The Princess and the Peer

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  “I shall wait here while you go fetch her,” he stated.

  He shut the door at his back.

  She sent him a disapproving look, but spun around without further comment and hurried up the staircase, his card clutched inside her grasp.

  He wanted to follow, but resisted the impulse. He would see Emma soon enough, he assured himself.

  Linking his hands behind his back, he walked a few steps to the right then retraced them. He found the action soothing—a familiar habit from his years spent pacing the deck of his ship. The biggest difference now was that the floor in this house didn’t roll and pitch like his old bridge and the air wasn’t moist with the sweet-sharp tang of brine.

  Less than five minutes passed before he heard footsteps and looked up to see a different woman coming down the stairs. Attired in a plain but pleasant gown of figured amber silk, she appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her face was pleasant, attractive without being overly handsome.

  She had, he noted, a pair of very direct grayish green eyes that were deep-set in her long, thin face. She fixed those eyes on him as she came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. “Lord Lyndhurst, I presume?”

  He made her a short bow. “And you must be Mrs. Brown-Jones. Thank you for receiving me, since I understand you are not at home to callers today.”

  One of her medium brown eyebrows lifted at his slight impertinence, the movement offering hints of her former profession as a schoolteacher. “No, I am not. But according to my maidservant, you were most insistent on seeing me. She feared you might barge up the stairs were I not to descend posthaste.”

  Her maid wasn’t mistaken, though Nick decided he did not need to confirm their suspicions. “I am here—”

  “Oh, I know why you are here,” she interrupted with gentle understanding. “Which is precisely why I wished to delay this interview. But it cannot be helped, I suppose.” She sighed, then motioned him toward a nearby door. “Pray follow me into the drawing room, my lord, and we shall speak further.”

  There was a brusque practicality in Mrs. Brown-Jones’s voice that once again reminded him of her former profession as a teacher. But he was in no mood to act the part of schoolboy; he was long past such strictures.

  Still, he followed as instructed.

  “She said you might pay me a visit,” Mrs. Brown-Jones informed him without preamble as soon as they were away from prying ears. “In fact, she thought your arrival quite likely.”

  “Where is she? Where is Emma?” He couldn’t help but glance toward the ceiling as if he could somehow see through the plaster and wood—ridiculous, of course. Still, he couldn’t help but make the gesture.

  She sent him another appraising look. “She is not here, if that is what you are wondering. But she was,” she added before he could demand to know more. “She came to see me very briefly this morning to explain a few things and then she left.”

  “Left to go where?”

  A rueful smile curved her mouth. “She told me you might ask that as well, but I am afraid I do not know.”

  “Don’t know or won’t say?”

  The smile fell away. “You are very forthright in your statements, my lord. Perhaps you might wish to rephrase that?”

  This time he admitted that her reprimand was well deserved. “My apologies if I seem abrupt. It is only that… well, Emma—Miss White—departed from my household rather precipitously this morning and there are certain matters I am most eager to discuss with her.”

  She gave him another long look, lines of concern and faint but unmistakable disapproval marring the smooth skin of her forehead. “I won’t presume to inquire as to the origin of your acquaintance with Emma,” Mrs. Brown-Jones said, “or how she came to reside in your home—”

  He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could speak. “Yes, I am aware your aunt was there to act as chaperone and that all the proprieties were observed.”

  Well, not all, he thought wryly. Not the most important ones—such as leaving her untouched.

  But that didn’t matter, he told himself, since he had every intention of doing the honorable thing by Emma. Once he found her, he would resolve whatever confusion lay between them and see to it she became his bride.

  “I have known Her Hi—Emma—far longer than you, my lord,” Mrs. Brown-Jones continued, her tongue skipping quickly over the slight hesitation in her words.

  He took note of the slip. She had been about to call Emma something else before she corrected herself, he realized. She had said her along with a sound he hadn’t quite been able to catch.

  Her what?

  But then the woman was speaking again, her next words driving his line of questioning straight out of his head.

  “—and I can tell you without hesitation that Emma has made the right decision by leaving. She is doing what is best for her and for you as well.”

  He stared for a long moment, unable to conceal his astonishment or incredulity. “Doing what’s best?” he repeated. “By running away and leaving me some politely distant note that explains absolutely nothing? I think not, madam. I believe I am entitled to far more of an explanation than that.”

  “And precisely why, my lord? She was a guest in your house, I understand, but beyond that—”

  “She was far more than a guest. Clearly Emma is unaware of the depth of my regard for her or else she would not have left the way she did. I intend to marry her and if you will simply tell me where she has gone, I shall do exactly that.”

  The woman’s gray-green eyes widened and her mouth dropped open before she had time to collect herself; she closed her lips with a snap.

  “Please,” he said in a quiet tone, “as her friend, will you not tell me where she is?”

  Her face fell then—sadness and, if he wasn’t mistaken, pity, shadowing her features. “I am sorry, my lord, I cannot. I will not betray her confidence. But even if I were of a mind to aid you, I am afraid the act would serve no useful purpose.”

  His brows drew tight. “What do you mean ‘no useful purpose’? I don’t understand—”

  “Nor do you need to,” she told him, her tone sympathetic. “Forget her. Go on with your life. That is what Emma is doing already—putting things behind her, doing as she must.”

  He froze, suddenly immobile.

  Doing as she must? What in Hades does that mean?

  Yet all he could think about was Mrs. Brown-Jones’s statement that Emma had decided to forget him. That she had left to go on with her life—a life in which he clearly had no part.

  Putting things behind her.

  Putting me behind her, she meant.

  Had he been wrong, after all? Had last night truly meant nothing to Emma? Their lovemaking no more than an impulsive, momentary act of passion from which she preferred to flee?

  In silence?

  In shame?

  Was that truly how she felt? he wondered. Had she been so desperate to escape him she couldn’t even find a way to say a proper good-bye?

  Bile churned like lava in his gut, rushing up into his throat. Somehow he swallowed it down, ignoring the burning sensation left in its wake.

  Yet even if he believed Emma had left in a panic of shock and regret, something still didn’t ring true about her departure. What had driven her to go back to her former life when she’d seemed so content with him? She’d told him she had been dismissed from her last post and that she had no one to whom she could turn except the woman who now stood before him.

  Was that not the case?

  Was there something else?

  Someone else?

  He sensed he was missing an essential piece of the puzzle. But what exactly? What was it Emma’s friend would not say?

  If he thought he could force the information from her, he would have tried. But he could tell she had a backbone of steel and would reveal nothing she did not wish to.

  “Has she taken a new post?” he asked suddenly, hoping to catch her off guard. “Because if she feels c
ompelled—”

  Mrs. Brown-Jones shook her head. “It is nothing like that. She is safe and shall be well looked after. Let it go, my lord. Let her go.”

  Let Emma go? Impossible. Emma might be capable of forgetting him, but he would never be able to do the same.

  In that moment, he knew that no matter what the future might bring, Emma White would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  “And if I choose not to let her go, as you say?” he asked, his jaw thrust pugnaciously forward.

  “Then you will find yourself gravely disappointed, for your intransigence will change nothing.” She folded her hands at her waist, sending him a stern look that must surely have set her students atremble.

  He stood his ground. “Will you at least do me the courtesy of informing Emma of my call?”

  “If you like, though I am not certain when I shall be in touch with her again.”

  “Well, when that occasion happens to present itself, then.”

  The woman nodded in reluctant agreement. “As you wish, my lord. Now, I believe you should be on your way. Allow me to show you out.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I can find my own way. Good day, madam.”

  “Good-bye, my lord.”

  He fought the urge to question her further, unable to help but notice the irrevocable quality of her farewell. Hands clenched at his sides, he strode from the room.

  Upstairs, Emma peered around the sheer white window curtains in the family drawing room. The front door opened, then closed again, the sound echoing through the house with a doleful finality.

  Her heart throbbed with a mixture of agony and anticipation as she waited for Nick to appear below, watching hungrily for a glimpse of him as he jogged down the steps toward his waiting carriage. Her breath caught on a silent inhalation when he came into view, his dark head bared to the elements, his hat held as if forgotten at his side. The cool October wind rose up just then to ruffle his hair with a kind of lover’s embrace.

  Her fingers itched, longing to brush a stray tendril back from his forehead, needing to touch him one last time.

  But she could not, aware this one last glimpse was all that remained, that soon he would be gone, forever and always.

  Rebelling inwardly against the knowledge, she almost called out, nearly reaching for the sash to throw open the window and call down to him. Somehow she stopped herself and took a step back, arms locked around her chest as if that were the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces.

  And perhaps it was, her ribs aching with a pain that left her light-headed and shivery.

  Just then, he turned and glanced up, staring at the window where only moments ago she had been. She retreated again, concealing herself more deeply behind the draperies. Yet she couldn’t help but watch, her gaze lingering as he beat his hat against one thigh, brows drawn into a severe glower of obvious frustration and displeasure.

  Will he miss me? she wondered. Does he care, or will he be relieved once the surprise of my disappearance wears off?

  Either way, it mattered not. There was no future for them together.

  The ache in her chest increased when he turned and swung up into the carriage, the pain burning so badly she could barely catch her breath.

  Then, with a flick of the reins, he set the vehicle into motion and much too quickly disappeared from view.

  She watched even after he was gone, leaning against the window frame for support. How long she stood there she had no idea. Distantly, she heard the soft click of the door opening behind her, followed by the gentle whisper of skirts as a woman moved into the room.

  Emma said nothing, just continued to stare uncomprehendingly at the people and carriages and horses passing below in the street.

  “He’s gone, Your Highness,” Mrs. Brown-Jones said in subdued voice.

  Again, Emma did not reply.

  “I did as you requested,” the other woman continued. “He was quite insistent about seeing you, but I told him you were not here. It took a bit of persuasion, but in the end he seemed to believe me and agreed to go away.”

  Tears stung Emma’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She would not cry. She could not afford to indulge in such a futile show of weakness. Royalty did not wear their emotions on their sleeves, however much she wished she could dissolve in a heap right here on the floor. Later, perhaps when she was alone, where no one could see, she might give way.

  Still, she feared if she did, she might never be able to bottle up the anguish that was even now ripping her in two, that once released, her grief would be too huge ever to be contained again.

  “He seems like a good man,” her old teacher said in a soothing voice. “I quite liked him. But your family… I am afraid they would never approve.”

  She closed her eyes, unable to bear even the steady pace of the passersby outside.

  “If it is any consolation, Your Highness, you are doing the right thing. It truly is for the best.”

  Best for whom? she countered silently.

  For her family certainly, of that there was no doubt.

  For her nation as well, since her marriage would ensure a safe and stable future for her people.

  And for King Otto and whatever objectives he might wish to have satisfied by their union.

  Perhaps it was even best for Nick, who would only be more deeply hurt were he to know all the ways in which she had deceived him.

  Yes, it was best for everyone, she conceded.

  Everyone, that is, but me.

  Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Miss Poole,” she said with cool resolve. “Mrs. Brown-Jones, I mean. If you would be so good, pray inform me when my brother’s coach arrives. Until then, I believe I shall lie down in your spare bedchamber.”

  “Of course, my dear. If there is anything else I can do—”

  “No, there is nothing.”

  And there never would be. After all, how could there be when her heart lay in a thousand shattered pieces, never to be mended again?

  Avoiding the older woman’s far too knowledgeable gaze, Emma turned and made her way from the room.

  Chapter 14

  “Emma has written again!” Ariadne declared three weeks later from where she sat near a window in her bedchamber.

  Subdued afternoon sunlight shone through the narrow Gothic-style glass panes, additional illumination provided by the lighted candles she had placed in strategic locations throughout the room. A fire burned at a healthy pace inside the wide stone grate, the flames driving some of the early-November chill from the room. A woven wool rug and draperies in shades of starry blue and forest green helped to warm the room as well, lessening the austerity of the stone chamber.

  “Oh good, what does she have to say?” Mercedes closed the door behind her and hurried across the room, lowering herself into a nearby chair. “Is she still in London?”

  Ariadne pushed her spectacles more securely upward along her nose, then bent her head over the missive. She scanned the contents, deciphering Emma’s narrow flowing script without difficulty.

  “Yes, she’s still there.” She continued reading. “But she’s not staying where she was when last she wrote. No! She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t, couldn’t what?” Mercedes asked, leaning forward with her elbows bent atop her knees in a most unregal manner.

  “Gone back.” A sense of deflation ripped through Ariadne as if she were a balloon that had just received a good sharp stab with a pin. “Emma’s returned to the estate. Apparently her brother has arrived at long last.”

  A moment of silence fell as Mercedes mulled over the news. “Well, that’s good, is it not?” she ventured tentatively. “Being at odds with one’s family is never easy.”

  Another silence ensued; a light wind took the opportunity to fill the void by rattling the window frame.

  “Was the prince very displeased that Emma left without permission?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Ariadne leaped to
her feet, unable to contain her hiss of disapproval. “She escaped. She ought to have at least used her defection to some advantage before turning tail and slinking back. Here, you take this.” She thrust out the letter. “I cannot bear to read further.”

  Mercedes regarded her with the wide-eyed, forbearing expression she adopted whenever Ariadne was in one of her so-called tempers before accepting the missive.

  Ariadne strode to the fireplace, her pale lavender skirts swinging with each step. Silently, she drew to a halt and gazed at the red-tongued flames licking the stone sides of the blackened grate.

  “Shall I read on?” Mercedes inquired.

  Ariadne waved a hand without turning.

  Mercedes apparently took the gesture as one of agreement. “She returned almost a month ago. Prince Rupert huffed and puffed and threatened to punish her at first, but he has since forgiven her. She says she was staying with Mrs. Brown-Jones the entire time.” She paused and looked up. “We ought to have thought of her immediately, now that I think on it.”

  Mercedes raised a fingertip to her mouth and chewed the edge of her nail for a few seconds. “But if that were the case, why did Emma not just tell us where she was? Why all the secrecy?”

  “Because she wasn’t staying with our old teacher, if I don’t miss my guess. At least not the entire time she was away. Go on.”

  Mercedes frowned, then lowered her gaze to the letter once more. “She’s having an entirely new wardrobe made up. She’s to be presented soon at the English court. They are holding a grand ball in celebration of their visit. Of her betrothal, nothing has been said yet. Apparently… apparently the king plans a visit near Christmastide and the announcement will be made soon after.”

  “So she’s going through with the marriage?”

  “Yes. She—” Mercedes paused, the rest of her words dwindling away.

  Slowly, Ariadne turned. “She what?”

  The other girl lifted her eyes and met her gaze. “She sounds dreadfully unhappy.”

  “And so would you be if you going to wed some old man.”