The Princess and the Peer(43)
Or do I?
The question whispered like a jeer inside her mind, leaving her far more unsettled than she cared to admit. Suddenly, she was glad that Nick wanted to forget their kiss and carry on as they had done before. It was better this way, she told herself. Their parting would be easier with no feelings of hurt or regret when the time arrived for them to go their separate ways.
With that in mind, she had smiled and matched his polite friendliness with a resilient kind of her own. If he could pretend, then so could she.
Determined to enjoy herself and her time left in the city, she threw herself into each activity with enthusiastic zeal. The dowager viscountess finally emerged from her rooms, but rather than accompany them that afternoon, she waved them on their way with the glad assurance that she would be fine at home and for them to have a good time.
Emma and Nick began with a trip to Bullock’s Egyptian Hall, which she found startlingly bizarre, set as it was on an ordinary street in Piccadilly. The facade was built to resemble an Egyptian temple, its massive pilasters supporting the Egyptian gods of Isis and Osiris—or so she learned once she and Nick were inside. Together they strolled among the artifacts and antiquities, viewing tablets of carved hieroglyphics, replicas of the pyramids and the sphinx as well as items brought back by Captain Cook from his voyage to the South Seas. There were African and North and South American objects too—more fascinating discoveries and oddities than anyone could easily absorb in only a few hours.
The next day they visited the shed at Lord Elgin’s home where he kept the marble sculptures he’d brought back from Greece. And in the afternoon, Nick took her to Gunter’s as he had promised. Despite the cool weather, Emma insisted on sampling some of their famous ices, shivering delightfully as she ate bites of lemon, green apple, and pineapple. Nick had contented himself with hot black coffee, the amused smile playing once again across his mouth.
And this morning, after employing a bit of skilled persuasion over breakfast, she had convinced Nick to let her accompany him to Tattersall’s. There was a horse auction he did not wish to miss—some lord had apparently lost his fortune at cards and been forced to put his estate up for sale, including his stable of extremely fine thoroughbreds. Nick kept her close, the auction grounds at Hyde Park Corner teaming with noise, the earthy scents of horseflesh, and scores of men hoping to find a bargain.
The bidding process was fascinating, and Emma followed the action with keen interest. She couldn’t help but cheer when Nick won as high bidder on an excellent pair of matched bays with glossy coats and intelligent brown eyes. Nick grinned at his victory, promising that he would take her for a drive in his curricle once the horses were delivered.
Now tonight there was a much-anticipated trip to the theater. Twelfth Night, her favorite. Was it a coincidence, or had he remembered her saying how much she loved the play? Then again, did it really matter, since tomorrow would be her last full day in residence?
In the morning, she supposed she ought to write to Mrs. Brown-Jones to confirm her return to the city. Assuming her teacher had returned, she would pack and prepare to say her good-byes the following day.
An aching pang lodged beneath her breasts at the idea. Ignoring the sensation, she forced herself to stop woolgathering and finish getting ready to leave for the theater. Silently, she drew on a pair of white silk evening gloves.
“If you ladies are ready, we should be on our way,” Nick stated.
“Indeed yes,” his aunt declared. “I am as ready as I ever shall be. Now lend me that strong arm of yours, Dominic, so I may make it safely out to the carriage.”
He sent Emma a quick smile. “Of course, Aunt.”
Emma waited as he attended to the dowager viscountess, then followed them from the house to the coach waiting beyond.
Nick sat inside the darkened theater, the play unfolding on the stage below. The performance was Twelfth Night, one he’d chosen specifically because Emma had remarked it was her favorite of Shakespeare’s works.
He remembered their conversation in vivid detail—although he tended to remember everything Emma said and did. But that particular discussion had special significance because it had happened the night they’d kissed. He’d hoped by now to have put it from his mind, but in spite of his best attempts, erasing the memory had proven impossible.
Emma sat on his right, a smile curved across her rose pink lips as she watched the actors. Her eyes were alive with amusement at the glib, quickly paced dialogue.
On his other side, a short distance across the box, sat his aunt, an occasional snore issuing from the older woman’s nose and slackened jaw. She’d drifted off to sleep not five minutes after the play began, startling awake every so often to blink in groggy confusion before dozing off again.