The Princess and the Peer (5 page)

“Do not be absurd. My complexion always appears pale,” she declared with a renewal of her spirit.

He snorted with doleful amusement. “Except when your cheeks turn pink like they did earlier.”

“I had been running.” She shot him a glare, cursing inwardly when her cheeks warmed with a traitorous burst of color.

He laughed, then flicked the reins to set the horses in motion.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked.

“My town house,” he said. “I thought it would give us a chance to talk in private.”

She opened her mouth to refuse, knowing she shouldn’t so much as set foot on his doorstep, let alone enter his house. Ladies, and most particularly princesses, did not visit gentlemen’s homes. But a defiant impulse kept her quiet—the possibility of one final, daring taste of adventure too tempting to resist. Heaven knows she was in no hurry to go to the embassy, so why not visit his house? Besides, he probably had a wife, so there would be no impropriety whatsoever in the visit.

At that thought, her spirits sank. It shouldn’t matter to
her—it didn’t matter, she assured herself—but she found the idea of a Lady Lyndhurst oddly depressing. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she decided to make the best of the situation.

Just wait,
she thought,
until I tell Mercedes and Ariadne what I’ve been doing.

Some minutes later, they drew up before a large, elegant town house in a fine section of the city. As Nick brought the carriage to a halt, a footman hurried down the front steps.

“Welcome back, milord,” the servant said, taking up a position near the horses’ heads to hold them steady. “Had a good morning, did ye?”

Nick jumped down from the carriage, landing light as a cat in spite of his towering frame. “Quite good, Bell.”

“And who’s this pretty thing with ye?” the footman inquired with a casual familiarity Emma found astonishing for a servant.

She was equally astonished by the black leather patch covering the lanky young man’s left eye and the long, jagged scar creasing his cheek below. He must have been handsome once, she thought, before he’d suffered the terrible event that had disfigured him.

But he didn’t seem disheartened by the loss, or lacking in confidence, as he flashed her a friendly smile. “Didn’t know you were going out fishing, milord,” Bell continued. “You sure did bring back a right fine catch.”

Nick’s lips twitched, but he repressed a laugh. “Mind your manners, lad, or you’ll have our guest wishing she hadn’t agreed to accompany me here.”

“Quite right, your lordship. As Mr. Symms is always tellin’ me, I need to watch this loose tongue o’ mine afore it lands me in the suds,” the footman said before returning his gaze to Emma. “Don’t mind me, miss. Just can’t seem to help meself around lovely females.”

Despite the impropriety of fraternizing with a servant, she couldn’t keep from smiling back.

A moment later, Nick reached up to help her from the carriage.
But rather than offer his hand, he grasped her around the waist and swung her to the ground. Her pulse drummed in her veins, the curious footman utterly forgotten as her gaze locked with Nick’s. They stood just so for several long seconds before he released her.

“I promised you tea, as I recall,” he said, apparently unaffected by their brief touch.

Willing her heart to resume its normal pace, she let him lead her up a short flight of steps to the front door.

Nick’s butler—the inestimable Mr. Symms, she surmised—greeted them at the entrance. Emma saw immediately that the man was a far more proper servant than Bell, his gracious politeness putting her instantly at ease.

“If you will forgive me,” Nick said after a moment, “there is a matter to which I must attend. In the meantime, Symms will see you made comfortable in the drawing room. I shall join you there shortly.”

Nick excused himself, striding away down the hall without another word of explanation.

Emma stared after him.

Symms proved excellent at his profession, however, and Emma hardly noticed Nick’s absence as the servant led her into the drawing room, where she settled as comfortably as promised onto a well-sprung salmon-colored divan.

She gazed around the room, noticing the handsome but somewhat dated walnut furniture, the spring green draperies and colorful cream and blue Aubusson carpet. Tasteful as the room’s decoration might be, it didn’t seem to suit Nick Gregory at all; the style was far too frivolous and much too feminine.

So he does have a wife.

Is that where he had gone so abruptly? Had he left to seek out Lady Lyndhurst?

She linked her hands in her lap, telling herself she would stay only long enough to be polite and then depart. Where, she wasn’t entirely sure, as the thought of the embassy was a less-than-happy prospect.

Moments later, Nick strode into the room. “Sorry to have deserted you,” he said. “I hope Symms took good care of you in my absence.”

“Excellent care. He has gone for tea.”

Nick nodded in apparent satisfaction, then crossed to the fireplace to toss a pair of logs onto the grate. Taking up a heavy, black iron poker, he began working the wood, trying to coax the flames to burn hotter.

“Will Lady Lyndhurst be joining us?” she ventured, casting a glance toward the drawing room doors.

Nick stopped prodding the fire and turned to face her, his brows furrowed. “No.” At her continued look of inquiry, he went on. “My mother passed away some while ago.”

His mother?

“Oh, I—?” she said, confused. “My condolences.”

He stared, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Did you think I had a wife?”

“Is that not where you went? To ask her to join us?”

“No. Whatever gave you the idea that I was married?” He paused, studying her where she sat on the divan—the bright pinkish orange divan. Then he flashed one of his wicked smiles. “The colors not manly enough for you?”

“No,” she said dryly. “I cannot say that they are.”

He laughed, plainly amused. “You’re right. They aren’t. But I take no responsibility for this room. The decoration was entirely my mother’s doing. She had the salon refurbished over a decade ago. I guess Peter never got around to changing it, and I don’t pay much mind to such things.”

“Peter?” she inquired.

“My brother. He”—Nick paused for a moment, swallowing hard—“he died a few months ago. Saddled me with the country estate and this house, among other things.”

“Oh, I must beg your pardon and offer my condolences again. I did not realize you had suffered a loss recently. You’re not dressed… That is…”

“Not wearing black?” he finished for her. “No, I damned well am not. Peter knew how I felt about him, and I don’t
need to shroud myself like some carrion crow to prove that I cared. If Society doesn’t like it, they can blood—” He broke off, clearly realizing he was about to use another swear word in her presence. “Well, they know what they can do.”

Emma suppressed a smile, finding herself rather in sympathy with his opinions concerning mourning requirements. Far too many people, she found, wore black because it was expected and not because they felt genuine grief. As Nick said, the color of his clothes did not make his loss less keen.

So he had recently inherited his title, she mused. And apparently did not relish his elevation to the peerage.

Curious.

“In answer to your next question,” he said before she could offer any further comment, “this is a bachelor’s establishment and I live alone. Well, alone if you do not count the dozen or so servants who are in my employ here in the house,” he amended.

A tiny frown creased her forehead. Clearly, satisfying Society’s expectations in regard to not entertaining unmarried young women inside his home wasn’t one of his priorities either.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” he said with a hint of humor in his voice. Then he sobered. “You need not worry about the proprieties. I’ve already sent a note round to my aunt asking her to join us. She lives nearby and her curiosity won’t let her refuse my request.”

Before Emma had time to further consider that bit of news, a knock sounded at the door and Symms entered with the tea service. The butler set the large silver tray with its array of pots and plates onto a nearby table. With a short bow, he withdrew from the room.

“Would you be so good as to do the honors?” Nick gestured toward the tea tray.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, settling naturally into the familiar task. “Milk and sugar?”

“Neither. I like it black, strong and hot.”

She wasn’t surprised. Unlike the room’s style, his choice
of tea seemed to suit him perfectly. She poured, then handed him a cup of the streaming brew. She filled a plate with an assortment of tender buttery cakes, tiny sandwiches, and sweet biscuits and passed that to him as well. Then she prepared a cup of tea for herself, pausing to add a healthy splash of milk and two sugars before taking a careful sip.

“Is that all you’re having?” He sent her a disapproving look. “You still look a bit piqued.”

“I told you I am fine. Tea is all I require at present.”

He gave a derisive snort beneath his breath. “Require or not, I insist you eat something. Here.” Leaning over, he plucked up a sandwich, put it on a plate, and handed it to her. “Try one of these. They’re delicious.”

She considered refusing, but decided it was easier to simply placate him—or at least appear to do so. Under his watchful gaze, she took a small bite and discovered he was right; the sandwich was delicious—chicken and watercress, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ate another bite.

Apparently satisfied, he returned to his own repast.

“Well now,” he said after swallowing the last of slice of raisin cake, then washing it down with half the tea in his cup. “We’ve talked about me. I should enjoy hearing something more of you.”

Her fingers froze against her plate, only years of excellent training keeping her from revealing her reaction to his unwelcome question. “Me?” she said in a deliberately casual voice.

“Yes, you. What brings you to London?”

Fear of being married off to a man I don’t know,
she thought.
Frustration at being locked away like a prisoner.
A chance to enjoy one last carefree hurrah before I must put my youthful dreams away forever.

But she couldn’t very well tell him all that. Lowering her gaze, she took another long sip of her tea. “My friend; you know that. I am here for a visit.”

He raised an eyebrow heavy with skepticism. “Perhaps I
should rephrase my question. What
really
brings you to London? Clearly your friend was not expecting you, seeing that she and her husband are away at present.”

Emma’s forehead drew tight.
He really is most annoyingly logical and observant
. “I misjudged the timing; that is all. A simple confusion of dates.”

Both dark eyebrows shot skyward this time. “Please credit me with the intelligence to know when I am being fed a tale. I saw your face when you heard your friend was out of town. You were surprised and distressed. You are still uneasy about your situation. So, what has happened to make you seek refuge with your friend?”

When she did not answer, he set his cup and plate aside and leaned toward her. “You may tell me, you know. I am rather good at keeping confidences,” he said, his voice deep and soothing.

She suspected he was indeed good at keeping confidences, but she still could not risk telling him the truth. Only imagine how he would stare if she admitted she was a royal princess who had escaped the overly protective watch of her chaperones so she might enjoy a brief lark in the city. After he recovered from his shock, she suspected he would put her directly into a carriage and have her driven straight back to the estate.

Her lips tightened like a clam.

“Have you been turned out of a position perhaps?” he suggested gently. “Or maybe you had a disagreement at home and have run away? You’re from Scotland, you said.”

A jolt surged through her, tingling down to her toes. How could he have guessed so easily that she had indeed run away? As for home, Rosewald was a small autonomous kingdom lying near the northwestern border of the Austrian Empire and to the east of Switzerland.

“Yes.” She racked her mind for some glimmer of truth she could tell him. “I did journey from Scotland not long ago.”

“And why did you leave?”

She hesitated again, knowing she had to come up with something plausible. What was it he had said before? Something about her being turned away from a position?

“I was… teaching.”

“Teaching?”

“Yes. But as you suspected, I was”—she lowered her eyelashes with a dramatic sweep—“dismissed,” she finished with what she hoped was a pitiable whisper.

“You were a governess, then? Forgive me, but you seem rather young to be instructing children.”

Her gaze flashed up again.
Young!
she thought.
I am a fully grown woman of eighteen.
How could he think she was too young? Everyone was always telling her she looked mature for her age. One-and-twenty at least.

To a man of Nick’s years, however, she supposed anyone under five-and-twenty must look youthful. Studying him covertly, she wondered just how old
he
was. Thirty, she decided. A man in his prime. But his looks and age were not the issue here.

“I am more than old enough,” she declared, thinking quickly in order to spin her make-believe tale. “Apparently, after additional consideration, my employers were of the same mind as you.” She took another dramatic pause. “It seems they wanted their daughters taught by a woman of more advanced years, and so—”

“You were let go,” he finished. “Well, that seems most unfair, but unfortunately many things in life are unfair.” He paused, clearly thinking over what she’d told him. “And so you traveled to London to seek shelter with your friend?”

She nodded. “Yes. She was a teacher as well—prior to her marriage, that is.”

“I see.” Leaning back, he steepled his fingers together, settling them beneath his chin. “And then those two thieves stole your money and you found out your friend is out of town. That is a run of bad luck.”