The Princess and the Peer (32 page)

Emma moved away. Taking a seat on the rose damask sofa, she reached for her embroidery.

After a moment, Ariadne and Mercedes approached and sat across from her.

Emma eased a double strand of green silk floss through the eye of her needle and stitched it into place.

“Well,” Ariadne said, “we shall simply have to think of another means of—”

“No,” Emma said, cutting her off again.

“But, Em—”

“I said no.” Gazing up, she met the other young woman’s green eyes. “I asked and he refused. It is at an end.”

“But—” Ariadne began.

“Will you stop saying that word?” Emma replied, real emotion finally creeping into her voice. “I told you it’s over.”

Ariadne crossed her arms. “So you are just going to marry King Otto without a whisper of complaint?” she shot back, a mutinous thrust to her lower lip. “What about your Nick? I thought you loved him.”

The blood drained from Emma’s cheeks, her fingers trembling against her sewing. “You go too far.”

Ariadne lowered her gaze, clearly chagrined. “Forgive me. It is only that I care about you and want you to be happy.”

“Then respect my wishes. Let this be, Arie.”

Silence fell between them; then, finally, Ariadne gave a begrudging nod.

Mercedes leaned forward. “I’m so sorry. We all had such high hopes. I feel terrible now for suggesting… well, for encouraging you to speak with the prince. It’s all my fault—”

Emma shook her head. “No, the question needed to be asked. Now it has been. Now I know.” Taking up her needle again, she returned to her embroidery.

Fewer than five minutes passed before she sighed and set her stitchery aside. “I am tired,” she said, her voice emotionless and half dead once more. “I believe I shall take a nap.”

Without looking at either of her friends, she stood and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Inside her bedchamber, she kicked off her slippers, then stretched out across her bed, dragging the edge of the counterpane up and over herself.

Rolling into a ball, she squeezed her eyes tightly closed and willed herself to sleep.

Outside in the sitting room, Ariadne and Mercedes had not moved from their places on the sofa. They sat listening until they heard only quiet from the other side of the bedchamber door.

Shoulders visibly drooping, Mercedes sighed. “I still feel responsible,” she murmured softly. “If only I had not urged her to proceed—”

“She would be what?” Ariadne asked. “Promised to wed a man she’s never met and doesn’t want to marry? I cannot see how anything has changed. No, if you want to blame someone, blame that coldhearted bas—that brother of hers. He might as well have beaten her. I suppose he did in a way, only with words not fists. I’ve never seen her brought so low.”

“I know. I was shocked when I first saw her.” Mercedes twisted her fingers together in her lap. “She’s despondent now, but perhaps King Otto will not be as bad as we imagine. Maybe he’ll turn out to be amazingly kind and interesting. Maybe Emma will even like him.”

Ariadne raised a pale brow. “I think it far more likely that the barnyard animals at the academy will all sprout wings and fly away. But even if he is kind and interesting and likable, he isn’t the man Emma loves.”

“No,” Mercedes agreed on a sigh. “Poor Emma.”

“Which is why we’re going to find a way to give her a chance with her Nick, whoever he may turn out to be.”

Mercedes let out a soft gasp. “But you heard what Emma said. The prince is firmly set on her marriage to the king. He isn’t going to release her from her promise.”

Ariadne gave a dismissive shrug. “We’ll find a way. I don’t know how yet, but something will come to me.”

“Arie, don’t. You heard Emma,” Mercedes said on a near hiss. “She doesn’t want you interfering.”

“Maybe not, but people don’t always know what’s best for them. I’m simply going to tweak things a little and let fate takes its course.”

“Maybe her fate is to marry the king.”

Ariadne shot her a pitying stare. “It wouldn’t dare be so cruel.” She paused, her forehead drawing tight with concentration. “Now, how are we going to identify this Nick person? Even more, how are we going to get him and Emma together?”

“E
nough of this moping, Emmaline,” Prince Rupert said nearly a week later as he prowled across the drawing room floor. “I have been more than tolerant of your moods, but I grow weary of making excuses for your absences.”

Emma sat silently, hands folded in her lap, as she stared out the window at the grounds beyond.

Her brother scowled. “I expect you to begin making appearances, if not with your sister and myself, then at least with your friends. I presume there is
something
you would enjoy attending?”

Emma refrained from uttering the retort that came to mind, well aware that Rupert would not appreciate the sentiment of her words.

When she said nothing again, he gave an exasperated sigh and tossed up his hands. “Choose something or I will choose for you. You will cease to behave as if you were five years old.”

A hollow laugh rose inside her throat, though she did not make a sound.

How ironic to be accused of acting like a child, she thought. She had never behaved like a child, not even when she had been one; she hadn’t been allowed. For as long as she could remember, she had been expected to behave with a
maturity far beyond her years, to act like an adult even when she’d still wanted to play with dolls and pretty, painted toys.

“Is that a command?” she asked, slowly lifting her gaze to his.

He scowled, clearly catching her reference to their conversation from a week past. “Yes, if it needs to be.”

She looked away. “Then of course I shall obey, Your Royal Highness.”

She knew the formality irritated him, especially under the present circumstances. She supposed it
was
petty, even childish of her to do so, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from uttering the small defiance.

The only avenue of rebellion she had left.

Her future had been decided for her in direct opposition to her wishes and now her personal rights were being curtailed as well. No longer would she be allowed her privacy here inside the estate. Instead, she would be forced to smile and perform and parade before the English aristocrats when, in truth, she had no interest in facing the outside world. She would much rather read and sleep and chat quietly of inconsequential things with Mercedes and Ariadne before it was time to go to bed again.

She craved peace and solitude during the brief time she had left to her before the engagement became official—time that would be coming to an end far sooner than she thought she could bear.

For even she was not so oblivious that she hadn’t heard the news that King Otto would be joining them in England for the Christmas holidays. They were all to journey to the estate of some duke in order to celebrate the yuletide. Rupert had already informed her that she was to smile and make merry with the guests—most especially her bridegroom-to-be.

Yet how could she possibly make merry when her heart was in tatters? How could she be pleasant to a man of whom she now loathed the very thought?

A miniature of the king had been sent along with his last correspondence, but she’d done no more than glance at the
painted image before thrusting it back into its velvet pouch. Sigrid had declared him “darkly intriguing,” but Emma had no opinion of his looks and truthfully did not care.

Whether he proved in person to be as beautiful as Cinderella’s prince or as ugly and foul as a troll, her fate remained the same. He represented her doom, and all she knew was that once she took her vows and became his bride, her life would be over.

She tried not the think about the loveless years ahead.

She tried—and far too often failed—not to think of Nick. As if she had no emotions left at all, she had put him behind her.

What other choice did she have? Rupert had seen to that.

And here he said she was behaving like a child. A child would never be able to give up the one thing—the only thing—they would ever truly want, or would ever really love.

She set a smile on her lips that went no deeper than her skin and rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me,” she told her brother, “I need to decide what to wear this evening. I have an outing to attend.”

Nick climbed from his coach and into the cold night air. With a heavy sigh, he gazed up at the columned facade of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

He didn’t know why he’d come—boredom he supposed. A couple of friends had asked him to dine out this evening, but he’d made up an excuse, saying he had plans to attend the theater. And so here he was, even if he didn’t much care to see the performance.

Striding into the building, he went upstairs to the family box. Once inside, he took a seat; the play was already under way. He watched the action on stage for a couple of minutes before losing interest. Idly, he scanned the patrons in the other boxes.

He recognized one or two faces, including a pretty young marchioness whose husband was old enough to be her grandfather. It was a well-known fact that she liked to amuse herself
with men in their prime. He’d seen her at a party some weeks ago where she had made it clear she would welcome his advances. She gave him an inviting smile now and waved her fan in a languid arc, clearly beckoning.

For a moment he considered the idea. Maybe a night in her bed would be just what he needed to distract him. But in spite of his recent lack of feminine companionship, he found himself unmoved. She was nothing to him, and if he took her, it would be only as a substitute for another.

There was only one woman he wanted, he realized with a sense of bitter resignation. Only one woman with whom he knew he would find both pleasure and peace.

Idly, he studied the boxes again, then felt his heart give a jolt as if he’d taken a sharp blow.

Emma.

He whispered her name as he stared, wondering if his longing had somehow conjured her from his imagination. But as he watched, he realized she was as real as he was himself—real and indescribably beautiful.

She looked regal and remote, every inch a princess in a gown of icy blue silk. Her golden hair was caught in a smooth upward twist, the silky locks gleaming like angel fire in the soft glow of the theater light.

His throat grew tight, hands clenched against his thighs in an effort not to jump to his feet and go to her—although what he might say once he arrived he had absolutely no idea. Silently, he willed her to turn, to look at him and acknowledge that he was near. But she continued gazing straight ahead, her attention squarely fixed on the play.

But for him, there was no play, no audience, nothing.

Only Emma.

“Psst,”
Ariadne whispered, leaning close to Emma so that no one else could hear, most especially the baroness, who sat on the opposite side of the box, one row behind them.

“What?” Emma said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the play.

Not that she was really paying attention, but she knew the baroness would give Rupert a thorough report once they returned home and she wanted him to hear that she’d had an enjoyable time so he would stop plaguing her to go out more in Society.

“There is a man in one of the boxes across the way,” Ariadne continued in a low voice, “and he is staring at you.”

Emma’s muscles grew tight; she hated when strangers gawked, particularly men who were intrigued by her because of her royal title and everything that came with it.

“Ignore him and watch the play,” she advised.

“Ordinarily I would but…” Ariadne’s words trailed away. “There is something about him that makes me wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“If that’s him.”

She shot her friend a sideways look. “Him who?”

“
Him,
” Ariadne repeated meaningfully. “Your Nick.”

At mention of Nick, Emma gave a start, her head turning without conscious thought to scan the dimly lit theater.

Suddenly, she saw him, seated alone in a box on the upper right side of the theater. He appeared as dark and bold as Lucifer and every ounce as commanding. Despite the distance between them, she knew his features well enough to trace every curve and angle of his beloved face and take in the outline of his long, powerful frame where he sat in the shadowy depths of the box.

As she looked, he looked back, his gaze fixed on her with a steady, unwavering attention so focused it was as though she were the only other person in the theater.

Her pulse went wild, her throat turning instantly dry. She glanced away, her hands quivering so much she felt compelled to lock them tightly together in her lap.

What is he doing here?
she thought with a mixture of pleasure and panic.
What if someone sees him staring?

But then she reminded herself that many people came to the theater as much to watch their fellow attendees as they did to see the actors. No one would think anything of his
scrutiny, particularly if she didn’t look back. As for his presence tonight, he had obviously come to see the play.

Of all the dastardly luck. Why had she chosen tonight of all nights to go to the theater? And why this theater and this play?

She trembled again and resisted the urge to gaze his way.

“Well?” Ariadne asked when Emma said nothing. “Is it him?”

“No, of course not,” she lied, hoping Ariadne would believe her and let the matter go.

“Really?” Ariadne drawled skeptically. “Then why is he staring at you like a lost wanderer who just stumbled upon an oasis? Believe me, Emma, that man definitely wants to drink you up.”

“Arie!” she said on a low hiss. “Will you hush before we’re overheard?” Worried, Emma darted a sideways glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that the baroness was still thoroughly involved in the play.

“Only if you promise to stop lying,” Ariadne whispered back, clearly unrepentant. “You never were any good at fibbing, you know. It’s that little crease you get between your eyebrows. See, there it is now.”

“I do
not
have a crease.”