The Princess and the Peer(18)
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.
Chapter 4
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.”