Nor had she been angry with Ariadne. At least not for long once she’d learned that the accident had not been an accident at all, but rather a way to give Emma an opportunity to speak with Nick. Mercedes was only sorry she hadn’t been able to make his acquaintance. But with the baroness present, she readily agreed an introduction would have been impossible.
Yet for all Ariadne’s scheming and Mercedes’s forgiveness, Emma and Nick’s time together had changed nothing. Worse, she now found herself alternating between the wild hope that he might decide to seek her out again and the growing fear that he would not.
Forget him, she told herself over and over again until the phrase rang like a dirge inside her head. But how could she forget when he was the one who held her heart?
On Monday, Emma rose from her bed and looked out the window into a sky filled with somber silvery gray clouds. She studied their color and found herself comparing the various shades to Nick’s penetrating eyes. The sky came in a distant second, she decided, no more than a poor copy of the original. Realizing that she was woolgathering about him for the millionth time, she pushed such thoughts away and went to ring for her maid.
After taking a warm bath and having her hair arranged in an elegant knot, she donned a day dress of pale lilac satin and a pair of matching slippers. She dismissed her maid, then stood quietly for a moment and prepared to face the day, wondering if Ariadne and Mercedes had arranged another outing to the city. She would much rather stay at home and curl up with a book in front of the fire, but they would fuss, worrying that she was moping again.
Which, of course, she would be.
Oh well, she thought, at least all the activity keeps Rupert from complaining.
Forcing one of her carefully practiced smiles onto her face, she left the room.
She strolled along the wide corridors with their pale gold silk-lined walls, old masters paintings, and the ornate furnishings acquired by the home’s owners over the past three centuries. But she paid little attention to the lovely decorations, her thoughts distant and distracted as she made her way to the breakfast room.
In spite of the gloomy weather, the chamber proved warm and pleasant, the homey scents of porridge, smoked meats, eggs, and toast greeting her as she entered. After a quietly murmured “Good morning” to Ariadne and Mercedes, who were already seated at the table, she slid into a seat.
Sigrid, she knew, must still be asleep since she never rose before noon, if she could help it. As for Rupert, she’d learned last night that he was scheduled to be away on some sort of official business from which he wasn’t expected to return until evening.
Emma accepted a cup of tea from a footman, then added a bit of milk and a spoonful of sugar. Closing her eyes, she took a first, refreshing sip.
“Pardon me, Your Highness,” another servant said, “but this just arrived for you.”
Emma’s eyes flashed open and she gazed at the silver salver, her pulse speeding faster.
Could it finally be a letter from Nick?
But her spirits sank as she took in the thick vellum and the heavy red wax seal that bore a vaguely familiar imperial crest.
After the servant withdrew, she laid aside the letter and reached for a nearby dish of blackberry preserves. Calmly, she spread a dollop onto a slice of buttered toast.
“Are you not going to open it?” Mercedes inquired from her place across the table.
“Later. Once I’ve finished breakfast,” Emma replied indifferently. She bit into her toast, concentrating on the sweet flavor of the berries rather than the bitter tang of her disappointment.
Stupid, stupid girl, she silently chided, as she forced herself to swallow past the lump in her throat. She drank some tea, then made herself eat a forkful of coddled eggs that felt like paste inside her mouth.
“Well, if you aren’t going to look, I am,” Ariadne declared. She reached out and snatched up the letter. With a clean knife, she slit open the seal and unfolded the missive. “Oh, it is from King Otto,” she said with a disappointment that mirrored Emma’s.
Emma sipped her tea again.
“What does he say?” Mercedes asked after a long moment’s silence.
“I suppose I should let you read this after all, Emma,” Ariadne said.
“No. No, go ahead,” Emma said, knowing the message was certain to bring her another step closer to the prisonlike reality of her fate.
“Very well,” her friend agreed. “Let me see. He sends greetings and felicitations, hopes this finds you well… blah, blah, blah. He plans to arrive in England by Thursday next but will not be coming to London. His party will travel directly to the country estate where we are all to spend Christmas.”
“Not terribly gallant of him, is it?” Mercedes remarked. “For a bridegroom and all.”
Emma sipped her tea. “Not to worry. I don’t mind. Go on.”
Ariadne glanced at her before returning to the letter. “He says he looks forward to getting to know you and is eager to take you hunting. He is a great horseman, it would seem.”
“But you hate hunting, Emma,” said Mercedes.
“I do, yes,” she agreed. “I pity the poor fox far too much to engage in such cruel sport.” She cringed to think what other activities the king might enjoy that she did not. “Well, Sigrid shall simply have to accompany him. My sister loves hunting and is a far better rider than I shall ever be. Rupert says she puts most of the men to shame with her equestrian skills. Mayhap she can dazzle the king and he won’t notice my absence.”
She wished he wouldn’t notice her at all. If only there was some way he would forget the engagement. But that seemed rather a lot to hope, she supposed.
“Anything more?” Emma asked.
Ariadne shook her head. “Only that he wishes you a safe journey and bids you adieu.”
“Well, a pleasant enough missive, all in all,” Emma said, aware that the lump had returned to her throat.
Ariadne folded the letter closed and laid it back on the table. “Emma, don’t despair so. There is still a chance that matters will turn out differently than you think. In fact—”
“We discussed this before, Arie, and I wish to hear no more on the subject. So whatever you may be planning, please stop.” She replaced her teacup onto the saucer, taking care so that it did not make a betraying rattle. “Tell me, what do the two of you have planned for us today? Shopping, museums, or a visit to the lending library?”
Ariadne opened her mouth as if to press her point, but Mercedes forestalled her with a slight shake of her head that Emma was sure she was not supposed to have seen.
“Any of them,” Mercedes said with a wide smile. “Whichever you prefer.”
Emma forced a smile and made her choice.
“Welcome to Penworthy Hall, Your Royal Highnesses,” the butler greeted the following Thursday as Emma, Ariadne, Mercedes, and Sigrid stepped over the threshold of the refined country house where they and Rupert would all be staying for Christmas and on through the new year. King Otto and his party were already in residence, they were told, His Majesty having arrived the day before.
“Good afternoon,” Emma replied in a bright tone as she drew off her cream kid-leather gloves. After handing them to one of the contingent of waiting footmen, she allowed another to take her fur-lined, winter white cashmere mantle. She drew off her ermine cap next and passed it to a third waiting servant.
At a respectful distance stood the black bombazine–clad housekeeper. A set of heavy chatelaine’s keys dangled from a belt at her lean waist, her long face at odds with her pleasant demeanor. When Emma met her gaze, the woman gave her a gracious smile.
Emma smiled back.
Actually, Emma smiled constantly these days, even if the gesture went no deeper than her skin. She wished she could shut herself away and nurse her wounds rather than being put to the necessity of playacting. But she was through wearing her heart on her sleeve and had resolved that no one would realize the true depths of her wretchedness. And so sh
e hid behind false smiles and hollow laughter when inside she felt as if she were dying.
Nick’s continued silence revealed his feelings as nothing else could have done; she would never see him again, she realized with a final acceptance of the truth.
Resigned to the necessity of doing her duty, she attended all the expected functions and kept up a constant stream of pleasant conversation that earned her frequent approving looks from Rupert. Sigrid, for her part, seemed to notice nothing amiss in her either.
Only Ariadne and Mercedes saw beneath her facade. But each time they tried to offer consolation and reassurance about her future, she cut them off and turned the conversation in a new direction. After a while, they stopped trying and she made no effort to confide.
After all, what was there to say?
Nick was lost to her and there was no changing that fact. Dwelling on thoughts of him only deepened the yawning emptiness inside her, especially since she would soon have to contend with King Otto. Somehow she knew she must find the strength not to compare the two men, or act as if she did not detest the very idea of her future husband.
“I have your bedchambers prepared, Your Highnesses,” the housekeeper announced once all their outer garments were seen to by the footmen. “If you would be so good as to follow me, I shall show you the way.”
Emma trailed behind, glad that she would at least have an hour or two alone to compose herself.
“The duke has asked that all the guests assemble in the drawing room prior to dinner,” the housekeeper informed them with cheerful good humor. “Should you require anything in the meantime, you have only to say.”
Emma was given a large, luxuriously appointed set of rooms done in shades of lemon and sea green. Under any other circumstances, she would have found the accommodations delightful. As it was, she barely gave the chamber a glance as she dropped down onto the sofa only moments after the housekeeper closed the door.
Leaning her head back, she sighed and closed her eyes, hoping her maid would not be along soon to disturb her.
“Emma? Are you asleep?” asked a soft voice.
Her eyes flashed open and she turned her head to find Mercedes standing not far away.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Mercedes said, her chocolate eyes clear and luminous. “I thought perhaps you might like some company. Shall I go away?”
As much as Emma had thought she wanted solitude, she suddenly did not. The quiet gave her far too many opportunities to woolgather over matters best shut away.
Emma waved her to a chair. “No, no, sit. I shall call for refreshments. The journey was a long one today.”
But Mercedes motioned for her to remain where she was. “I will ring in a minute. Why do we not talk first?”
“I would much rather have tea,” she told her in a hard tone.
Mercedes grimaced guilty.
She narrowed her eyes. “Did Ariadne put you up to this?”
“No,” Mercedes denied hastily. “Well, not directly. She and I are only concerned, that’s all.”
“Do not be,” Emma said firmly. “And there is no need to talk. All is as it should be. I am going to be introduced to the king this evening.”
Her stomach heaved slightly at the realization.
Mercedes frowned, her fingers linked in her lap. “About that. Emma, there is something you should—”
“No. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear,” she said, cutting her off. “My mind is made up. You, of all people, should understand, since you have always been sensible about such matters, accepting your responsibilities rather than struggling against them. If only I had done the same from the start rather than fighting the inevitable, I could have saved myself a great deal of misery.”
A brief silence fell. “Do you wish you had never met him, then?”
Neither of them had to confirm that by him she meant Nick.
Do I? Emma asked herself. Do I wish my heart were whole and untouched? That I had never loved Nick at all?
“No,” she said. Despite the pain, she would never wish away her time with Nick or her love for him.
Mercedes met her gaze, her eyes sympathetic and far more perceptive than they had any right to be. “Are you certain about this marriage? It is just that… well, I have been thinking and I believe that people should sometimes put aside the expectations and wishes of others to do what feels right for them. On occasion, one’s own happiness really ought to come first.”
Emma stared at her in surprise.
Mercedes had always been the most sensible of the three of them. The one who was far more conscious of pleasing others and of living up to the expectations of her royal duties. Why was Mercedes saying these things? From whence had this sentiment come?
But she didn’t have time to ponder the issue further as her maid entered with a quick knock to carry in the tea tray that neither of them had needed to order after all.
The baroness bustled in a short while after, busying herself with Emma’s wardrobe and the evening gown she would wear for her presentation to the king. The woman’s presence, even in the adjoining dressing room, put an end to any further discussion about Emma’s upcoming nuptials.
Mercedes stayed long enough to drink a cup of tea and eat a pair of the tiny sandwiches before she bade Emma a reluctant good-bye, then departed to make her own preparations for the evening.
The baroness advised Emma that she should rest. “You want to look your best when you meet King Otto,” she chimed, already directing the maid to pull the heavy gold velvet curtains closed to darken the room. Emma made no argument, content to stretch out in her stays and petticoats on the wide, comfortable bed, a blanket tucked over her for warmth. But as much as she hoped to drift into the oblivion of sleep, she remained wide-awake. All she could think about was the evening to come and meeting the man she must take as her husband.
Rupert had decided that the announcement of her engagement would wait until just after the New Year. Rather than proceed immediately, she and King Otto were to have most of the holiday to become better acquainted before a formal declaration was made.
What would he be like? she wondered, a little shiver tracing over her skin.
What did it matter? He wasn’t Nick.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, knowing that if she could ask for one gift this holiday, it would be for the new year never to arrive.
But the clock in the corner of her bedchamber continued to tick out a steady, relentless beat, and before she realized it, her maid was tapping softly on the door.
Rising from the bed with a sigh, Emma bathed, then sat at the dressing table while her hair was arranged in an elegant upward sweep. A diamond and ruby diadem was secured in her golden tresses, a matching necklace set at her throat. With the assistance of her maid, she dressed in a gown of lustrous pearl satin, matching slippers with diamond buckles on her feet.
Aware that she was as ready as she would ever be, Emma drew a pair of pristine white gloves over her icy hands. As a final touch, she draped a beautifully patterned red and gold shawl over her elbows, then nodded for the servant to open the door.
Sigrid met her in the hallway and together they descended the stairs.
As Emma walked, an odd sense of detachment came over her, as if she were listening and watching herself from afar. She talked and moved and acted as she always did, and yet a stranger now seemed to inhabit her body. An odd calm swept through her, and as she stepped over the threshold into the antechamber where the king and her family were supposed to meet, she felt almost nothing.
Numb.
She decided she rather liked it.
The smile she’d trained herself to wear came readily to her lips, her expression giving the impression of pleasure at meeting her prospective bridegroom.
She located him without difficulty where he stood across the room next to a man she guessed must be their host—the duke of something or other she could never seem to remember. The king was not tall, only an inch or two above her
own height, but he carried himself with a kind of bantam cock arrogance that seemed to dare anyone to think him small. He sported a row of impressive-looking medals across his chest that symbolized a bravery she doubted he deserved. Most likely he had stood on some safe hillside to observe a battle or two and been congratulated later by his handpicked generals for his great display of valor.
As for his features, she was sure there were women who found him attractive with his swarthy complexion, dark brown hair, and stygian black eyes. But as she regarded him, she again felt nothing.
He might be a king, but to her in that moment, he was simply a man.
No more. No less.
A man she knew she would never love.
He gave a sudden shout of laughter, the sound a braying rasp that grated along her nerves like fingernails scratching over glass.
She shuddered at the unpleasant sensation and glanced away.
His laughter stopped not long after and the room grew marginally quieter. She sensed, rather than saw, when he noticed her. She forced herself to remain still, using the chill running through her blood to maintain the serene expression she wore like a mask. Protocol, after all, dictated that she show respect no matter how she might truthfully feel.
He approached with a jaunty stride, flanked by a small entourage of courtiers.
She sank into a deep, elegant curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
With a flourish of one hand, he motioned for her to rise.
Straightening, she lifted her chin and stood quiescent as he looked his fill. His inspection continued far longer than seemed necessary or polite, and she fought the urge to send him a condemning scowl. Considering his critical regard, one might imagine she was a horse for sale at Tattersall’s whose purchase he was contemplating—or rather a mare with the right kind of bloodlines for breeding.
The Princess and the Peer Page 27
