The Princess and the Peer (36 page)

The room was filled with perhaps fifty people—nearly a third of them visiting members of Rupert’s and Otto’s courts. The rest of the assemblage were various important, wealthy, and highly placed Englishmen and -women—the British prime minister among them.

Emma made perfunctory greetings to the various dignitaries
and aristocrats who passed her way, her inner detachment making it all that much easier to perform her duty.

She had just finished speaking with a white-haired older gentleman who was so hard of hearing she’d been compelled to repeat all her answers twice, when she turned to meet the next person.

Her numbness shattered like a frozen river cracking wide in a spring thaw as she looked up at the man standing before her. She swayed, fearing she might swoon on the spot, her heart beating so hard and fast it was a miracle it didn’t burst.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Nick said as he bowed. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

N
ick met Emma’s wide hyacinth blue gaze, her expression dazed.

She is so beautiful,
he thought, his memory of her a mere fiction when set against the reality. Her petal-soft lips were slightly parted, her skin as pale as cream, the upper curve of her cheekbones dusted the luminous pink of a new dawn.

His hand flexed at his side and he ached to touch her. But he held himself steady, knowing he did not dare, not here in this drawing room, surrounded by so many others. For now he would have to content himself with a look and a few banalities.

Later,
he promised himself. Later he would find a way for them to be alone.

He had missed her so much, more than he’d thought possible in the two weeks since their encounter at the theater. But he’d forced himself to be patient, to wait until the right time to seek her out again. Now they were together once more. He only hoped her heart hadn’t turned against him, assuming it had ever been his at all.

But he had assurances that she was not impartial to him, or so he had been led to believe by her friends, with whom he had been corresponding. Their words had given him hope that all was not lost in spite of the impossibility of his and
Emma’s circumstances. He knew that fate was not on his side, but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing; he had to try before it was too late.

Emma swayed slightly, and instinctively he reached out to steady her with a gentle hand, earning his longed-for touch, after all. “Are you well, Princess?”

She blinked, and his words seemed to penetrate her brief shock. “Y-yes, of course.” She straightened with an indomitable will whose depth he was only beginning to understand. Incredible that he once had thought her an ordinary governess, but then he’d always known there was nothing ordinary about her. The blue blood ran deep and pure in her veins, her dignity and bearing something few possessed—and not simply because of her heritage.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to withdraw his hand, his palm aching again the moment he let go. “Might I procure you a refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

She looked at him, and he knew she was remembering the last time he’d given her liquor and everything that had happened afterward. She glanced away. “No, thank you.”

“Lord Lyndhurst,” he supplied smoothly, aware their conversation might easily be overheard by those nearby. “We met at the prince regent’s fete in London. Perhaps you do not recall.”

“That is right. I recall now, my lord,” she said, the last of the glazed look fading from her eyes along with the rush of color that had pinked her cheeks. She was icily pale now, composed, as he had seen her earlier from across the room. He didn’t like the look, as if she had donned a practiced mask that hid the real woman from view.

He had a sudden perverse urge to wipe it away, to force another honest response from her. But he needed to wait, he reminded himself. Now was not the time to press.

He smiled instead. “You are enjoying the country, I hope?”

“Yes, the journey was most pleasant. I arrived only today.”

“As did I. Good that the weather remained clement for
traveling. But now that we are all here, I suppose it may snow all it likes.”

“Yes, no reason not to be stranded all together.”

She gazed at him for a long, silent moment, their trivial words hiding what each of them actually longed to say.

Then, before he had a chance to continue their conversation, an older gentleman stepped forward, clearly waiting for an audience with Emma.

Later,
Nick promised himself again. He made her a bow. “Your Highness.”

“My lord,” she said.

Turning, he walked away.

Emma had been numb before, but now she tingled, each one of her nerves literally vibrating with heightened awareness and anxiety.

So far dinner had proved to be even more of an ordeal than she had originally feared. Her senses were specially attuned to Nick, even though he sat several yards distant at the end of their host’s long, formal dining table.

She tried her best not to gaze at him or notice what he might be doing, focusing all her efforts instead on carrying on a passably coherent conversation with the gentlemen seated on either side of her. Luckily neither of them seemed to mind her frequent silences and noncommittal remarks.

Lucky too was the fact that she had been spared the necessity of sitting next to King Otto. Since this was the inaugural evening of the house party, the British prime minister had been granted a place of honor on his right, while Sigrid, as the eldest daughter in their family, was accorded the seat on his left.

Yet Emma knew all too well that her reprieve would not last long and she would be required to sit next to Otto at the table, perhaps even as early as tomorrow night. For now, though, she couldn’t worry about any of that, not with Nick eating dinner with apparent calm just a few yards away.

She nearly bobbled her dessert fork as she sent him a furtive
glance under her lashes and discovered him looking back. A little smile moved over his lips in a gesture so faint only someone intimately acquainted with him would have noticed it.

But she noticed.

When it came to Dominic Gregory, she noticed everything.

Then he glanced away again, as if he’d never looked at all, and resumed his conversation with his table partner.

She didn’t think it a conceit on her part to assume he was there because of her. Yet why now, when he hadn’t bothered to seek her out before? Then there was the question of how he had managed to obtain an invitation in the first place, since only a select few had been asked to attend.

Her gaze turned to Ariadne, speculating. But no, not even Ariadne could have arranged this since it was impossible that she’d had access to the guest list. Then again, when Ariadne set her mind to something, amazing things had been known to happen.

As for obtaining answers from Nick, she’d had no chance to exchange more than a few inconsequential remarks with him—not with so many prying ears listening nearby. At least no one seemed to have witnessed her initial shock at finding him there. She truly had been on the verge of fainting after his sudden appearance in the drawing room. He’d even reached out to steady her with a hand beneath her elbow, not letting go until he’d apparently deemed it safe to release her.

She’d actually ached with a stitch beneath her ribs when he’d withdrawn his touch, desperate to recall him, wishing she could simply step forward and bury herself inside his arms. But the idea was as impossible as his presence here at the country party.

He should not have come,
she thought. Having him here was dangerous, like sipping a draft of chocolate and nightshade—delicious but deadly.

He truly was both her heaven and her hell.

Stealing another glance at him, she wondered what she
was going to do and how on earth she was going to find the strength to resist him—again.

Just when she feared she could not endure another moment of the dinner, their hostess called for the ladies to withdraw; the gentlemen were to be given a chance to enjoy port and cheroots at their solitary leisure. The men rose, waiting politely as the women made their way from the vast chamber.

To her consternation, her path would take her directly past Nick. She regulated her features so they revealed none of her inner turmoil. Yet she couldn’t control the fierce pounding of her heart as she walked closer, his bold silver gaze following her every move.

She drew nearly even with him and was just about to pass him when he stepped unexpectedly into her path. She jolted to a halt, pulse thundering furiously in her ears. As she watched, he bent down and retrieved something from the ground.

“Your handkerchief, Princess,” he said with velvety smoothness. “I believe you must have dropped it.”

She stared, knowing full well she had dropped nothing.

Their gazes met and held, his eyes full of silent portent. Without looking away, he pressed the silk into her palm. To her surprise, some small, stiff object crinkled inside the folds of the cloth. She squeezed her hand around it, realizing that it must be made of paper.

A note,
she thought, her heart giving another kick.

His palm lingered against hers only long enough for her to take a solid hold; then he drew away.

She crushed the handkerchief with its concealed message inside her palm. “Oh, how kind of you to have noticed. Thank you, my lord.”

“Your servant, ma’am.” He bowed, his expression impassive.

Then, as if she had already forgotten the entire exchange, she turned and continued on her way, exiting the dining room with the last of the ladies.

The next two hours were even more interminable than the
first, since as much as she longed to read his note, there was no good place to do so.

Not without attracting attention.

Not without telling Ariadne and Mercedes, who were finally able to join her and take seats together on one of the sofas.

For reasons she could not explain, not even to herself, she didn’t want to share this particular turn of events with them. Whatever Nick had to say was between herself and him—private and meant for her eyes alone.

And so she said nothing to her friends, merely stuffed the handkerchief and note inside her pocket, then proceeded to drink her tea with the others. Neither did she have an opportunity to discuss Nick’s presence at the party or question Ariadne about her possible involvement in issuing an invitation; the room was far too crowded with ladies for any private chats.

And so she sat, the little piece of paper burning a metaphorical hole in her hip the entire time, as if begging to be taken out and read. Somehow she resisted—even when Nick and the other gentlemen rejoined the ladies after an hour to continue the evening’s entertainment.

For his part, Nick made no attempt to seek her out, nor did he watch her or in any way direct his attention toward her. Instead, he joined one of the groups of card players, pairing himself at a table with a very attractive brunette whose high-pitched laughter seemed to bounce gratingly around the room.

At length the party disbanded, a few dedicated card players, including Nick, staying up to finish their game. Without so much as glancing his way, Emma left the room.

Part of her wanted to immediately question Ariadne and Mercedes to find out what they knew about Nick, but she decided the full story could wait until later. Still, she couldn’t resist giving them a pointed look as the three of them made their way upstairs.

“The pair of you haven’t said a word about Nick, so I presume you knew he was coming,” she hissed in a low voice.

Ariadne met her gaze with a bold lack of repentance, while Mercedes glanced away, guilty color gathering in her cheeks.

“We will talk about this in the morning,” she told them significantly.

Only when she was alone was Emma finally able to read the note.

There was no signature, though she hardly needed one.

A quick glance at the clock showed that she had a little over an hour to wait. Tucking the missive inside the book she was reading, she rang for her maid.

N
ick leaned against the wall in a dim corner of the upstairs hallway, careful to keep to the night shadows that provided some small measure of concealment. As far as he was aware, all the other guests were abed, but one never knew when someone might decide to sneak out for a late-night tryst of their own.

The marquess’s wife, with whom he had partnered tonight at cards, had left him in no doubt that she was open to just such an assignation. To her pouting regret, he had turned her down, citing the proximity of her husband as his excuse for not taking her up on her most generous offer.

By the time he’d left the card table, she was already flirting with another man, who seemed far more likely to accept. Hopefully neither of them would happen along and find him there in the corridor while he waited for Emma; he really didn’t want to be put to the bother of thinking up another excuse.

As for Emma, she was late. He’d heard the clock strike two in the morning nearly ten minutes ago.

Where is she?
he wondered.
Surely she isn’t going to stand me up?

But then, just as he was wondering how difficult it would be to locate her bedchamber, a gentle
brush-brush
of slippers whispered through the silence.

And there she came, looking pale and insubstantial as a ghost in her white silk gown, her golden hair gleaming angelically in the tenebrous light. She stopped just beyond his reach, silent as she met his gaze.

“I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” he said in a hushed voice.

She linked her hands together in front of her. “I almost didn’t. I nearly changed my mind. Then I got lost. How am I supposed to know which corridor is the east one?”

Despite her admission that she really had thought of standing him up, he couldn’t help but smile about her confusion navigating the unfamiliar house. “Well, you’re here now. I—”