The Princess and the Peer (27 page)

“As will I.”

Executing another elegant bow, he moved away.

Nick leaned against a pillar in a distant corner of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in his hand as he stared at Emma. Idly he took a drink, barely registering the crisp effervescence of the wine on his tongue, his body still humming with shock in spite of the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the past three hours. He might as well have been drinking water for all the help it had provided in smoothing out his rough edges.

And tonight he had a lot of extremely rough edges.

He knew he should turn away, but he couldn’t keep from watching her. Even now, a part of him was unable to process the reality of coming face-to-face with her here tonight and even more so of learning her true identity.

Emma—his Emma—a princess?

It seemed impossible, implausible, yet there she stood in the flesh, more beautiful even than he remembered. He’d always sensed something regal about her bearing, he’d just never realized before how accurate his estimation had been.

For an odd second when he’d first seen her this evening, he’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him. The young woman—Princess Emmaline of Rosewald, to whom he was about to be introduced—reminded him painfully of Emma. She possessed the same coloring, the same figure. Even her mannerisms were a mirror image. As for her face, he’d found himself thinking they could have been identical twins, they were so alike.

Had Emma’s absence driven him so near the edge that he was imagining seeing her in every young blond woman he met? he’d wondered. Even the princess’s sister, the Duchesa d’Tuscani, reminded him vaguely of the girl he’d lost.

Then the princess turned and met his gaze, her eyes the same unusual shade of hyacinth as Emma’s.

The exact same.

Because she was Emma!

He knew it was her as surely as he knew the sound of his own name.

The ballroom had whirled around him, the world narrowing so that he was aware of nothing and no one except her.

He’d searched for her.

Pined for her.

Worried over her, wondering if she was well and safe and happy.

Yet here she stood in the most unlikely of places—at Prinny’s evening ball, dressed in a gown of luxurious, expensive silk embroidered with flowers and tiny, sparkling diamonds, if he wasn’t mistaken, a bejeweled tiara set crownlike in her upswept sunshine gold hair.

She looked stunning. And exactly like what she was—a princess.

For one insane instant, he’d nearly pulled her into his arms, thinking only about the fact that he’d found her, that he loved her, that she was his.

But then he’d seen the expression on her face, astonishment mingled with something that had chilled him to the bone.

Alarm—her eyes beseeching him not to acknowledge their relationship, not to give her away.

Anger burned through him like acid when she began her charade, pretending she did not know him, acting as if they had never met.

But she was a good actress, he realized. She’d certainly fooled him, making him believe she was poor and in desperate straits, alone in the world with nothing and no one to whom she could turn.

Instead she was a bloody royal princess!

Rich and pampered with a powerful, influential family from an independent foreign nation that counted among its relations half the crowned heads of Europe. Clearly she was spoiled and thoughtless, a proper little brat.

To think he’d believe her to be a governess!

My God, how she must have laughed.

His fingers tightened dangerously around the champagne flute in his grasp so fiercely he nearly shattered the glass. After tossing back the last of the wine, he set the glass down with a snap, unaware of the tiny crack left in the stem.

He watched her again where she stood across the room, conversing with a trio of gentlemen, each one vying more eagerly than the last to win her approbation.

She regarded them all with cool elegance and a royal condescension that looked exactly right for a princess.

But he’d seen her with passion blazing in her eyes, her hair a swirling mass of gold around her head, her mouth wet and red, swollen from his kisses.

He knew a side of her no one else had seen.

He knew what it was like to sheathe himself inside her body, to hear her gasps of ecstasy as she claimed the ultimate pleasure.

Had she taken some other man to her bed since she’d run away from him? he mused. His hand curled into a fist at his side at the idea. Was she seeking out her next conquest among the men assembled here tonight?

She’d certainly taken pains to avoid him since their
introduction
in the receiving line. She’d danced every dance with someone else, then strolled into supper on the arm of a royal duke from some obscure Austrian-Hungarian principality.

He could have gone to claim his dance, but he didn’t entirely trust himself where she was concerned. Besides, there would be scant opportunity for them to say anything of substance while they were completing the intricate movements of the quadrille, surrounded by any number of other couples who might be listening.

Is that why she’d agreed to stand up with him? Because she knew she would be safe? Because she realized she could pretend to placate him for a few minutes tonight, then turn her back and shut him out of her life once and for all?

He continued to watch her from his place against the pillar
and was contemplating yet another drink—something with a bit more kick to it than champagne—when he saw her give a graceful nod and a slight smile to the group of gentlemen with whom she had been conversing.

Then she moved away.

Gliding through the crowd, she walked toward her sister. But rather than join her, she paused near the door to one of the anterooms. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, disappearing into the house beyond.

He stared, his jaw clenching so hard it was a wonder he didn’t crack one of his teeth.

Does she have an assignation?

Whomever she planned to meet could go on his merry way. The only assignation Emma would be having tonight was with him.

W
hat an absolutely disastrous evening,
Emma thought, as she made her way through an empty anteroom on the far side of the Carlton House ballroom. She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to be alone, even if it was just for a few minutes.

She crossed the length of the room, barely glancing at the sumptuously appointed interior done in deep shades of blue with immense paintings lining both walls. Reaching the opposite end, she passed through the open side of a pair of tall, elaborately painted double doors, then continued on.

As she walked, the noise from the party began to recede, growing fainter and fainter until it was nothing more than a distant hum.

Still, a hum was not sufficient.

Continuing onward, she strode through yet another large, grandly appointed chamber, then into still another connecting chamber until she could hear nothing but silence.

Blessed, peaceful silence.

Coming to a halt at last, she paused to survey her surroundings, relieved to find herself inside a well-proportioned, almost intimate room lined with books rather than paintings. The walls were covered in emerald satin with gold-painted
woodwork and touches of the chinoiserie style that was so favored by the British prince regent.

She frowned at a figurine of a serene little Asian man with long robes and an elegant trailing beard.

What does he have to look so pleased about?
she wondered sourly. Although she supposed she ought not blame him since no one else in the world had problems quite like hers tonight.

Why, oh why, had Nick had to attend this evening’s ball? She guessed she ought to have known he might be among the invited guests. Even so, she had not expected to see him or to have all the feelings she’d worked so hard to suppress come crashing over her in a punishing, insurmountable wave.

Even now, she could scarcely catch her breath for thinking of him, her ribs aching from the misery of knowing he was so close, yet so utterly out of her reach.

After his insistence on sharing a dance with her, she’d expected him to approach her at the first available opportunity. Instead, he’d stayed away. But even from across the crowded ballroom, she’d felt the weight of his stare. The cold expression that masked his face made her tremble.

And so she’d done her best to ignore him, to act for all the world as if her heart were not breaking all over again.

She wished she could call for the carriage and go home. But Sigrid would want to know why, then Rupert, the pair of them and their concern only making the situation worse.

A few minutes’ quiet, here on her own, she told herself, and she would be strong enough to get through the remainder of the evening. And when the ball was over and the time came for her to part again from Nick—even if it was only from a distance—–she would hold back her misery and pretend everything was exactly as it ought to be.

Part of her wished she could go to him and explain, but she feared he would not listen. Besides, what was there to say? What excuses could she offer that would absolve her of deceiving him in such a reprehensible way?

She was steeling herself to return to the ballroom, knowing
she would be missed if she was absent much longer, when a footfall in the doorway caused her to look up.

And there stood Nick.

He looked as dark and forceful as a vengeful god, his powerful shoulders so broad they seemed to fill the width of the doorframe. She couldn’t help but find him beautiful, his austere black and white evening clothes a perfect complement for his coloring and physique. His face appeared calm, even remote. Then she looked into his eyes and caught her breath.

She’d seen his gray eyes look stormy, but tonight they burned with a deep, brooding temper that sent a frisson of unease chasing down her spine. She’d witnessed many of his moods, but never one quite like this. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see small lightning bolts flash inside his pupils if such a thing were physically possible.

“All alone?” he drawled darkly before sauntering into the room. “I presumed you would have company.”

Her brows drew close. “No, I needed some time to myself. The ballroom had become—”

Oppressive.

Overwhelming.

An opulent, unendurable hell.

“—too warm,” she finished. “I decided to come here to cool off.”

Wherever
here
might be, she thought. She wasn’t entirely sure at this point exactly how far into the house she had wandered.

“Oh, of course,” he said sarcastically, strolling closer. “It’s only natural to withdraw to an interior room hundreds of yards from the festivities in order to
cool off
. Have you managed yet?” Pausing, he cast a pointed look at the fire that burned robustly in the room’s overlarge grate.

Emma knew he was angry with her—understandably so—but what was wrong with him? And why was he looking around as if he expected to catch someone hiding behind the curtains or under one of the chairs?

“I am much improved,” she said. “In my estimation, however, your prince has invited far too many people, even for such a large edifice. I suspect all the guests would be far more comfortable if the windows were opened to let in some fresh air in spite of the season.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “
My
prince? What an interesting way to refer to the prince regent. But I suppose you are right that he is
my
prince. I guess your brother is
yours
, is he not,
Princess Emmaline
?”

She flinched at the nasty way he said her name, as if it were a curse or a taunt. But Princess Emmaline was who she was—the truth at long last laid bare between them.

“Yes. Rupert is regent in my country, so I feel the distinction needs to be made.”

He bowed, the act mocking rather than respectful. “As you say,
Your Highness
.” Straightening again, he surveyed the room. “You really are alone, aren’t you?”

Her frown deepened, puzzling at the remark. “Yes.”

“Stood you up, did he?”

Now she truly was perplexed. “He who?”

Nick turned a pair of stony eyes upon her. “Whoever it is you were planning to meet here. Which one of your admirers is it? Not that royal duke who took you into supper, I hope. The man looked oily enough to leave grease stains behind.”

She drew a steadying breath, finally understanding his line of questioning. Could it be that he was jealous? Was it possible he had been even a fraction as wounded by their parting as she?

“There is no one,” she said, her voice softening. “How could there be after…”

Her words trailed off as memories of their night together raced through her mind.

“After? After what?
Us,
do you mean?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I already know how deeply affected you were by our interlude, seeing that you ran off without so much as a word.”

“I left you a note,” she defended.

“Ah, yes, the note,” he shot back derisively. “So personal you could have interchanged it for the one you left my aunt and I should never have known the difference.”

He was right, she thought guiltily. The note had been polite and reserved—
too
reserved, she knew now, especially in light of their final hours together. But at the time there had been no way she could have mustered the resilience to express what was in her heart, let alone tell him the truth.

Leaving as she’d done had been cowardly, she admitted. But she’d thought it easiest to shield him from the truth. How ironic that all her noble intentions had come crashing down around her ears tonight because of a party.

“Nick, I—”

“You what?” he said scathingly. “Why did you do it, Emma? Was it a lark for you, pretending to be a commoner? Did we all amuse you while you went around playacting for a few weeks? While you duped me into escorting you around Town as if you were some naive little canary dazzled by the sights?”