The Princess and the Peer(12)

“Is that not where you went? To ask her to join us?”

“No. Whatever gave you the idea that I was married?” He paused, studying her where she sat on the divan—the bright pinkish orange divan. Then he flashed one of his wicked smiles. “The colors not manly enough for you?”

“No,” she said dryly. “I cannot say that they are.”

He laughed, plainly amused. “You’re right. They aren’t. But I take no responsibility for this room. The decoration was entirely my mother’s doing. She had the salon refurbished over a decade ago. I guess Peter never got around to changing it, and I don’t pay much mind to such things.”

“Peter?” she inquired.

“My brother. He”—Nick paused for a moment, swallowing hard—“he died a few months ago. Saddled me with the country estate and this house, among other things.”

“Oh, I must beg your pardon and offer my condolences again. I did not realize you had suffered a loss recently. You’re not dressed… That is…”

“Not wearing black?” he finished for her. “No, I damned well am not. Peter knew how I felt about him, and I don’t need to shroud myself like some carrion crow to prove that I cared. If Society doesn’t like it, they can blood—” He broke off, clearly realizing he was about to use another swear word in her presence. “Well, they know what they can do.”

Emma suppressed a smile, finding herself rather in sympathy with his opinions concerning mourning requirements. Far too many people, she found, wore black because it was expected and not because they felt genuine grief. As Nick said, the color of his clothes did not make his loss less keen.

So he had recently inherited his title, she mused. And apparently did not relish his elevation to the peerage.

Curious.

“In answer to your next question,” he said before she could offer any further comment, “this is a bachelor’s establishment and I live alone. Well, alone if you do not count the dozen or so servants who are in my employ here in the house,” he amended.

A tiny frown creased her forehead. Clearly, satisfying Society’s expectations in regard to not entertaining unmarried young women inside his home wasn’t one of his priorities either.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” he said with a hint of humor in his voice. Then he sobered. “You need not worry about the proprieties. I’ve already sent a note round to my aunt asking her to join us. She lives nearby and her curiosity won’t let her refuse my request.”

Before Emma had time to further consider that bit of news, a knock sounded at the door and Symms entered with the tea service. The butler set the large silver tray with its array of pots and plates onto a nearby table. With a short bow, he withdrew from the room.

“Would you be so good as to do the honors?” Nick gestured toward the tea tray.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, settling naturally into the familiar task. “Milk and sugar?”

“Neither. I like it black, strong and hot.”

She wasn’t surprised. Unlike the room’s style, his choice of tea seemed to suit him perfectly. She poured, then handed him a cup of the streaming brew. She filled a plate with an assortment of tender buttery cakes, tiny sandwiches, and sweet biscuits and passed that to him as well. Then she prepared a cup of tea for herself, pausing to add a healthy splash of milk and two sugars before taking a careful sip.

“Is that all you’re having?” He sent her a disapproving look. “You still look a bit piqued.”

“I told you I am fine. Tea is all I require at present.”

He gave a derisive snort beneath his breath. “Require or not, I insist you eat something. Here.” Leaning over, he plucked up a sandwich, put it on a plate, and handed it to her. “Try one of these. They’re delicious.”

She considered refusing, but decided it was easier to simply placate him—or at least appear to do so. Under his watchful gaze, she took a small bite and discovered he was right; the sandwich was delicious—chicken and watercress, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ate another bite.

Apparently satisfied, he returned to his own repast.

“Well now,” he said after swallowing the last of slice of raisin cake, then washing it down with half the tea in his cup. “We’ve talked about me. I should enjoy hearing something more of you.”

Her fingers froze against her plate, only years of excellent training keeping her from revealing her reaction to his unwelcome question. “Me?” she said in a deliberately casual voice.

“Yes, you. What brings you to London?”