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.
A shiver of dread rippled through her at the thought of everything that would entail. But the sensation vanished seconds later as she buried her fear and her innermost self away again. A fresh wave of numbness spread through her; she embraced the cold calm with an almost giddy relief.
He showed his teeth in an unctuous smile, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “Princess Emmaline, how delightful to meet you at long last,” he said in clipped, Austrian-accented German. “Your brother did not exaggerate his praise of your grace and beauty.”
Serenely, she met his gaze. “My brother never exaggerates anything, sir,” she replied in the same language, although the words sounded a bit odd to her ears, since she was so used to speaking English now. “He is one of those rare men in this world—an honest one.”
King Otto’s fathomless eyes widened briefly; then he laughed. “Spirited, with a sense of humor. I like females with a bit of pluck. Gives a man a challenge to anticipate.”
Reaching out, he took her hand and moved to tuck it over his elbow.
Again, she felt nothing.