Emma blinked at the unexpected news.
A week!
Well, waiting in the parlor was clearly out of the question, she realized with wry sarcasm. Damnation, she cursed silently, using one of the handful of forbidden words she knew but wasn’t supposed to admit she knew.
Now what am I to do?
“Would you care to leave a message for their return?” the maid inquired, a frown of obvious concern puckering her ginger-colored brow.
Emma shook her head, her mouth turned down with disappointment. She’d had her heart set on this week in the city, her last few days of freedom before she must accept the duties of her future life. It wasn’t fair that all her plans and dreams should be dashed simply because her only acquaintance in London happened to be out of town. But with no money and nowhere to stay, she didn’t see how she could remain in the city.
Only long years of training kept her from sighing aloud.
I shall have to go to the embassy, I suppose, she thought, and throw myself on the mercy of the ambassador. What other option did she have?
Still, the very idea made her cringe. Not only would the ambassador feel it was his responsibility to notify Duchess Weissmuller, but he would surely tattle on her to her brother as well. The thought of Rupert hearing that she’d fled the estate without permission, been set upon by thieves, then forced to return to the estate penniless and alone made her stomach do somersaults. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten quite such a satisfying meal in the market.
When she’d left that morning, she’d planned to write a letter to the duchess informing her that she was well and safe and that she would return in due course. The duchess would search for her regardless, but she would never think to look for her at Mrs. Brown-Jones’s house. She doubted the duchess even knew her teacher existed. The older woman would be furious, of course, but she would be unable to do little more than fume and wait for her return.
Emma was also counting on the duchess’s sense of self-preservation to keep her from immediately confessing the truth to Rupert. The woman would likely be sent home in disgrace were it revealed that she’d failed in her duty to effectively look after her charge. With Rupert still in Rosewald, Emma felt certain the duchess would tell him nothing about her defection. The other woman would want as much time as possible to remedy the situation by finding Emma herself and bringing her back to the estate.
But if Emma sought out the ambassador, there would be no concealing the truth. Rupert would have to be informed and he would be most displeased with both her and Duchess Weissmuller.
More blue-deviled than she cared to admit, she did sigh aloud this time, then looked up to find Nick’s gaze on her. She’d momentarily forgotten him, she realized, which only proved how very miserable she was.
Without asking her consent, he took her arm, slipped it through his, and drew her against his side.
“Come along, Emma,” she heard Nick murmur in his low baritone. “Come with me and we’ll see what is to be done.”
Nothing! she thought dejectedly. I have no choice but to slink back to my former prison and accept my fate.
Still, she let him help her into the carriage, where she sagged against the buttery-smooth brown leather seat. Only think what Countess Hortensia would say if she could see her now.
Ladies, particularly royal ladies, do not ever sag or slouch. They hold themselves erect at all times, chin high, spine straight, confident and composed no matter the provocation.
Hearing the words in her mind, Emma forced her shoulders away from the seat and lifted her chin, ignoring the fact that her lower lip gave a little wobble.
Nick cast her a glance as he picked up the reins. “Tea, I think, and a biscuit. You look pale as death.”
“Do not be absurd. My complexion always appears pale,” she declared with a renewal of her spirit.
He snorted with doleful amusement. “Except when your cheeks turn pink like they did earlier.”
“I had been running.” She shot him a glare, cursing inwardly when her cheeks warmed with a traitorous burst of color.
He laughed, then flicked the reins to set the horses in motion.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked.
“My town house,” he said. “I thought it would give us a chance to talk in private.”
She opened her mouth to refuse, knowing she shouldn’t so much as set foot on his doorstep, let alone enter his house. Ladies, and most particularly princesses, did not visit gentlemen’s homes. But a defiant impulse kept her quiet—the possibility of one final, daring taste of adventure too tempting to resist. Heaven knows she was in no hurry to go to the embassy, so why not visit his house? Besides, he probably had a wife, so there would be no impropriety whatsoever in the visit.