She watched, drinking in the sight of him as he shrugged into his shirt and fastened his trousers. With a smile, he held out a hand. “Come. Let’s go upstairs. I believe you’ll find my bed far more comfortable than this sofa.”
His bed!
She trembled with delight at the idea, but she couldn’t risk it. She had to leave—and this morning, before anyone was awake, would be her only real opportunity to make good her escape.
“I can’t,” she said.
He arched a brow. “Why? Don’t you trust me to let you sleep?”
She stared for a moment; she hadn’t even thought of that. Quickly, she shook her head. “No, I trust you. And I do want to stay with you”—God knows I do—“it’s just that with your aunt in residence I think we should make some attempt to observe the proprieties.”
His lips twitched. “Observe the proprieties? Seems a bit late for that.”
“Just because we are lovers now doesn’t mean we need to flaunt that fact. Besides, if I’m discovered in your bed, the servants will be telling everyone they know.”
His humor faded. “My servants are more discreet than that. But still, I suppose you have a point. I could always sneak you back to your room at dawn.”
He could, she thought, longing for a couple more hours in his arms. But it would be cutting matters far too close for her to stay with him, and if he were awake, he might hear her leave.
“No,” she said. “I think it’s better if I go back to my own room tonight.”
He paused, looking as if he wanted to argue. “If you insist. But only because I know you need rest and I might not be able to resist waking you up later.”
She ought to have been relieved. Instead, the crushing weight of her decision came upon her, along with the looming misery of their parting. “Nick,” she murmured.
“Yes?”
“Kiss me,” she said with a rush of desperation. “Just one more time before you go.”
“I’ll only be just down the hall.” He smiled. “And you’re welcome to change your mind about our sleeping arrangements, you know.”
But she couldn’t. She did not dare.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded, blinking again to hold back the tears that threatened to betray her.
With a tender smile, he pulled her tight and pressed his mouth to hers. She kissed him back deeply, ravenously, knowing it would be for the very last time.
When it was over, something inside her seemed to die. Sobbing inside, despite her outwardly dry eyes, she let him lead her upstairs.
Chapter 13
A bird was trilling a tune on a branch outside Nick’s bedchamber window the next morning, cheerful October sunlight filtering through the panes.
A broad grin spread over his face but not because of the bird or the sunshine.
It was because he was happy.
Happier than he could remember being in a very long while.
Not even the always-lingering shadow of Peter’s death could mar his good humor.
Not today.
Not after last night.
He reached his arms above his head and gave a twisting all-over stretch against the sheets. A vital, pulsating heat stole through his veins as memories flashed inside his mind, his body growing instantly hard and aroused.
He wished Emma were here with him now, lying beside him in his bed. But not just for the sex—which had admittedly been fantastic and no doubt would be again—but also for the closeness and the pure, indescribable pleasure of her company.
He wanted her again, right now.
Even more, he wanted her for his wife.
He didn’t know the exact moment when he’d arrived at that decision, but at some point after she’d come into the library last night he’d simply known that she would be his bride.
At first he’d tried to resist, pretending to be interested strictly in books, while instead he could scarcely keep his eyes off her. She’d presented a mouthwatering morsel, standing there in her plain robe with her soft, coin-bright hair streaming down her back almost to her waist.
He’d wanted to sink his hands into it, coil the long, lush strands around his wrists so he could bind her to him. Take her and make her his—forever.
And he supposed in the end that’s precisely what he’d done. He’d taken her innocence and she’d repaid him tenfold with her trust, the giving delight of her body, and the joyous intelligence and rich warmth of her personality.
Does she love me? he wondered, recalling the earnest intensity in her luminous blue gaze as they’d made love.
Suddenly he hoped very much that she did.
Do I love her?
He lay still, ruminating over the question.
If he didn’t love her now, he guessed he would soon enough. He already liked her more than any woman he’d ever known. She fascinated him, inspired him, made him laugh. And she sure as Hades attracted him; all he had to do was look at the sheet poking up like a tent over his loins for confirmation of that!
He had little doubt that once his ring was on her finger it would be a simple thing to tumble all the way under her bewitching spell.
Assuming he wasn’t there already, he realized ruefully. Just listen to me, mooning over her like some lovesick schoolboy.
But he didn’t care. He was in too good a mood, more exuberant and enthusiastic about the future than he’d been since before he’d been compelled to resign his commission and give up his ship. With Emma at his side though, maybe a landlocked life would not be as dreadful as he had once imagined. Already he could think of a number of beneficial compensations.
If he were still a naval officer, he would be required to leave her for long spans of time while he was off to sea. But as a peer of the realm, they could be together every day—and even better—every night. And when they had a family, he would have the pleasure of watching his children grow day by day rather than hearing about them in letters and being surprised every time he came home to find them inches taller and far older-looking than he had remembered them to be.
Yes, marrying Emma would most definitely have benefits.
Of course, some of the Ton might look askance at her lack of a dowry. But he’d never given a fig for Society’s opinion, good or ill, so what did he care now? She was clearly of good family and would make him an exceedingly fine countess.
She was graceful and well spoken, poised in ways few ladies of much higher rank than herself even knew how to be. She was intelligent and interesting with perfect manners; he could readily imagine her hosting suppers and fetes with an aplomb all would admire.
As for her education and training as a governess, such knowledge would stand her in good stead to take over the efficient running of his household and to see to the upbringing of their children—when they had them.
He rather hoped she didn’t find herself increasing too quickly; he wanted to enjoy a long and satisfying honeymoon where the two of them did nothing all day but lie abed and savor the pleasure of being in each other’s arms. As for their life on the whole, he planned to spoil her as no woman had been spoiled before. He would lavish her with gowns and jewels, furs and trips and parties—anything and everything her heart desired.
For the first time, he was glad he was the earl. Peter had left him a very wealthy man, one who would have no difficulty providing amply for a wife. After the impoverished life Emma had obviously led, he would relish giving her the security and leisure his title could bestow. She would never know worry again, only happiness and contentment as his cherished wife and helpmeet.
Jesu, he thought, I really am besotted.
With a laugh, he flung back the sheets and leapt from his bed, padding across to pull the bell for his valet. Pausing for only a moment, he continued on to his bathing chamber for a dunk in a cold bath, to be followed by a close shave, thorough toothbrushing, and neat hair combing. He would ask Puddlemere to lay out some of his most attractive day attire. He wanted to look his best, just right for when he asked Emma to be his wi
fe.
A little over an hour later, Nick strode into the breakfast room, looking refreshed and immaculate in fawn trousers and a coat of olive green superfine, a starched white neckcloth tied in an Oriental around his throat. He wore a striped gold-and-cream waistcoat, pristine white shirt, and polished black shoes—his “proposal clothes” as he now thought of them.
Of course, he hadn’t said anything to Puddlemere about his plans, even though he could tell the man had been curious when he’d been told to lay out his master’s finest. Better to wait until Emma officially accepted his troth, he decided, before letting the servants in on his plans.
He’d half hoped to find her already seated at the table, but apparently she was still abed. Not all that surprising, he guessed, considering their enthusiastic coupling last night on the library sofa. He supposed he would never think of that particular couch the same way again.
Smiling, he took a seat at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver carafe that had been placed there.
A footman walked in a minute later.
Nick looked up. “Bell, would you advise Miss White’s maid to ask Miss White to join me as soon as she is awake and ready for the day? I have a few matters I should like to discuss.”
His former crewman stared at him, an odd expression of surprise in his single, unpatched brown eye. “Miss White, Cap’n?—I mean, milord.”
Nick drank a mouthful of coffee, then set down his cup. “Yes, Miss White,” he repeated, wondering at the other man’s curious reaction.
He waited, but Bell said nothing further, which was odder still. Usually Bell was full of too much chatter; this morning he seemed nearly mute.
“Miss White,” Nick prompted after another long silence during which he barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “The young lady who has been staying with us. What on earth is the matter with you, Bell? Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh, right as rain, Cap’n. It’s just, I assumed ye knew.”
“Knew what?”
“About the pretty little miss—um, Miss White, that is,” he hastily corrected. “She done left this morning almost afore any of the staff were up and out’n their beds. I saw her in the front hall meself, holding that little valise o’ hers in her hands.”
Nick scowled. “And—?”
“And then she asked me to hail a hackney for her. Told me ye’d already said yer good-byes last night and she wanted to be off early. I offered to go round to the mews and have the coach made ready for her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Most insistent on taking a hack, she was.”
Nick felt his eyebrows draw into an even deeper glower. “And you didn’t think to delay her? Perhaps advise someone else in the household of her wish to depart?”
Bell shuffled his large feet, clearly realizing he’d made a grave error. “Sorry, Cap’n, if I’d known she were runnin’ off, like, I’d have come and woke ye up. I jest assumed… well, ye already know what it was I assumed.”
Whatever else the other man might have thought to say trailed off, no doubt rendered silent by the sight of Nick’s expression—or what Nick imagined his expression must look like.
She’s gone! he thought incredulously. But where in the blazes would she go? More to the point, why?
Nick couldn’t quite get his thoughts around the notion that Emma had left. He cast his mind back, trying to remember every detail of last night.
She’d come to the library.
They’d talked.
He’d kissed her.
Then he tried—quite futilely as it would happen—to stop matters from proceeding any further between them.
But she’d been as loath to end their embrace as he. She’d wanted him every bit as much as he’d wanted her, of that he had no doubt. And she’d enjoyed herself, eager and enthusiastic to explore that side of her nature in spite of her innocence.
Afterward he’d walked her to her bedchamber door, where they’d shared one last sweet kiss before she’d bid him a sleepy good night and disappeared inside her room.
Had he somehow mistaken her reaction? Had she been upset, after all? When he really considered the matter, she had seemed unusually quiet, refusing toward the last to fully meet his gaze.
At the time, he’d attributed her reaction to the emotional and physical adjustment of having just lost her virginity; it was an experience he assumed any young woman would find eye-opening, particularly a girl as sexually naive as Emma.
He’d thought her worries were allayed, having assured her that they would talk come morning. He’d assumed he’d made his intentions plain as well and that she realized he meant to ask her to be his wife. Was it possible she had mistaken his honorable intentions? That somehow she had misunderstood what had seemed absolutely clear to him?
Is that why she left? he wondered.
The coffee he’d drunk burned uncomfortably beneath his breastbone as he considered the question. Did she believe he’d ruined her, fearing he meant to offer no more than a carte blanche and a place as his mistress? Or was she worried he would offer to do the honorable thing by her, but only out of guilt and not true affection?
Well, he would put paid to such erroneous ideas immediately—at least he would once he located her.
Sweet, foolish girl, he thought. If only she’d waited a few hours more, none of this upset would have been necessary.
Shoving back his chair, he stood up from the table. There was only one likely place she might have gone—to the home of her old teacher and friend. He still remembered the London address and would have no trouble finding the town house again. If he hurried, he could have Emma back here at Lyndhurst House before his aunt even awakened for the day.
He started across the room, ignoring Bell’s watchful gaze, and was halfway across when a maid appeared in the doorway.
“Pardon me, milord,” the girl said, “but I thought I ought to bring ye this.” She held out a letter, the cream vellum neatly folded and set with a red wax seal. His name was printed in refined black script on the front. “I found it in Miss White’s room,” the maid continued. “She left one fer her ladyship as well.”
So, she had left him a note, Nick mused.
Extending his hand, he took the missive, then turned away from the servants and strode across to the window. Bell and the maid slipped almost unnoticed from the room as Nick slit open the letter.
He scanned the contents, his scowl returning as he read. It was a polite letter, pleasant and unassuming, the kind one might pen to a cordial acquaintance; it was certainly not the sort of note a woman would write to the man in whose arms she’d lain naked less than twelve hours earlier. In it Emma thanked him for his kind hospitality and friendship, then went on to bid him good-bye, offering wishes for his continued health and happiness in the future.
Continued health and happiness for my future! he thought with a jolt. What sort of claptrap is this?
Considering the tone of her missive, he could almost imagine she had written the note prior to their impromptu encounter in the library. It was as though she’d planned all along to leave today and had only been waiting for the right moment to break the news.
And quite abruptly, he knew that’s exactly what she’d done.
She had intended to leave him today before she’d ever set foot in the library.
But why now?
Why today, especially when they had made love last night?
Had their intimacy meant nothing to her? Or was there some other motivating factor at work?
Earlier, he thought he’d figured out the reason for her unexpected flight, but now he didn’t know what to believe. Her actions made no sense at all and he could find no rational explanation, think of no circumstances that might have precipitated her unexpected departure.
Worse, if she had meant to leave all along, had she always intended to make her exit without saying good-bye in person? Without giving him a chance to talk to her, to convince her not to go?
Again, her actions made
no sense to him whatsoever.
As for the closeness he’d thought they shared, had he been so very wrong about that? Had he misread her emotions so completely that he’d mistaken gratitude for affection? Lust for love?
But then he remembered her face last night when they’d lain together, the lambent glow of joy that had shone from her hyacinth-hued eyes, her soft lips parted on a smile of such happiness that there had been no mistaking the honesty of her emotions—of her love.
Folding the note in sharp halves, he tucked it inside his coat pocket, then stalked from the room.
Well, she could try to hide but he would find her, and once he did, they would talk this through, whatever this might turn out to be.
He meant to make her his wife, and by God, that is what she would become.
“I am sorry, but the missus isn’t receiving at the moment,” the maid at the Brown-Jones town house told Nick an hour later as he stood on the doorstep. The servant was the same one who had answered the door on that other occasion when he and Emma had called here—the first day they’d met in the market in Covent Garden nearly three weeks ago.
“She will receive me,” Nick informed her in a no-nonsense tone. “Inform her that Lord Lyndhurst wishes to speak with her on important business.” He thrust out a calling card.
The maid’s eyes widened at the mention of his name before she took the stiff rectangle of vellum on which his name was printed in simple yet refined letters. She stared at it for a long moment, making him wonder if she could read.
“Whall…” she drawled, looking up again from the card, “don’t know as that’ll make no difference. She were mighty firm about not wantin’ to entertain no callers today.”
Was that because Emma had taken refuge inside?
Was she waiting somewhere upstairs even now?
“I am not an ordinary caller,” he insisted. “I am certain your mistress will see me,” he said.
And if she wouldn’t, he would find some method of changing her mind. Once he had, he would see Emma as well.
Taking another step forward, he caught the door in his hand and gave a small push. The girl released it immediately, moving several paces backward into the entry hall.
The Princess and the Peer Page 17
