The Princess and the Peer (7 page)

Rather too sure of himself by half, isn’t he?
she thought of her host. Assuming she would say yes to his plan before she had even been asked. It almost made her want to tell the maid to pack everything up again, just on principle. But she’d been over that particular issue before and her decision to take up residence was made.

“I believe I will freshen up first,” she said, “then have a bit of a lie down. I shall choose a gown later and ring when I am ready.”

“Very good, miss.” The girl bobbed a curtsy.

“A question before you go,” Emma said, stopping the servant as she turned to leave. “His lordship recently inherited, did he not? He lost his brother, I understand.”

An unmistakable sadness dimmed the girl’s bright smile. “Yes, miss. Lord Lyndhurst, that is the late Lord Lyndhurst, passed away most sudden-like. Terrible thing, it were, him coming down with the typhus. We were all in a right shock, we
were. To think of a fine young man struck down in his prime. Don’t seem right nor fair, it don’t. But the sickness takes all kinds, I suppose, with no regard for age nor wealth nor kin.”

Emma nodded, understanding such grief. She’d had a younger brother who had died at age four from an ague of the lungs. She often wondered what he would be like now had he lived. At present, there was just her ailing father and two older siblings—Rupert, and her sister, Sigrid.

She hadn’t seen her sister in more than five years, learning by letter that Sigrid had been widowed many months ago and had recently returned to Rosewald from her marital home in Italy. Come to think, she hadn’t seen Rupert in a long time either—three years this December. She knew they would find her much changed, since she had been only a girl when last they had met. Would she find them greatly altered too? she wondered. With Rupert’s continued delay, she would obviously have to wait a while more to find out.

For now, she had the incorrigible Nick Gregory with which to deal, she thought. A frisson of warmth chased through her veins at the reminder of the earl—the sensation no doubt inspired by her continued irritation with the man. Yet she couldn’t help but be intrigued by him as well. From remarks he’d made, she sensed he wasn’t necessarily comfortable with his new title, a curious reaction for a man raised in the aristocracy.

“What did his lordship, the present earl, do prior to coming into the earldom?” she asked the maid before she thought better of the question.

“Master Nick?” the maid piped, her expression relaxing. “Oh, he were a captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Decorated any number of times for bravery in battle, though he ain’t one to brag. Way I heard, he were due to be made rear admiral when he got word about poor Lord Lyndhurst. Near broke his heart, I expect, losing his brother and having to resign his commission in a single stroke, as it were.”

A captain of the high seas? Somehow it fit, seeing in her mind’s eye Nick Gregory standing on the deck of a ship, the
waves churning blue-gray and foamy white against the vessel’s fast-moving prow. Suddenly she thought again of his unusual footman and wondered if Bell had been one of Nick’s crew.

“Well, I’d best leave ye to rest, miss,” the maid said after a long moment’s silence. “If ye need aught else, ye’ve only to mention it.”

“Thank you. I shall keep that in mind,” Emma murmured, letting the girl withdraw and close the door behind her.

Finally alone, Emma took a few moments to inspect her surroundings again before moving to the washstand on the far side of the chamber. She washed her face and hands, then scrubbed her teeth with the toothbrush and cinnamon tooth powder she found in one of the drawers. Unfastening the buttons on her half boots, she toed them off with a grateful sigh, then turned toward the bed.

Lying back across the mattress, she found the feather tick plump and comfortable, the buttery yellow counterpane soft and smelling ever so faintly of lavender. Considering the scant amount of rest she’d gotten the night before, it should have been an easy thing to drift off. But after ten long minutes, she knew she would not be able to rest.

I’m simply too wound up to sleep,
she realized, knowing it was futile to continue trying.

Wondering how to occupy herself, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and gazed around again, taking note of a fine rosewood writing desk placed in a sunny spot near one of the windows.

Why, of course,
she thought. She would compose a letter to Ariadne and Mercedes; it would be just the thing. Leaping to her feet, she padded stocking-footed across the room and sank down onto the small rosewood chair at the desk. Inside one of the drawers, she found paper, ink, and pens.

After arranging everything to her satisfaction, she dipped her neatly sharpened quill into the ink and prepared to begin. But in spite of her closeness with her two friends and the need to share her news, she found herself hesitating over
exactly what to write. And even more, what seemed safe to reveal under the circumstances.

To her knowledge, Countess Hortensia and the teachers at the academy didn’t normally read student mail. But would they intercept and read a letter from her, she wondered, if the duchess had written first to inquire after her whereabouts? If that were the case, then revealing too much could not only get her summarily returned to the estate, but might put her friends in a very awkward position.

Tapping the feathered end of the quill pen against her cheek, she considered possible phrasing.

Dear Ariadne and Mercedes. I have run away and am living with a man I met only this morning. He helped me after I was robbed in the market, but he’s perfectly respectable… if you consider roguish ex-navy captains respectable. Oh, and he is an earl. Did I mention that he’s mouthwateringly attractive and so charming he could tempt a nun to break her vows? Not that I’m interested in him in that way, since I’m not. Still one cannot help but admire beauty in whatever form it may take.

No, that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all, she thought, as a slight warmth rose in her cheeks. Although she would love to see her friends’ expressions if she wrote them just such a missive.

Mercedes would be shocked but intrigued, spinning fantasies in which Nick fell madly in love with Emma and pledged himself to her service as a most faithful and devoted servant. To Mercedes’s romantic way of thinking, Nick would take on the guise of a chivalrous knight of old, who sought only his lady’s chaste and gracious approval and nothing more.

Ariadne, on the other hand, would highly approve of the adventure, but warn her to protect her heart at all costs. Men were fine for dalliances, she would say, but love one and you risk becoming his slave. At least that would be Ariadne’s hypothetical opinion, Emma knew, since Ariadne was as innocent and untouched as herself and had never indulged in a
dalliance in her life. Even so, Ariadne adored scandalizing them with her radical notions about marriage and sex and how one need not take wedding vows in order to enjoy the delights of a man’s bed. Knowing Ariadne, she would probably urge Emma to do a bit of “exploration” while she had the opportunity. “Just don’t get caught at it,” she would warn her.

But she wouldn’t be providing Ariadne with enough detail to elicit such an opinion, since she wasn’t going to tell her or Mercedes about Nick—at least not until after she left Nick’s house for Mrs. Brown-Jones’s abode.

Sighing, she tapped her quill against her chin again and further considered what to say. A minute later, a slow smile crept over her mouth.

Dipping her pen nib into the ink, she began to write.

A
few minutes past seven o’clock that evening, Nick waited with his aunt in the drawing room where they had gathered before dinner. His aunt sat in a comfortable armchair near the roaring fire, complaining about the “chill” in the air, the high-necked lavender wool evening gown she wore apparently insufficient to ward off the mild autumn night. As extra protection, she’d swathed herself in no fewer than four cashmere shawls, which ranged in color from deepest plum to dove gray, each one tucked carefully around her plump shoulders. A turban of dark aubergine sat perched atop her wispy steel-colored hair, the entire ensemble putting Nick in mind of a grouse tucked amid the heather.

For his own part, Nick was comfortably attired in a coat and trousers of dark brown superfine, a starched white linen cravat tied in an uncomplicated knot around his throat. He crossed to the liquor cabinet positioned along the far wall.

“Sherry, Aunt?” he asked, once she’d paused to draw breath between sentences.

“Harry?” the old woman piped, a frown on her thin brows. “Harry who?”

Nick resisted the urge to sigh. “Not Harry—
sherry
,” he said in a patient voice, noticing that her hearing had grown worse since the last time they had met. “Would you care for
a libation before dinner?” Picking up a small crystal glass, he waggled it slightly in explanation.

A tiny smile crossed her aged lips and she nodded. “A small dram of something vaporous might be just the thing to warm my old bones. A sherry would not go amiss, Dominic.” Pausing, she rearranged the edge of one of her shawls. “Now who is this Harry person you are on about?”

Rather than reply, Nick poured the drink, pausing with the decanter poised above a second glass as he thought of Emma.

She ought to have been down by now. He’d sent a note to her some while ago to let her know that his aunt had agreed to take up residence for the week and that they looked forward to seeing her in the drawing room before dinner. Perhaps he should have one of the maids check on her again, he mused, as he set down the sherry decanter and poured a draft of whiskey for himself.

He’d just picked up the glass of sherry to take to his aunt when a faint noise drew his attention. Glancing over, he discovered Emma poised on the threshold, looking lovely as a blush rose in a satin gown of the same hue, a single woven shawl of palest green hanging from the corners of her elbows.

He couldn’t look away as she strolled gracefully into the room, the drink temporarily forgotten in his hand. He remembered it a moment later and set the glass down again on the tray.

“Ah, Miss White, here you are at last.”

“Am I late? I hope I have not kept you waiting.” She raised a pale eyebrow.

“Not at all. We were just about to have a drink. But first, allow me to introduce you to my aunt, the Dowager Viscountess of Dalrymple.”

He turned toward the older woman, careful to project his voice so it would carry. “Aunt, here is the young woman about whom I was telling you, the one who will be staying with us this week. Permit me to present Miss Emma White to you.”

At his words, Emma sank into a most elegant curtsy, one whose easy refinement he could not say he had been expecting.

“Your ladyship,” Emma said once she had straightened. “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance. And may I say how kind you are to lend me your countenance for the duration of my stay here in his lordship’s home. You are most forbearing to move across Town on my behalf.”

“Eh? What’s this about Town?” his aunt said, her brows drawing up into a furrow. “Alas yes, I am still in Town, even if much of Society is away, tucked up warm and cozy at their country estates. You are lucky I was here to receive your missive, Dominic, or whatever would you have done with this little gel?”

Before he had a chance to reply, Aunt Felicity fixed her gaze on Emma. “No doubt you are the young guest of whom my nevvie told me,” she repeated as if she had not heard a word Nick had spoken. “Well, come here, girl, so I can see you properly.”

Fiddling for a moment at her waist, the old woman set a lorgnette in front of her face and squinted, the lenses making her eyes appear as big and round as an owl’s.

Emma’s expression remained amazingly impassive beneath such close scrutiny. Maintaining her poise, she walked slowly forward to stand quietly before his aunt’s inspection.

“Pretty,” the dowager viscountess pronounced after nearly a minute’s silence. “But then, I doubt Dominic would invite a whey-faced chit to stay in his house.”

“Aunt Felicity—” Nick protested.

“Oh, don’t poker up,” the dowager viscountess said in a dismissive tone. “Men are all alike, always susceptible to a comely face and a winsome form. Unless there’s money involved, that is. Then the poor girl can be homely as a pig in a wallow and no one will say a word against her.”

Nick cleared his throat, trying not to laugh at either his aunt’s outrageous remarks or the expression on Emma’s face.

Utterly unabashed, the dowager viscountess lowered her
lorgnette to her lap. “So, you’re the orphaned daughter of one of Nick’s officer friends, are you? Hired out as a governess, I hear? Well, I can see why you are no longer employed. Too pretty by half, as I’ve already said, and much, much too young. How old are you exactly?”

Emma drew herself up and returned his aunt’s gaze with an unflinching one of her own. “Old enough.”

The dowager viscountess stared for a long, silent moment. “Old enough! Is that what she said? Old enough?”

“Yes, Aunt Felicity,” Nick offered, hiding a smile as he waited to see his aunt’s reaction. “That is precisely what she said.”

Rather than take offense, however, the old lady let out a hearty guffaw, chuckling so hard her shawls slipped down her shoulders. “Well, I must say I like a gel with spunk.” She waggled a finger at Emma. “Reminds me of myself in my green days. I used to give ’em a devil of a time.”

“You still do, Aunt.”

The dowager viscountess beamed. “So I do. Now,” she said, rearranging her shawls, “when is dinner? I didn’t come all the way across Town to be starved to death.”

“I am sure Symms will be announcing the meal shortly,” Nick told her. “In the meantime, why do we not have those drinks?” He turned back to the sideboard. “Miss White, what may I serve you? A glass of canary, perhaps? Or would you rather something stronger? My aunt is having sherry.”

Before Emma could speak, the countess interrupted again. “What are you two discussing? That Harry fellow again, whoever he may be? And what is this about canaries? For my own part, I cannot abide birds. Dirty creatures, leaving feathers and other unmentionable substances around the house.” She paused, reaching up to straighten her turban. “I do hope your cook serves fowl this evening, Dominic. Now
that
is a proper use for a bird.”