arrival in England.

Emma might find the selection and fitting process for her new wardrobe tedious, but her sister was in heaven. She loved nothing more than acquiring new clothes—well, perhaps there was one thing she loved more, and that was jewelry. Luckily, the late duke’s family had not objected to Sigrid taking more than two dozen highly expensive pieces with her when she left her former home in Italy.

“Every one of the gemstones in my possession was a personal gift from Carlo,” she had explained. “I mean, what would I want with his family’s ancient medieval heirlooms anyway? The ugliest monstrosities I’ve ever had the misfortune
to see. Why do you think I made him buy me new ones after we were married?”

As for her new wardrobe, Sigrid had convinced Rupert that she could not possibly make her introduction to the British crown in her shabby old gowns. All she had were
widow’s weeds
, which surely he would be embarrassed to see her wear now that she was out of mourning.

Once Rupert’s temper had cooled over not finding Emma at the estate as planned, he had been more than happy to placate Sigrid and her request for new clothes. He had forgiven Emma as well, assuming she would be as delighted as her older sister at the prospect of receiving her own elegant new wardrobe. Emma had thanked him, but as for being delighted, she hadn’t been able to drum up any more enthusiastic an emotion than boredom. Instead, she had let Sigrid be excited for them both.

Nor had she been as excited as she surely ought to have been by the news that Duchess Weissmuller had been dismissed. When Rupert learned that Emma’s former chaperone had made her so miserable she’d felt the need to run away, he had been furious. Emma heard that the usually unflappable duchess had emerged ashen-faced and on the verge of tears after her interview with Rupert. The following morning, her bags had been packed and a coach made ready for her return trip to Rosewald. Sunk deep in disgrace, none of the household, most particularly Rupert and Sigrid, had gone to wish her good-bye.

Considering her past encounters with the woman, Emma knew she had reason to be grateful for her former chaperone’s departure. Yet even that tiny spark of relief had done little to intrude on the abject misery of those first days after her return. She supposed her pallor and silence had gone a long way toward convincing Rupert that she was truly repentant for her unauthorized escape to London.

Of Nick and his aunt, she made no reference. Instead, she’d told her brother that she had spent the entire time in residence
with Mrs. Brown-Jones. There was no reason why he need ever know otherwise. Once she and her siblings left England in a few weeks’ time, there would be no chance of her ever meeting Nick or his aunt again. In many ways, it would be as if those weeks in his home—in his arms—had never happened. As if he were no more than a stranger, someone whose life never had, and never would, intersect with hers.

A crushing pain radiated through her at the thought, squeezing the air from her lungs as if she had taken a killing blow. Only by sheer strength of will did she keep from wrapping her arms around herself and giving in to the cry trapped inside her.

No!
she ordered herself.
Do not think of him.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever, if you know what’s good for you.

Tugging desperately at the edges of the comforting quilt of numbness in which she’d lately taken to shrouding herself, she closed her eyes and wished the world away.

“Et voilà!”
the modiste stated in a pleased voice not long afterward. Emma opened her eyes, watching dully as the woman stepped back to admire her work one final time. “Finished at last.” She sent Emma a wide smile. “Would you care to take a look in the pier glass, Your Highness? Just to make sure everything is to your liking.”

Emma said nothing, grateful when Sigrid came forward to offer several effusive words of praise and the promise of a generous delivery bonus that put a twinkle in the dressmaker’s eye.