Instead, he’d had a casual arrangement over the years with the widow of a slain officer. He visited her on occasion—his attentions and the gifts of food and money he sent her afterward never seeming to go amiss. Yet in spite of the welcome he was certain he would receive if he showed up on her doorstep, he wasn’t interested in a visit tonight.
No, it was Emma he craved.
Emma he preferred.
And that was perhaps the most surprising thing of all—and the most troubling.
It wasn’t just her body he wanted; it was her.
Her laughter.
Her intelligence.
The quick perception of her remarks and the gentle kindness of her smile. The way her blue eyes sparkled with warmth and her lashes swept down with a hidden mystery he didn’t always understand and longed to figure out.
He wasn’t sure how such feelings were possible after such a brief acquaintance, yet there they were. If he weren’t careful, he could see himself falling in love.
Sitting up, he raked his fingers through his hair.
I shall simply have to be careful until she leaves, he warned himself. If only he were certain that he could so easily follow such self-imposed dictates. Perhaps it would be prudent to put some well-considered distance between them. There would be no repeat of tonight’s intimacy. From now on Emma White would be no more than a temporary guest in his house.
With an impatient tug at his cravat, he loosened the linen a couple of inches. He supposed he should seek his bed. Yet he knew there would be no rest, not for a good long while.
Brandy and a book, he decided. His usual at-home means of escape.
Climbing to his feet, he picked up his snifter and crossed the room to refill it.
Chapter 9
Three evenings later, Emma descended the final steps of the town house’s main staircase, then continued into the entry hall where Nick and his aunt were already gathered.
“It seems far too chilly an evening to attend the theater,” Aunt Felicity remarked as she let the butler assist her into a thick lavender cloak that was more suited to a raw January day than a mild September night. “But since you young people have your hearts set on attending,” the dowager viscountess continued, sending a smile toward Emma when she joined them, “who am I to curtail your pleasures?”
“You are exceedingly forbearing to indulge us, Aunt,” Nick said, as he finished pulling on a pair of white dress gloves. “In return, we shall do our utmost to see to your comfort on the journey. I’ve asked Bell to place a warm brick in the coach, along with a lap blanket, to keep you nice and toasty.”
His aunt’s smile widened and she reached over to pat his sleeve. “Oh, you are too good to me, dear boy. Truly you are.”
From beneath her lashes, Emma studied Nick, finding nothing remotely boyish about him; he was far too much of a man. As for the way he looked in evening attire—handsome didn’t begin to describe him. He was sleek and powerfully urbane in a black cutaway coat and evening breeches, his crisp white shirt, starched cravat, and understated waistcoat only enhancing the effect.
His cheeks were smoothly shaven. Nevertheless, the grain of his whiskers left a barely visible shadow along his jaw, one that made her wonder what it would be like to glide her fingers over his skin to feel its texture and warmth.
Abruptly, she looked away, grateful when Symms approached with her evening wrap. She busied herself by fastening the top button of her deep blue merino crepe mantle. The color provided a cheerful foil for her ecru silk gown, the same one she had worn the night Nick had kissed her.
In the days that had passed since then, he hadn’t made an attempt to repeat their passionate embrace, his silence on the subject absolute.
When she’d come down for breakfast that morning after their kiss—her first kiss—she hadn’t been sure what to expect. Would their initial meeting be awkward or easy? Would he give her an intimate smile or a frown of regret? For her part, she had thought of nothing but their kisses during the night, her dreams as full of him as she had predicted.
To her dismay, he’d offered her a pleasant greeting, then gone back to his newspaper and toast. After a few moments, she attempted to engage him in conversation, and although he answered easily enough, the closeness of the evening before had vanished.
“My lord,” she’d said when he had finished his breakfast and was about the leave the table. “I had hoped that we might see more of the city today.”
She watched his face for any revealing emotion but there was none.
“Your aunt does not seem inclined to long excursions, and I thought you might continue to show me the sights.”
He looked down at the table. “I have business. I believe I mentioned that already.”
“Yes, but surely you could postpone your work for another day or two? I would be no trouble.”
One dark brow went skyward, and for a moment she thought he was going to offer some arch rejoinder. Instead, he leaned calmly back in his chair. “Well, if that were indeed the case and I was no more than a host offering his guest escort to the places everyone comes to London to see, then I might perhaps be able to find a few hours. If there was no further trouble.”
She met his gaze, momentarily puzzled by his words. Then she realized two things at once: that he intended to treat their passionate interlude as if it had not happened at all; and that so long as she agreed to ignore what had passed between them, he would agree to continue escorting her around the city.
It was a well-veiled bribe, but a bribe nonetheless. For a long moment she considered tossing it back in his face.
But pride kept her silent.
What did she care if he regretted last night? It had been a kiss, an experiment that satisfied her curiosity and fulfilled the requirements of their wager. Now it was over and the two of them could go on as before. She was here in London to see the city and he was offering to show it to her; only a simpleton would have cause to complain.
Besides, what had she expected? It wasn’t as if anything could come of their association. She was a princess destined for life as a queen and he was only a peer—and an English one, to boot. It wasn’t as if she had feelings for him. It wasn’t as though she might fall in love and want to spend the rest of her life inside his arms.
Or do I?
The question whispered like a jeer inside her mind, leaving her far more unsettled than she cared to admit. Suddenly, she was glad that Nick wanted to forget their kiss and carry on as they had done before. It was better this way, she told herself. Their parting would be easier with no feelings of hurt or regret when the time arrived for them to go their separate ways.
With that in mind, she had smiled and matched his polite friendliness with a resilient kind of her own. If he could pretend, then so could she.
Determined to enjoy herself and her time left in the city, she threw herself into each activity with enthusiastic zeal. The dowager viscountess finally emerged from her rooms, but rather than accompany them that afternoon, she waved them on their way with the glad assurance that she would be fine at home and for them to have a good time.
Emma and Nick began with a trip to Bullock’s Egyptian Hall, which she found startlingly bizarre, set as it was on an ordinary street in Piccadilly. The facade was built to resemble an Egyptian temple, its massive pilasters supporting the Egyptian gods of Isis and Osiris—or so she learned once she and Nick were inside. Together they strolled among the artifacts and antiquities, viewing tablets of carved hieroglyphics, replicas of the pyramids and the sphinx as well as items brought back by Captain Cook from his voyage to the South Seas. There were African and North and South American objects too—more fascinating discoveries and oddities than anyone could easily absorb in only a few hours.
The next day they visited the shed at Lord Elgin’s home where he kept the marble sculptures he’d brought back from Greece. And in the afternoon, Nick took her to Gunter’s as he had promised. Despite the cool weather, Emma insisted on sampling
some of their famous ices, shivering delightfully as she ate bites of lemon, green apple, and pineapple. Nick had contented himself with hot black coffee, the amused smile playing once again across his mouth.
And this morning, after employing a bit of skilled persuasion over breakfast, she had convinced Nick to let her accompany him to Tattersall’s. There was a horse auction he did not wish to miss—some lord had apparently lost his fortune at cards and been forced to put his estate up for sale, including his stable of extremely fine thoroughbreds. Nick kept her close, the auction grounds at Hyde Park Corner teaming with noise, the earthy scents of horseflesh, and scores of men hoping to find a bargain.
The bidding process was fascinating, and Emma followed the action with keen interest. She couldn’t help but cheer when Nick won as high bidder on an excellent pair of matched bays with glossy coats and intelligent brown eyes. Nick grinned at his victory, promising that he would take her for a drive in his curricle once the horses were delivered.
Now tonight there was a much-anticipated trip to the theater. Twelfth Night, her favorite. Was it a coincidence, or had he remembered her saying how much she loved the play? Then again, did it really matter, since tomorrow would be her last full day in residence?
In the morning, she supposed she ought to write to Mrs. Brown-Jones to confirm her return to the city. Assuming her teacher had returned, she would pack and prepare to say her good-byes the following day.
An aching pang lodged beneath her breasts at the idea. Ignoring the sensation, she forced herself to stop woolgathering and finish getting ready to leave for the theater. Silently, she drew on a pair of white silk evening gloves.
“If you ladies are ready, we should be on our way,” Nick stated.
“Indeed yes,” his aunt declared. “I am as ready as I ever shall be. Now lend me that strong arm of yours, Dominic, so I may make it safely out to the carriage.”
He sent Emma a quick smile. “Of course, Aunt.”
Emma waited as he attended to the dowager viscountess, then followed them from the house to the coach waiting beyond.
Nick sat inside the darkened theater, the play unfolding on the stage below. The performance was Twelfth Night, one he’d chosen specifically because Emma had remarked it was her favorite of Shakespeare’s works.
He remembered their conversation in vivid detail—although he tended to remember everything Emma said and did. But that particular discussion had special significance because it had happened the night they’d kissed. He’d hoped by now to have put it from his mind, but in spite of his best attempts, erasing the memory had proven impossible.
Emma sat on his right, a smile curved across her rose pink lips as she watched the actors. Her eyes were alive with amusement at the glib, quickly paced dialogue.
On his other side, a short distance across the box, sat his aunt, an occasional snore issuing from the older woman’s nose and slackened jaw. She’d drifted off to sleep not five minutes after the play began, startling awake every so often to blink in groggy confusion before dozing off again.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have found her inattentiveness amusing. But lately nothing seemed ordinary, certainly not his life, which felt as if it had been turned on its head and given a very thorough shaking.
From the moment he’d met Emma, nothing had been the same.
Fixing his gaze on the stage, he concentrated on the players, but Orsino and Viola’s comedic misunderstandings held little interest for him. He knew the play and had seen it performed in the past, so his distraction was understandable, he assured himself. But only moments later, he admitted that he was lying to himself.
The play wasn’t responsible for his distraction.
Emma was.
As if he were a planet being pulled by the gravity of a distant sun, his gaze turned toward her.
How lovely she looked; the reflected gleam from the candlelit stage lending her an ethereal glow that put him in mind of an angel. Her upswept golden hair waved like a halo around her head, her skin as creamy and smooth as milk, while her lips were pink, satiny petals, as ripe as they were sweet.
He drew a reflexive breath, his fingers suddenly burning with the urge to stroke the gentle curve of her cheek and the long, graceful line of her throat. His hand ached with the memory of touching her soft skin and savoring the honeyed flavor of her mouth.
Without warning, as if she sensed his appraising stare, she turned her head and looked straight into his eyes. Her own gaze shone like starlight with rings of rich, velvety blue.
Despite knowing he ought to look away, he couldn’t. Even if his life had been in jeopardy, he could not have torn his gaze from hers in that moment.
Below them, the actors continued their speeches and struts, but he was barely aware of them, too intent on the young woman at his side.
Emma—whom he’d known only a handful of days.
Emma—whom he liked more than he could ever have imagined, and whom he desired with an intensity he could not seem to escape.
Tomorrow would be her final day in his house, their week together nearly done. If he had any sense whatsoever, he would send her on her way and pick up the threads of his old bachelor’s existence. But how could he when she had made such an indelible mark on his life? Even his household felt different with her in it. When she went, she would leave an emptiness behind.
Suddenly he could not abide the thought.
Once she left, would he have any chance of seeing her again? Or would she take a new teaching position, a post somewhere distant that would send her away from him—perhaps forever?
His heart thundered inside his ears, as if he were on the deck of his ship again and had just taken a round of lethal cannon fire.
“Th-the play is good,” she whispered. “It quite makes the story come alive.”
“Yes,” he agreed absently. But he didn’t care about the play. “Don’t go,” he murmured without thinking.
“What?”
“Tomorrow. Instead of leaving, why don’t you stay a few days more? I am sure my aunt would be willing to extend her visit a while longer.”
On his other side, Aunt Felicity slept on, oblivious to the fact that her generosity was being further promised.
“We haven’t had time to see the British Museum yet,” he continued, “or the Tower of London and the crown jewels. I saw a notice in the newspaper about an autumn fair that’s scheduled to be held soon just outside the city. Surely you won’t want to miss that?”
She gave a slow smile. “No, such a loss would be most unfortunate.”
“What say you, then?”
“You truly want me to stay?” she asked wonderingly. “I rather thought…”
“Thought what?”
She hesitated. “That you were tried of houseguests and anxious to send me on my way.”
I should be, he realized. I should be contemplating how best to enjoy my impending freedom. But what good is freedom in an empty house?
“You are mistaken,” he said. “You and my aunt are most amiable company.”
“How long would I stay?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A few days. Another week or two.”
As long as it takes to decide if I feel more for you than simple lust, and what to do if that proves to be the case.
She was silent, a minor battle being waged on her lovely features as she debated his suggestion. Then finally, when he thought he could stand her silence no more, she nodded. “Yes, all right. I will stay a while longer.”
He smiled, wondering what insanity had possessed him. Still, he did not regret his offer or her acceptance.
“Good,” he said softly. “That is good.”
He turned back to the play and she did as well. But he barely heard another word of the performance, his thoughts all for her.
Chapter 10
A Scottish autumn chill that felt more like winter hung in the air as Princess Mercedes hurried along one of the academy’s many stone corridors, a pair
of leather-bound textbooks, a small stack of musical scores, and the newly delivered post clutched in her arms.
She smiled and nodded to a few of the other girls as she passed, but she didn’t take time to speak, too eager to locate Ariadne. That morning they’d had history and geography classes together in the east tower before separating after the midday meal for additional instruction—Ariadne in advanced Italian poetry while she herself was working to improve her performance on the pianoforte. Beethoven’s Sonata no. 14 in C Minor was playing in her head even now, her fingers absently tapping out a section of the tune against the back of her books.
She checked first in the common room where half a dozen girls were gathered around the fire in a comfortable arrangement of chairs, but didn’t see her friend’s easily identifiable reddish blond head. She went next to the library, but Ariadne was not there either. Aware of one other likely place, she climbed the stairs to the ancient stone and glass solar, abandoned for the most part now in favor of the more modern accommodations to be found elsewhere in the castle.
“Finally!” Mercedes declared, dropping down onto one of the stone benches next to her friend.
Ariadne looked up from her book and arched a pale brow. “Were you looking for me?”
“Yes! We’ve had a letter from Emma. It just arrived.”
Clearly interested, Ariadne placed a slip of paper inside her book to mark the page, then set it aside. “Well, let us hear. What does she have to say? Has His Highness finally decided to grace her with his presence, or is she still trapped inside that pristine dungeon of a house?”
Mercedes frowned. “She said it is a very elegant estate. I’m sure she is quite comfortable.”
Ariadne gave a faint snort. “Just because you’re comfortable doesn’t mean it’s not a prison. But we can argue about that later. Open the letter. I want to know the latest.”
Setting aside her burdens, Mercedes broke the red wax seal and unfolded the vellum.
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