The Princess and the Peer (29 page)

Rupert made a noise under his breath as if this were an ongoing debate between the two of them. “Just don’t let any of your would-be suitors get ideas in their heads. I’ve met no one here with whom you could make an advantageous marriage. As for Emma, it seems pointless for her to invite the attentions of these English when she is already promised.”

“Yes, but since the betrothal will not be announced for another few weeks, they must be allowed to hope, even if their efforts prove to be in vain. Emma deserves a bit of fun before she must take her vows, gentlemen with whom she can dance and converse and gain a last measure of polish.”

Drawing her needle through the fabric, Sigrid paused to send Emma a smile that Emma knew was meant to be reassuring. But her sister’s words only made the present situation worse and her future sound like a prison whose cell door would soon swing closed behind her.

“Well, if I am to put up with such nonsense as hopeless suitors,” Rupert stated, “the least you ladies can do is remove some of the outpourings of their devotion. Damned room is starting to smell like an undertaker’s parlor.”

“Language, Your Highness,” Sigrid said reprovingly. “I don’t care for such talk.”

Rupert’s blue eyes gleamed, since he knew Sigrid’s late husband had made an art of cursing—even among the ladies. Although perhaps that was the very reason she objected. Forgoing further comment, he refolded his paper into neat quarters, then resumed his reading.

Emma tried to follow his lead, but met with the same dismal results, the printed words still unable to hold her attention.

At the opposite end of the sofa, Sigrid continued to sew.

Five minutes later, the baroness announced herself yet
again with a light tap on the door. “More late arrivals, Your Highnesses. Red carnations for the Duchesa—”

“Oh, do bring them here,” Sigrid chimed, setting aside her embroidery. “I’m longing to see who else counts himself among my admirers.”

From behind his newspaper, Rupert gave a quiet snort.

Sigrid ignored him, taking the mass of blooms in hand with a delighted smile.

The baroness turned toward Emma. “And these were sent for you, Your Highness. A rather… unusual selection, if I might be frank.” She held out a small nosegay of flowers, her upper lip tight with disapproval for what she clearly believed to be an unworthy offering.

Emma accepted them, holding the little arrangement inside her grasp. Rather than another huge vase overflowing with lavish, overly dramatic flowers, these were simple, even ordinary. As she gazed at the cheerful purple and yellow petals, her heart began to pound.

Violas.

“Are those heartsease?” her sister remarked, dragging her attention away from her own bouquet long enough to take a look at Emma’s gift. “How quaint. Whoever would send you those?”

A long-ago conversation filled Emma’s mind, and in her thoughts she found herself seated once again across the dinner table from Nick while he plied her with questions.

What is your favorite color?

Favorite book?

Favorite season of the year?

And hidden somewhere amid those twenty questions he’d asked about flowers, surprised to learn that she loved common wildflowers the best and that violas—heartsease—were her very favorite.

But they couldn’t be from him, she realized with a sinking sensation. He loathed her now. He certainly would not be sending her flowers. Yet she couldn’t resist the impulse to pretend, even briefly. Cradling the nosegay in her palms, she
lifted the delicate blossoms to her face and brushed the velvety petals against one cheek, then the other.

“Well? Who are they from?” Sigrid asked again. “Is there a card?”

The illusion shattered at her sister’s question. Emma opened her eyes on a resigned sigh. “I do not know.”

Aware she had no choice but to check, Emma inspected the white silk that bound the stems. She discovered that there was indeed a small card tucked inside. Withdrawing it, she bent her head to read.

Her heart gave a jagged double beat, her fingers trembling ever so faintly against the stiff vellum. Contradictory emotions poured through her like a dam unleashed: pleasure that the flowers were from Nick, after all, and chagrin over the cutting sentiment of his words.

To anyone else, what he’d written would seem no more than a simple gesture of politeness, but Emma knew better. Her cheeks warmed as she reread the sentence, hearing the cutting, carefully veiled sarcasm of his honey-smooth voice. Abruptly she was assailed by a new rush of emotions, unsure whether to be glad or sad or angry and chagrined to find herself all three at once.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught her sister watching and saw again the baroness’s inquiring gaze. Even Rupert had lowered his newspaper.

“Well?” Sigrid urged.

Emma fought not to let so much as a shred of her inner turmoil show, giving a seemingly indifferent shrug instead. “I have no idea. Someone named N, whoever that might be.”

She placed the card back inside the silk, then handed the nosegay to her lady-in-waiting as if it were of absolutely no more importance to her. “Put it with the others, would you?”

The baroness took the small bouquet and crossed the room to add it to the collection, setting it where it would not be readily seen.

Emma forced herself to turn away.

“N?” Sigrid mused aloud as she once again picked up her sewing. “Who could
N
be? I cannot think of anyone we have met who would style themselves in such a manner. Lord Nightmather comes to mind, but considering that he’s married and old enough to be your grandfather I find that unlikely. Hmm? Very puzzling.”

Emma shrugged again. “Honestly, I cannot recall half of the people to whom we were introduced last night, so it’s really of no moment.” Pausing, she waved a hand toward the collection of flowers. “Later, I suppose we should do as Rupert suggests and dispense with these. My bouquets at least, although I do not wish to speak for you, Sigrid. Perhaps the servants might enjoy some of the roses to brighten their dinner table and bedchambers.”

Sigrid smiled. “What a generous idea. Mayhap I shall donate a few of mine as well.”

“That, dear sisters, would be a blessing,” Rupert said.

Sigrid shot him a look, then launched into a new round of good-spirited bickering.

Emma opened her book and once again pretended to read.

Many hours later, when the house was dark and quiet, Emma crept downstairs to the drawing room. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating when she saw that a large number of the flowers were gone, the heavy vases carried away as she had so foolishly suggested.

But then she saw it, the little nosegay lying forgotten and neglected in a corner. Hurrying forward, she reached out and picked it up.

Without water, many of the delicate wildflowers had wilted, lying shriveled and shapeless against the silk. But a careful inspection revealed a handful that survived, their colorful faces still plump and pretty with life and color.

Of these she took the best one, sliding it free of its neighbors with a gentle touch. Taking a handkerchief from her robe pocket, she wrapped the flower inside. Once she reached her bedchamber, she would find a heavy book in which she could safely press it. Maybe even the one she had so unsuccessfully tried to read today.

As for the card, Nick’s animosity radiated from every bold, dark stroke of his pen. Clearly he was still angry. Plainly he had not forgiven her in the slightest for deceiving him. And why should he? she supposed. To his mind, he must be the wronged party in all ways.

If she had any sense, an iota of pride, she would tear the note to pieces and toss the bits into the fire. She would do the same with the flower she cradled like glass in her palm as well.

Instead, she traced a fingertip over the elegant, impatient script on the vellum, aware that he had held this paper, too. He had placed the tip of his pen onto its face. He had written words upon it in his ink. Calling herself a thousand times a fool, she lifted the card to her nose and inhaled. And there, ever so faintly, she caught a hint of sandalwood soap and another ineffable scent that was unlike any other on earth.

Nick.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she placed the card inside her handkerchief as well. She laid the rest of the wilted bouquet back where it had been, then turned and hurried from the room.

Nick drummed his fists in a series of hard one-two punches, slipping beneath his opponent’s defenses to land several punishing blows to the man’s midriff. The man sagged and groaned, blood spattering on the floor as he fell to one knee and held up a hand to signal his defeat.

Nick huffed out a breath and stepped back, dropping his own gloved hands to his sides. He shook out his arm muscles, sweat dripping down his bare chest as he watched the man stagger toward a corner with aid of a third.

He ought to be exhausted by now, but he wasn’t. Thumping his fists together, he jogged a few steps in place, ready for the next sparring partner to be brought forward. “Let’s go again, Jackson,” he called to an older, robust man who stood watching the match from his place against a nearby wall. “I’m not done by half.”

“Oh, I think you are more than done for today, my lord,” Gentleman Jackson called, stepping forward. “You’ve injured half my men, and the others are too sensible to get near you in your current humor.”

Nick shot him a derisive look. “My humor is not at issue. I’m here to fight and you are here to provide me with a satisfactory opponent. Given your formidable reputation in the ring, I would think you could offer a better challenge than I’ve been given so far.”

Jackson met his gaze, apparently not the least bit intimidated. “All my men are talented, experienced fighters and they have faced you bravely. What they aren’t is determined to grind their opponent into a bloody mess. If it’s a death match you’re seeking, I know some alleyways with men who’ll be only too happy to do their best to turn you into a puddle.”

“If I don’t turn them into one first,” Nick shot back with a pugnacious tilt of his chin.

“Today I might put money on you to win, my lord, even against the meanest ones,” Jackson said with grudging admiration. “But I’d advise a less dangerous way to exorcise your demons, whatever they may be.”

“My so-called demons, if I have any, are none of your business,” Nick said coldly.

Jackson gave him an uncompromising stare. “They are when you bring them into my club. Take off the gloves and go home.”

“You’re tossing me out?” Nick demanded, his eyes narrowed.

“For today, I am. Come back when you’re not in the mood to maim my employees and patrons.”

Nick swallowed the profanity that burned like acid on his tongue. Using his teeth on the strings of one of his gloves instead, he yanked the ties free and pulled off the padded covering. He tossed it to the floor, then did the same with the other before stalking out of the practice ring, oblivious to the stares that followed him.

His muscles quivered, the pent-up frustration that continually simmered just beneath the surface these days rising inside him like water ready to boil over. Despite the physical exertion and punishment he’d received from the few blows his sparring partners had managed to land, he felt no more relaxed or relieved than he had when he’d arrived. He’d hoped the boxing would wipe his thoughts clean, and for a brief while it had. Yet the memories were back now. Without even trying, even against his will, all he could think about was Emma.

Haunting him.

Mocking him.

Reminding him with every breath and beat of his heart what an idiot he’d been. And what a fool he was to want her even now.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Emmaline of Rosewald.

His fingers clenched into fists and he wished he had something else to punch.

Instead, he stalked inside the changing area and accepted the towel offered by one of Jackson’s braver employees. Crossing to a basin, he splashed cold water over his sweat-dampened skin—face, neck, chest, and underarms—then dried himself with a few cursory wipes before flinging the towel aside. The attendant had also laid out his clothes and he strode across to dress.

Ten minutes later, his body had begun to cool but not his temper as he yanked on his heavy greatcoat and strode from the premises. His tiger, who waited idling next to his curricle, sprang immediately to attention. Nick stopped in the middle of the pavement and regarded the servant and the vehicle.

He could drive home, he supposed, but he wasn’t ready to
return to the town house. There was his club, where he was certain to find a drink and a card game, but he was in no mood for either. As Jackson had so bluntly pointed out, he wasn’t fit company for anyone at the moment. There were a couple old navy friends he could look up, officers who had found themselves in London by one means or another, but he had no interest in chewing over old times. And if anyone dared to ask about the reason for his foul humor… well, Emma was the last person he would be discussing. For in spite of her betrayal, he would not do the same to her. He would never reveal that she had lived in his home, or tell anyone that once they had been lovers.

“Drive home,” he ordered the servant. “I’ll walk.”

“But, my lord, are you sure? It looks like it’s coming on rain.”

“I spent over a decade at sea,” he said tersely, “so a little wet’s not likely to bother me.”

The younger man flushed. “Of course, my lord. I’ll take the team home.”

With a curt nod, Nick turned and stalked away, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat as he went.

He wandered, walking with no particular direction in mind. Without meaning to, he found himself in Hyde Park some while later, staring at the dull gray chop blown up across the usually placid surface of the Serpentine. Instinctively he’d been drawn to the water, even if it wasn’t the rugged swells of the sea that he truly desired.

By God, he wished he had access to a ship—or a sailboat at least. He always did his best thinking on the water, the salt spray moistening his face and the wind whipping his hair while his mind and muscles stayed occupied trimming sails and correcting tack. As for the Hyde Park’s famous lake, the man-made body of water might be adequate for rowboats and lightweight skiffs, but it wasn’t suitable for proper sailing. It certainly wasn’t deep enough or wide enough to distract his thoughts.