The Princess and the Peer(4)

“You must be patient, Your Highness,” the baroness advised. “You must trust in the wisdom of those who are older and wiser than yourself.”

But Emma didn’t trust; she chafed.

Chafed against her surroundings. Chafed against her boredom. Chafed against the dictates of those who had decided her future for her without any thought to her own wishes—a future that frightened her more than she cared to admit.

If only she had a few days to be free, a week in which she could be herself without all the trappings that came with being a princess. The aristocratic girls at the academy led such simple lives really. One couldn’t help but envy them and the carefree days they would enjoy once they left school. In the spring would be a London Season, when they would attend balls and parties and all manner of exciting entertainments as they searched for a husband. Even after marriage, they would be burdened with few of the same duties and obligations that came with her life. As a princess, she wasn’t even allowed to decide what time to awaken in the morning or retire at night for bed.

What she wouldn’t give to see London for herself rather than from a lofty perch inside a royal carriage. How she longed to have an adventure of her own without her every step being watched and each word critiqued. If only she could visit the city without having to wait for Rupert’s arrival. If only she knew someone in the city with whom she could stay.

Yet wait, perhaps I do know someone!

Abruptly, she sat up in bed, the covers falling away.

Miss Poole had been her English teacher at the academy until last year, when she had resigned from her post in order to marry a London solicitor. Miss Poole—Mrs. Brown-Jones now, she corrected herself—had been her favorite teacher, and they had maintained a friendly correspondence since her departure. Emma knew without question that her old teacher would welcome her gladly.

But would the other woman be willing to give her refuge, knowing she had run off? Would she let Emma stay with her for a few days so she could enjoy the city? Of course, she wouldn’t have permission to leave the estate. Then again, Mrs. Brown-Jones didn’t need to know that—at least not right away.

A week. Just one week to enjoy herself to the fullest, and then she would willingly return home again and suffer whatever consequences might await. Was that too much to ask?

Did she dare?

Oh yes, she did…

Before she could lose her courage, she tossed the covers aside and leaned over to light a candle. Climbing quickly out of bed, she hurried across to her dressing room and pulled down her smallest portmanteau.

Dominic Gregory, Earl of Lyndhurst, rubbed his fingers over his night’s growth of dark beard, then smothered a yawn as he reached for the neatly pressed newspaper on the silver salver near his elbow.

“Shall I draw your bath now, my lord?” Puddlemere asked, the valet waiting with patient attentiveness. “Or would you prefer to take your coffee first?”

Nick—as Dominic preferred to be called—looked up from where he sat at the round walnut table in his bedchamber, autumn sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows that overlooked the garden of his London town house.

His town house. How odd the thought.

Even now he had to keep reminding himself the town house was his, since the knowledge still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Nor had he grown used to being waited on hand and foot by his brother’s ever-efficient staff.

His staff now too.

Damn Peter for having the bloody bad taste to go off and die, he thought for what must have been the thousandth time. And double damn Peter for saddling him with his title, his possessions, and his never-ending mountain of responsibilities.

Peter was the one who was supposed to be the earl, not Nick.

Peter was the good one.

The responsible one.

The noble, dutiful son who’d been bred from birth to assume the role as head of the family. Certainly not the rebellious boy who had once told their father to go to perdition as he stalked from the house to make his own way in the world.

And make my way, I did, Nick thought with a pride he couldn’t deny. At the green age of five-and-twenty, he’d risen to the rank of captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Five more years of war and command had honed him, hardened him, given him the ability to inspire men’s trust and the loyalty needed to lead. But those years hadn’t given him the knowledge necessary to step into his brother’s shoes.

Nor had they given him the desire to do so.

Even now he longed to be back aboard his ship, to stand with his feet braced on the deck as the sea danced beneath him like an untamed Gypsy. But it wasn’t his ship any longer, not since he’d received word of Peter’s death from typhoid fever and been obliged to sell his commission.