Too quiet, he meant.
She gave a slight shrug and glanced at one of the oil paintings on the wall. It was a pastoral landscape that was imbued with a serenity she in no way felt. “I am merely tired; that is all,” she dissembled.
“Then you are not upset by what occurred this afternoon at the fair?”
Her gaze flew to his.
What did he know? Surely he hadn’t noticed her brother’s guards searching for her? But how could he, she thought, when he didn’t realize who she actually was?
Rather than ask outright, she decided to take a cautious approach. “What do you mean?”
He raised a brow. “I was referring to our kiss. What did you think I meant?”
“Oh, our kiss, of course. That’s what I meant too. I just”—Just what? she thought frantically, aware of the speculation in his eyes—“wasn’t sure if you did. Mean the kiss, that is,” she finished weakly.
He appraised her for a long moment, his dark brows drawing close. “Clearly you are troubled. I couldn’t help but notice how quiet you have been ever since our return.”
Sometimes he really was far too observant, she mused. Even so, she couldn’t help but be touched by his thoughtfulness. “No, it’s not our kiss. I quite enjoyed what happened at the fair.” Her lashes fanned downward. “Especially when we were alone in that alcove between the merchant stalls. I am not the slightest bit upset about that.”
How could she be when those moments in his arms had been some of the best in her life? She would treasure them forever.
“After all, you can hardly be blamed when I am the one who kissed you first,” she said, warmth creeping into her cheeks at the admission.
“Yes,” he agreed with grave seriousness, “but I continued our encounter—more than you might have wished perhaps?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, you did nothing I did not wish. Nothing I did not like.”
Love, actually. Just as she loved him.
A small crack formed in the region of her heart at the realization. How was she ever going to leave?
Reassured by her words, the tension drained from his shoulders. “What, then?” he pressed. “Something is amiss.” Bridging the distance between them, he took her hand. “Will you not tell me, Emma?”
Oh, how she wished she could. How she longed to step into his arms and confide every bit of the truth. But it was impossible. He would hate her for her lies, for one. For another, he might feel honor bound to do something foolish, such as approaching her brother to plead her case. She could only imagine him telling Rupert that if she did not wish to proceed with the marriage he had arranged, she should not have to. That surely other diplomatic means could be reached to secure the needs of both country and kingdom. But she knew with a doleful certainty that Nick would only be causing himself trouble and that his efforts, however well intentioned, would do nothing to aid her in the end.
Somehow, as if she were a seasoned actress on the stage, she forced a smile to her lips, glad there was no need to conceal her underlying pain. “It is only a slight headache, that is all,” she told him. “I didn’t want to say before and distress your aunt. You know how she would have fussed.”
Some of the concern eased from his face. “You are right. She would no doubt have ordered you immediately to bed and sent up the maid with warm lavender compresses and an assortment of headache powders.”
“Then spent the next half an hour demanding to know if I have any other symptoms in case my malady turned to something worse, such as a cold or the ague.”
“Or la grippe,” he said with mock seriousness. “She is always very concerned about la grippe and how a chill house can lead to contagion.”
For a long moment, they smiled at each other, warmth spreading like a small sun inside Emma’s chest. Then she remembered the reason she had pleaded a headache in the first place and her good humor fell away.
“But forgive me,” Nick said, his own smile vanishing. “You are feeling unwell and here I have kept you rambling on. Let me escort you upstairs.”
“No, no, there is no need. You haven’t finished your brandy—”
“I can finish it later.” He looped her arm over his, then led the way from the room, leaving her no choice but to comply.
But suddenly she didn’t want to go to bed.
She wanted to stay up and talk to him for hours.
She wanted to laugh and be carefree and forget all about what she must soon make herself do.
She wanted to be with Nick for what little time still remained.
But she could not, considering that she was well and truly hoist on the sharp edge of her own lies. Nor could she bring herself to tell him that she would be leaving shortly, perhaps as early as tomorrow, if she only could find the strength.