The Princess and the Peer

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  Nick waited, hoping against hope that Goldfinch would have positive news. The chances weren’t good, he realized, and yet he couldn’t help but wish otherwise. His pulse beat a little faster, unwilling anticipation coursing through his veins.

  Goldfinch shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. “Sorry, Cap’n. Cooper an’ me, we asked everyone we could think of, but ain’t nobody knows nothing. We was careful to be discreet about giving out her description, just like ye said ter be, but it’s as if she weren’t never there. No one remembers a pretty blond lady in the market—least not one who’s a real lady and not some fancy piece already fer sale in one of the local houses.”

  Nick’s pulse resumed its usual pace. He’d known it was a gamble with poor odds. Even so, he’d had to try. Finding Emma had become an obsession of his in the weeks since she had left, however foolish and futile such a search might be.

  “Yer sure there’s no other way to trace her?” the other man asked. “If ye think of summat, I’d be right happy to try again. Cooper too.”

  He’d given Goldfinch and Cooper only the barest information about Emma, just enough to set them on the trail. But that trail was dead, apparently. And why would it be otherwise, he mused ruefully, when he’d already exhausted all the options, when he’d tried every way he could conceive of to locate her?

  “No.” Nick sighed. “There’s nothing else. Thank you for the attempt, Finchie. Here, let me pay you for your time.” He reached for the coin purse in his coat, but the old boatswain stopped him with a sharp shake of his head.

  “Put that away now, Cap’n. Ye’ve done plenty fer the pair o’ us. We don’t need yer blunt. Cooper an’ me ’ave both found work—not always steady yet, mind, but each of us is on our way. He and I, we’re both glad and proud to lend ye a hand. Jest sorry we came up short when it came to yer girl.”

  My girl. Not anymore, he mused dolefully. Not ever really, in spite of the intimacy we shared.

  “It’s of no moment,” Nick dissembled, lowering his clenched hand into his lap. “She left something here during her stay and I merely wished to return it to her.”

  But when he looked up, he caught an expression of sympathy in the older man’s eyes. His former crewman might not know the details of his connection with Emma, but he wasn’t unintelligent. Anyone could tell he was desperate to locate her.

  Could Goldfinch see how he was pining for her as well?

  Did he realize that his old captain had finally met his match and fallen in love?

  Looking away again, Nick silently cursed himself. If he had any self-respect he would do as Mrs. Brown-Jones had advised and forget Emma. But try as he might, he could not put her from his thoughts—or his heart.

  At first he’d tried, assuring himself he would get over her. She was just a young woman—lovely, interesting, intelligent, and kind, but replaceable for all that. With some small effort, he would find another woman to take her place. It wasn’t conceit on his part to know he had his pick of females. He’d never had difficulty attracting members of the fairer sex, and he would have even less trouble now that he held the title of earl. If he wished, eligible, beautiful young ladies would be only too happy to toss themselves in his path, each one praying he would choose her and make her his bride.

  But the sad truth was he didn’t want another girl. Neither did he want a wife unless she was Emma.

  For nearly two weeks, he’d held out against the need to search for her before finally giving in and returning to Mrs. Brown-Jones’s town house. Instead of gaining another audience with Emma’s friend, however, he’d found the house closed, the knocker removed from the door. Clearly, the woman and her husband had fled.

  Undeterred, he’d attempted to speak with the servants that remained, loitering in his carriage as he watched them come and go from the house. Finally, he’d cornered a middle-aged woman with soft features and careworn hands—the cook. But in spite of her obvious willingness to talk, she didn’t know anything. The master and mistress had gone away without a word, she told him, but she didn’t know where or when they might return.

  None of the other remaining house servants knew anything either, and so, defeated, he withdrew.

  He’d searched for her himself, returning to the various locations they had visited during her stay, but he had no luck. He went to the street where they’d met that first day in Covent Garden, scouring the shop stalls and questioning the vendors, but no one knew anything about her. He even tried the various coaching inns, trying to ascertain if she’d bought passage on any of the mail coaches leaving the city.

  Again, nothing.

  It was as if she had vanished.

  Finally, in a last, likely futile effort, he’d asked Goldfinch and Cooper to search again, to retrace his steps and find out if there were any clues he’d missed, anyone who might have even a shred of information about her that they had not been willing to share with him. His former crewmen were skilled at ferreting out secrets others tried to hide; if they couldn’t learn anything useful about Emma’s whereabouts, no one could.

  His spirits sank low, and Nick faced the sad truth that his search for her was over. There was nothing more left to try.

  Emma was well and truly gone, and clearly that was how she wished it.

  In need of a distraction, he and Goldfinch talked about other matters for a few minutes more. When that conversational gambit expired, the toughened seaman rose to his feet and bade Nick what he recognized was an overly hearty good day. Nick smiled and shook Goldfinch’s hand, but his false cheer was all for show.

  Once alone, he leaned back in his chair and let his mind run, his thoughts tumbling one over the other, each one darker and more depressing than the last.

  Bah! What he ought to do was leave, close up the town house and make the journey to Lynd Park. The Lancashire countryside would be particularly serene this time of year—the hills covered in frost and early snow, the lakes chill enough to sparkle with a thin glaze of morning ice.

  There he could walk.

  Ride his horses.

  Sail when the weather allowed.

  He could think and breathe and find some way to forget.

  As it stood, every room in the town house reminded him of her. He couldn’t go into the library now at all for fear of losing himself in memories of their one and only night together, of thinking about the future of which he’d once dreamed, and the life he knew would never come to pass.

  Even Aunt Felicity had shaken off the dust of the city and made her way into the countryside, where she would pass the upcoming holiday season in the company of friends.

  She had been surprised and a little perplexed by the abruptness of Emma’s departure, but unlike him, Emma’s letter had not distressed her. On the contrary, she had found Emma’s words most eloquent and thoughtful, talking of her with a warmth that bespoke real fondness.

  “I am most sorry to see her go,” his aunt had said on that first evening after Emma left. “Mayhap she will find some means of visiting us again. In the spring, perhaps?”

  He hadn’t had the heart to tell her it was doubtful that she would ever see Emma again. He hadn’t been able to voice the fear that she had walked out of their lives and might never return again.

  Where is she? he wondered for the thousandth time. Why did she go?

  Cursing under his breath, he tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass, relishing the burn it left behind in his throat. As he did, his gaze fell on the invitation he’d received and the royal crest embellished in gold on the heavy stationery.

  His presence, it would seem, was requested at a court dress ball—demanded, more like. If it were up to him, he would send his excuses, but one did not refuse an invitation issued by the royal family. Frankly, if it weren’t for his upcoming investiture as earl, he might still have taken the chance of refusing. Yet every time he thought of turning his back on the proceedings, Peter’s face would pop into his mind, disappointment shadowing his features.

>   At least the bloody thing was tomorrow night. He would get it over with, make his official bow at court, then close up the house. No one would fault him for leaving the city at this time of year. Just like Aunt Felicity, many of the Ton were already ensconced in the warmth of their country estates, where they planned to share the holidays with family and friends.

  He had little family of his own left, but suddenly he truly longed to return to Lynd Park. He hadn’t been there in years. Not since before he’d quarreled with his father. Not since Peter had died. He’d been avoiding the trip up to now, reluctant to revisit uncomfortable old memories. But there had been good times in his youth at Lynd Park, years of joy and laughter before all the discord had driven him from its walls. Perhaps he would find peace there now that he was a man grown. Maybe he would take comfort in the familiar.

  If nothing else, he would have an opportunity to settle several estate matters that required his personal attention; his steward had been begging him to come north for months.

  Once there, he would bury himself in work and strenuous activity. He would wear himself out so that he could sleep again at night. Sleep without dreams of Emma to plague his mind and weary his soul.

  He would strive as he had never done before to forget and find a way to go on without her.

  Chapter 16

  “You look splendid, Emmaline,” her brother told her the following evening as he escorted her and Sigrid up the steps of Carlton House, the London residence of England’s prince regent.

  It had been decided that this evening’s ball would take place there rather than the stodgier and far less impressive confines of St. James’s Palace, where she and her siblings had made their first official court visit earlier that afternoon.

  “The place is a deuced barn,” the regent had confided after their meeting with the aging queen, ceremonial metals and ribbons glinting on his plump chest. “But Mama insists on maintaining the old protocols and Parliament is too stingy to grant me the funds to build a proper palace. So I thought Carlton House would do for tonight’s fete. I do hope you’ll agree once you see what I’ve done with the place. Holland’s work, don’t you know,” he added proudly, puffing himself up in a way that threatened to pop the buttons on his waistcoat.

  No, Emma had thought. She did not know, nor did she particularly care. All she wanted was to get through the evening and return home.

  Wishing now to avoid any concern on Rupert or Sigrid’s part, she smiled at her brother’s compliment, forcing her mouth into what felt like an unnatural shape. “I am glad you approve.”

  And indeed, the dressmaker had more than earned her wage. Designed with an eye for the current fashion, Emma’s gown was made of the purest white silk, gold embroidery stitched in a geometric design along the rounded neck and the edges of the elbow-length half sleeves. The skirt hung in a straight line from beneath her breasts, ending at her ankles in a dramatic flounce that was decorated with sprays of purple violets, small white diamonds sewn in the center of each bloom.

  “How could I fail to be enchanted?” Rupert returned her smile, his strong, square jaw flexing at the movement, his midnight blue eyes serious and sincere, as was his way. “You and Sigrid are a credit to our family and our nation. The pair of you shall put all the other ladies to shame this evening.”

  Sigrid laughed, looking urbane and sleek in bloodred satin, her dress designed to draw every eye in the room, particularly the male ones. “As we should. After all, this reception is being held in our honor. I fully expect to be the center of attention.”

  Rupert gave a ruefully amused shake of his golden head. “I suppose I ought not to complain. You and Emma can dazzle our friends while I strive to convince our detractors not to stand against us.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Sigrid stated supportively. “Rosewald is far too valuable an ally. Besides, why do you think I loaned Emma my favorite diadem tonight? As you said, she and I will dazzle.”

  But Emma had no interest in dazzling anyone, concentrating instead on keeping a polite smile on her face and exchanging the requisite niceties with everyone to whom she was introduced. Given the fact that she and her siblings were indeed the evening’s guests of honor, they took their places beside the prince regent in the receiving line.

  For the most part, those invited to attend proved friendly, if curious, many commenting or inquiring about her country. A few braver individuals remarked on her lack of an accent, one older gentleman saying that she sounded more English than most of the English ladies he knew. Not at all offended, she explained about her English-speaking nannies and her years spent at Countess Hortensia’s Academy in Scotland.

  After nearly forty minute of greetings, she’d had enough. During a small lull in the line’s progress, she turned to Rupert to make her excuses. To her consternation, she discovered him still deeply involved in conversation with a gentleman she knew to be the Austrian ambassador. Surely Rupert could save what was certain to be a lengthy discussion for later, when he and the other man could withdraw to a more private location to converse over liquor and cheroots?

  Vaguely she heard the majordomo announce the next person being presented but failed to catch his name. Muffling a sigh, she pasted another smile on her face and turned to acknowledge whomever it might be.

  She looked up and froze.

  For the space of four full seconds her heart ceased to beat as she stared into a pair of stormy gray eyes—familiar, beloved eyes that she had last looked upon after sharing a passionate, lingering kiss.

  Nick looked as thunderstruck as she felt, his lips parted on a silent inhalation, his tall, athletic body held in a rigid stance, as if he too had been stunned into immobility.

  Only her years of training saved her from crying aloud and dissolving into a quivering puddle of jelly at his feet.

  Or else fainting dead away.

  If she wasn’t careful, she might well end up lying insensate on the marble floor, ladies rushing forward to wave hartshorn under her nostrils as the entire assembled company witnessed the scene.

  Instead, she continued to stare, absolutely unable to look away.

  Nick stared back.

  How long they stood there, unspeaking, gazes locked, she had no idea. It couldn’t have been long, however, since her brother and the Austrian ambassador continued their conversation and Sigrid exchanged pleasantries with another guest. On the far side of the room, the majordomo’s voice boomed once more above the crowd.

  Abruptly, as if the sound had brought him out of his momentary trance, Nick’s jaw snapped tight, his eyes narrowing. She could almost see his mind working as he tried to reconcile everything he thought he knew about her against the reality of her presence at tonight’s ball.

  What must he be thinking to find the young woman he’d believed to be a poor governess standing in a receiving line in the midst of royalty?

  To encounter as one of tonight’s guests of honor the girl whose virginity he had claimed on his library sofa one cool autumn evening four weeks ago?

  To unexpectedly come face-to-face with her after she had fled from his house without a proper explanation, leaving nothing more behind than a carefully worded note?

  She lowered her gaze abruptly, afraid of what she might glimpse on his face.

  And worse, what he might see on hers.

  Without warning, Sigrid turned toward her, having apparently become aware of her silence. “Emmaline?” her sister murmured in a soft undertone. “Is all well?”

  It took her a few seconds to reply.

  “Of course,” Emma said casually, managing by some miracle to force the words past the tightness wrapped like a strangling hand around her throat. Her heart continued to pound, so furiously she was surprised everyone within fifty feet could not hear it. Yet her voice sounded calm, faintly cool, her well-practiced demeanor seeming every bit as serene and untroubled as always.

  At least she prayed that was how she appeared, fearing suddenly that her sister might see more than
she ought, might read a hint of the truth about herself and Nick in her gaze.

  No one must know, she thought, most particularly Sigrid and Rupert. Should they even suspect there was anything between her and Nick, she could not contemplate the volcanic magnitude of their response.

  “I was just making the acquaintance of this gentleman,” she informed Sigrid with a studied indifference. “Lord…? You’ll forgive me, but I was unable to hear your name when it was called.”

  Drawing on every ounce of her fortitude, she met Nick’s gaze as if they were strangers.

  For an instant, she thought he might betray her, his eyes widening slightly, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a sharp, quick breath. Then he recovered, a mask of emotionless civility lowering over his face.

  “Lyndhurst, Your Royal Highness. I am the Earl of Lyndhurst.” Taking a single step back, he made her a perfect, graceful bow.

  “A pleasure,” she replied, holding out a gloved hand.

  He took it, his grip tightening with an almost painful pressure.

  The lightest of shivers ran along her spine. Perversely, she relished the sensation of his touch despite the punishing quality of his hold. A little more force and he could easily have broken her bones.

  Instead, he released her without harm, behaving for all the world as if this were their very first meeting.

  With a pang, she let her arm lower to her side.

  To her relief, she saw Sigrid nod with apparent satisfaction that all was well, then turn back to the older woman with whom she had been conversing.

  Emma cast about for something innocuous to say. “Your prince keeps his rooms quite comfortably warm. Such a blessing on a cold night as this.”

  Nick quirked a dark eyebrow as if to say, So we are going to talk about the weather, are we?

  Silently, she pleaded with him to follow her lead.

  His jaw clenched in a way she recognized, one that never boded anything good.

  Still, when he spoke again, he made no effort to steer the conversation into more dangerous territory. “Indeed, it is a chilly night, even for November,” he said. “Thankfully you are right that Carlton House is a most comfortable edifice. Although you may find yourself wishing for a few open windows once the dancing begins.”