The Princess and the Peer (8 page)

Nick met Emma’s gaze, her sea-bright eyes twinkling, her lips twitching with barely suppressed humor. “Madeira instead, then?” he suggested softly.

Emma burst out laughing.

Unable to contain himself, Nick joined in.

Nearly two hours later, Emma ate a last delectable bite of apple charlotte, the lush flavors of fruit and rum lingering pleasurably on her tongue. More than well satisfied, she laid her fork neatly across her china plate. A footman appeared quietly to clear it away.

To her right, Nick lounged comfortably in his chair, a glass of crisp golden Tokay cradled idly in one broad palm. The dowager viscountess sat at the opposite end of the table, nearest the fire, where she had held court for the entirety of the meal. For her part, Emma had been content to eat and listen, answering the occasional question directed her way. Nick had remained quiet as well, letting his aunt rattle away in apparent contentment, while he and Emma strove not to look at each other for fear of falling into another paroxysm of laughter over the dowager viscountess’s outrageous and frequently erroneous remarks.

“Seeing that I am the only gentleman present,” Nick said when his aunt finally slowed down long enough for a brief silence to fall, “shall we repair to the drawing room and take our after-dinner libations there? Perhaps you ladies would enjoy a dish of tea while I indulge in something of a more robust nature?”

“Nothing for me,” his aunt declared with a wave of her hand. “I am utterly done in for one day and must seek my bed. But you two young people stay and entertain yourselves. The hour is early yet for anyone who has fewer than three score of years upon them.”

Nick rose and walked around the table to assist his aunt to her feet. Reaching up from where she stood next to him, the dowager viscountess patted his cheek and sent him a beatific smile. “You always were a good boy no matter your penchant for wildness. I am glad you have come home at last.”

A shadow darkened his gaze. “I would have wished for
better circumstances for my return, but yes, it is good to be with you again.”

Not home, however,
Emma noted, unable to help but notice the careful wording of his reply. A moment later his smile returned as if nothing important had been said.

“Sleep well, Aunt,” he said.

“Oh, I generally slumber like the dead—not that I’m planning to find myself among them any time soon, mind you.” Shifting her gaze, she looked at Emma. “And a good evening to you as well, young miss. Do not stay up too late.”

“No, your ladyship,” Emma answered, also rising to her feet. “I shall make an early night of it as well.”

“Not too early,” the dowager viscountess said, waggling a finger. “Young people have far too much energy and need a good wearing out each day.” She looked toward her nephew again. “Why do you not show Miss Emma the music room or the portrait gallery should she not care to hear a tune tonight?”

“What an excellent idea,” Nick agreed.

Clutching her many hued shawls in her veined hands, the dowager viscountess nodded again, then walked from the room, calling for her lady’s maid in a voice loud enough to be heard from the hall.

Once she had gone, Nick turned to Emma. “Well then, what shall it be? Tea? Music? Or looking at paintings of my moldering old relations?”

“Hmm…” Emma mused with studied consideration. “They all have their merits. Since we have only just concluded dinner, however, I suspect I could do without the tea. As for music—” She paused to cast him an inquiring look. “Do you play, my lord?”

“A little violin, but not well enough to elicit a solo effort. From the reaction of the officers with whom I used to serve, my performances were generally deemed adequate. I always felt my efforts were vastly improved, however, when I was accompanied by someone of far greater talent.”

“I am sure you are simply being modest.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Believe me, I am not. I haven’t a modest bone in my body. As for taking second fiddle—no pun intended—when it comes to my musical abilities, I am always happy to perform in a group. That way my wealth of mistakes may be concealed by the others.”

Catching the twinkle in his gaze, she thought he must be teasing, although she did not know him well enough to be sure.

“And what of you, Miss White? Are you musical?”

She considered the question, not entirely sure how to respond. At age six, she’d been led into the music room in her father’s palace, seated in front of a harpsichord and told to play. As the years and teachers passed by, she had mastered a satisfactory repertoire of pieces, enough to entertain when the occasion required. As for any genuine talent or true love, she couldn’t in all conscience make such a claim.

Now Mercedes… she played like an angel, the music seeming to radiate from her very soul. Hearing her play was like being in the presence of God himself.

Realizing that Lord Lyndhurst still awaited an answer, she turned her attention back to him. “I am versed in several instruments, chief among them the pianoforte and the harp,” she said. “But like you, my efforts are vastly improved when I may blame my errors on someone else.”

Nick grinned, his stormy gray eyes turned silver with accord. “In that case, perhaps we should brave the dour glares of my ancestors. Then again, mayhap once you see them, you’ll wish you’d chosen the tea.”

“I should much enjoy seeing your forebears, moldering and otherwise.”

“Never say you were not warned,” he advised.

Reaching across the dining table, he picked up one of the large silver candelabras that sat there, its nine beeswax candles blazing with light. The orange-tipped flames wavered madly at being so abruptly disturbed, but soon calmed enough to burn brightly again.

Extending his free arm, Nick invited Emma to take it.

Silently, she laid her palm on the smooth warmth of his sleeve, aware of the muscled firmness of his arm underneath.

The portrait room, she soon discovered, took up the entire length of the rear, first-floor gallery. Shrouded in a thick, inky darkness, the shadows grudgingly gave way to the light cast by the candelabra Nick held. The chamber was elegant, paneled in walnut and expanses of rich, watered scarlet silk. On the surrounding walls hung myriad paintings with their dozens of oil-rendered faces gazing out from their frames.

One visage in particular caught Emma’s attention. The man had a long, stern face and a Vandyke beard, his eyes the same deep gray as Nick’s. On his head sat an elaborately plumed hat. A black velvet doublet stretched taut over his chest, with the rest of his costume composed of full velvet pantaloons, hose, and pointed leather shoes. His right hand rested on a heavy, bejeweled sword at his hip, the action suggesting that he intended to draw it should anyone be foolish enough to test him.

“I see you’ve noticed the first earl,” Nick remarked as he gazed upon the figure. “Rumor has it he was one of Henry VIII’s secret assassins. Made a career out of stabbing, poisoning, and compiling evidence, truthful and otherwise, that was used to implicate enemies of the Crown and other chosen rivals. They say he interrogated those associated with Anne Boleyn, his actions helping send her to her death. Yet somehow, despite the perilous times, he managed to keep his own head and gain an earldom in the process. Not very nice, was he?”

“No,” she mused thoughtfully, “but attempting to appease kings can sometimes make men do vile, reprehensible things—particularly when the monarch is a law unto himself. Your parliament is a most interesting institution that apparently provides an effective means of curbing the worst of such excesses.”

Excesses that, until the past two generations, had been part of the fabric of her own country’s autocratic monarchy.
When her father had ascended to the throne thirty years before, he’d enacted the beginnings of reform, but nothing that anyone would consider sweeping. Two years ago, Rupert had become regent. In that brief time, he had put in place a set of broader-reaching measures designed to bring their country into the forefront of the modern age, including the establishment of Rosewald’s first true parliament. Her father had been a good king, but she knew her brother would be a great one if only given the means.

Nick shot her a curious stare. “What do you mean
your parliament
? You speak as if it is not yours as well.”

Her mouth went dry as she realized her unintentional error. Thanks to the concealing darkness, though, she didn’t think Nick noticed the momentarily stricken expression that must have shown on her face.

Carefully, she composed her features and her voice. “No, of course not. I meant
yours
only in the sense that, as an earl, you are a member of the House of Lords, and thus one of the men who helps decide the fate of England. Along with the Commons, of course. They decide too, balancing everything, as it were.”

She closed her mouth at that point, sure she’d said too much and that what she’d said was mostly gibberish. She shot him a quick look, not at all reassured by the continued skepticism on his face.

“I suppose you could look at it that way,” he agreed slowly. “Then again, I have yet to receive my official investiture as the new earl, so I haven’t done much in the way of lawmaking. Truthfully, I have little interest in politics. That was always my brother’s specialty.”

He walked a few steps farther along the gallery, then stopped and raised the candelabra higher. “This is Peter, the man who was born to be the earl.”

Relieved by the change of conversation, Emma moved closer. With sudden curiosity, she gazed up into the face of Nick’s dead brother.

The late Lord Lyndhurst was handsome, but leaner and
less physically imposing than his brother; he bore only a slight resemblance to the man at her side. His chin was more rounded than Nick’s, his hair several shades lighter brown. He had an intelligent yet serious face, his expression completely devoid of the devil-may-care irreverence and humor that made Nick so unique, so compelling. And yet their eyes were the same—a deep penetrating gray that was both clever and compassionate with a piercing quality that seemed capable of divining the inner workings of a person’s soul.

She trembled at that knowledge, wondering exactly how much of the truth Nick saw in her.

“He favored our mother,” Nick mused aloud, “while I took after the black sheep branch of Father’s side of the family. There is a highly disreputable great-uncle of whom I am the spitting image.”

Her mouth curved upward, wondering again if he was teasing.

“No, it’s true,” he stated, apparently reading her expression. “I would show you except he only merited a very small pencil rendering that is tucked away in a little-used bedchamber at Lynd Park, the Gregory family estate in Lancashire. Mayhap you’ll visit me there someday and I can show you,” he finished, the timbre of his voice turning low and silky.

Her heart gave a flutter, a sudden vision of standing with him in a small bedchamber inside his country home making her blood grow warm.

“For now, however,” he said in a smooth transition, “let me show you a portrait of my mother.”

Mutely she followed, willing her pulse to return to its usual steady rhythm.

The painting was large and hung in a position of prominence in the center of the gallery. Its frame was feminine, the gold-painted wood carved with sweeping sprays of dogwood blossoms and tiny trailing leaves. As for the subject, she looked serene and young, perhaps newly married then and dreaming of the future as she sat on a stone bench in a well-manicured garden. A small black and tan spaniel lay sleeping,
curled next to her pink satin slippers, the hem of her matching gown with its panniered skirts from an earlier era barely brushing the grass.

Kind.

It was the first word that came to mind when she looked at Nick’s mother. Kind and lovely with a delicate beauty that seemed to glow from within. In that moment, Emma knew exactly where Nick came by his humor, happy delight shining outward from the soft smile and gentle grace that had been captured with finesse by the artist.

“She was beautiful,” Emma said quietly.

“Yes. Inside and out.”

She could see why he’d remarked that his older brother favored her, their coloring and the general shape of their faces merely masculine and feminine versions of the same.

“You must miss her a great deal,” Emma said. “My mother died when I was twelve, and I have often wondered what my life might have been like had she lived.” Although given the war-torn nature of the Continent, she would likely have been sent abroad to school no matter her mother’s wishes or survival. Perhaps in the end she would have known her no better than she did now. Still, what she wouldn’t give to have her back.

Nick laid a hand on her elbow. “I suppose I am lucky to have had my mother into adulthood, then. But come, before the both of us fall into the dismals. Let me show you the rest of the collection of colorful Gregory ancestors and relations.”

By the time their tour was finished, he had her laughing again, telling her one absurd—and likely exaggerated—story after another.

“What do you say to that cup of tea now?” he questioned, placing the candelabra on a nearby side table. “I know I could do with a brandy after dealing with this checkered lot.”

“You are far too harsh on your own relations, my lord. I found them most fascinating.”

“That’s because you haven’t met any of them in person, except Aunt Felicity, of course, and she’s in a class all by herself.”

Emma laughed again. “She is at that.”

“The drawing room again, or shall we venture somewhere less formal and take our nightcap in the library?”

Just then, the clock rang out in the hall, announcing the hour with a series of bass chimes.

Eleven o’clock.

Early for city hours, she supposed, but not for her. She was still accustomed to the hours she had kept at school, where she was normally in bed by ten and drifting off to sleep by now. She yawned at the thought, her body reminding her of how little rest she had enjoyed of late.

“Or perhaps you would prefer to retire for the evening,” he said, as she lowered the hand she’d raised to cover her open mouth.