The Princess and the Peer(3)

“But how much longer will he be? And why did he not write to me himself?”

The duchess, who was the widow of Rosewald’s former ambassador to Britain, raised a single jet-black eyebrow at Emma’s outburst. “That is for the prince to know and for you not to trouble yourself about.”

Her chaperone’s dark eyes were cool with reprimand—not surprising, Emma knew, since the middle-aged woman didn’t approve of outbursts. Nor did she approve of questions from young ladies who were in possession of too many opinions.

“His Highness sent word through his envoy that he shall arrive in due time,” the duchess added, raising her wineglass for a careful sip. “Until then, we must be content to wait.”

Oh, must we? Emma repeated sarcastically to herself.

But she had waited.

And waited some more, confined inside a large estate on the outskirts of London.

In the three weeks since her arrival from the academy, she’d seen nothing beyond the estate’s boundaries. And to think she’d considered herself isolated in Scotland. How mistaken she had been.

As for companionship, there was only the duchess, the servants, and a dance master who had come twice to the house in order to refresh her abilities on the dance floor. But even the prospect of future balls and entertainments had done nothing to lighten Emma’s spirits. Because, in spite of the luxuriously appointed house and grounds, she’d come to know how the canaries felt, trapped inside their elegant cages in the upstairs drawing room. Did they cry out for freedom when they sang? she wondered. Did they wish, as she did, to take flight?

If only she were allowed to visit London and see the sights, visit a shop or two, the passing weeks wouldn’t have seemed nearly so bad. But any visit to London must be an official one with a presentation at the English court—or so Duchess Weissmuller informed her whenever Emma dared broach the topic. Until Rupert arrived, she wasn’t to go anywhere.

If he ever does arrive! she thought, thoroughly exasperated with her older brother.

Daily, she wished she were back at Countess Hortensia’s Academy with Ariadne and Mercedes. She’d exchanged several letters with them, always taking care to sound far less miserable than she truly was. After all, she didn’t want to alarm them with the truth. Instead she talked about the house, the army of servants, the delicious food, and the beautiful pianoforte that she had the luxury of playing anytime she liked, day or night. She told them about all the places she planned to see in the city. But for now such ideas were nothing more than wishful dreams.

Speaking of wishes, she mused with wry irony, she wished with all her heart that Rupert would change his mind about the dynastic marriage he planned to arrange for her—or at least allow her some say in it. King Otto was a stranger, after all. She hadn’t even seen a likeness of him, so how could she possibly contemplate becoming his wife? Or bearing his children? Or reigning for a lifetime at his side? The very idea made her throat tighten and her palms grow slick with perspiration.

And so, as the long, slow, dull-as-dishwater days crept by, her doubts and her fears increased until she itched for freedom. So much so that she sometimes felt as if she might burst out of her skin.

Saints preserve me, she cried inside her head. I have to get out of this house! I cannot breathe anymore!

Abruptly, she shoved her chair back from the dining table and stood.

The duchess looked up, her eyes wide. “What do you think you’re about? Pray be seated and finish your meal.”

Emma shook her head. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I wish to be excused. I’m not… I am not feeling well.”

“Not well? Have you need of the physician? I will have him summoned immediately.”

“Oh no, that will not be necessary,” Emma said. “I am merely tired and wish to rest.”

Duchess Weissmuller gave her an assessing, narrow-eyed stare. “Very well,” the older woman said. “You may go. I shall have your supper sent up on a tray, so you will have sufficient time to restore your energy.”

“That would be most kind.”

Forcing herself not to rush, Emma left the room.

Many hours later, Emma lay awake in bed, staring blindly into the early-morning darkness. Beneath the bodice of her prim linen nightgown, her heart beat in palpable strokes, her nerves stretched tight.

Panicked and bored. That’s how she felt.

Panicked and bored, trapped and desperate for a respite from this prison. Because, no matter how luxurious her surroundings, that’s precisely what this place was.

A prison.

And just like a prisoner, she longed to break free of her cage and run, to savor the sweet taste of freedom like raindrops on her tongue. She wanted to do as she wished for a change rather than following the strictures and demands of her parents and brother and the duchess, who had all the liveliness of a moss-covered boulder. Even her lady-in-waiting, Baroness Zimmer, who had been with her since she was a child, could offer little in the way of consolation.