The Princess and the Peer(67)

Again, Emma did not reply.

“I did as you requested,” the other woman continued. “He was quite insistent about seeing you, but I told him you were not here. It took a bit of persuasion, but in the end he seemed to believe me and agreed to go away.”

Tears stung Emma’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She would not cry. She could not afford to indulge in such a futile show of weakness. Royalty did not wear their emotions on their sleeves, however much she wished she could dissolve in a heap right here on the floor. Later, perhaps when she was alone, where no one could see, she might give way.

Still, she feared if she did, she might never be able to bottle up the anguish that was even now ripping her in two, that once released, her grief would be too huge ever to be contained again.

“He seems like a good man,” her old teacher said in a soothing voice. “I quite liked him. But your family… I am afraid they would never approve.”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear even the steady pace of the passersby outside.

“If it is any consolation, Your Highness, you are doing the right thing. It truly is for the best.”

Best for whom? she countered silently.

For her family certainly, of that there was no doubt.

For her nation as well, since her marriage would ensure a safe and stable future for her people.

And for King Otto and whatever objectives he might wish to have satisfied by their union  .

Perhaps it was even best for Nick, who would only be more deeply hurt were he to know all the ways in which she had deceived him.

Yes, it was best for everyone, she conceded.

Everyone, that is, but me.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Miss Poole,” she said with cool resolve. “Mrs. Brown-Jones, I mean. If you would be so good, pray inform me when my brother’s coach arrives. Until then, I believe I shall lie down in your spare bedchamber.”

“Of course, my dear. If there is anything else I can do—”

“No, there is nothing.”

And there never would be. After all, how could there be when her heart lay in a thousand shattered pieces, never to be mended again?

Avoiding the older woman’s far too knowledgeable gaze, Emma turned and made her way from the room.





Chapter 14





“Emma has written again!” Ariadne declared three weeks later from where she sat near a window in her bedchamber.

Subdued afternoon sunlight shone through the narrow Gothic-style glass panes, additional illumination provided by the lighted candles she had placed in strategic locations throughout the room. A fire burned at a healthy pace inside the wide stone grate, the flames driving some of the early-November chill from the room. A woven wool rug and draperies in shades of starry blue and forest green helped to warm the room as well, lessening the austerity of the stone chamber.

“Oh good, what does she have to say?” Mercedes closed the door behind her and hurried across the room, lowering herself into a nearby chair. “Is she still in London?”

Ariadne pushed her spectacles more securely upward along her nose, then bent her head over the missive. She scanned the contents, deciphering Emma’s narrow flowing script without difficulty.

“Yes, she’s still there.” She continued reading. “But she’s not staying where she was when last she wrote. No! She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t, couldn’t what?” Mercedes asked, leaning forward with her elbows bent atop her knees in a most unregal manner.

“Gone back.” A sense of deflation ripped through Ariadne as if she were a balloon that had just received a good sharp stab with a pin. “Emma’s returned to the estate. Apparently her brother has arrived at long last.”

A moment of silence fell as Mercedes mulled over the news. “Well, that’s good, is it not?” she ventured tentatively. “Being at odds with one’s family is never easy.”

Another silence ensued; a light wind took the opportunity to fill the void by rattling the window frame.

“Was the prince very displeased that Emma left without permission?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ariadne leaped to her feet, unable to contain her hiss of disapproval. “She escaped. She ought to have at least used her defection to some advantage before turning tail and slinking back. Here, you take this.” She thrust out the letter. “I cannot bear to read further.”

Mercedes regarded her with the wide-eyed, forbearing expression she adopted whenever Ariadne was in one of her so-called tempers before accepting the missive.

Ariadne strode to the fireplace, her pale lavender skirts swinging with each step. Silently, she drew to a halt and gazed at the red-tongued flames licking the stone sides of the blackened grate.