She did not think of him—at least never deliberately, since that was something else she could not bear. Only at night, when her defenses were at their weakest, did the memories creep upon her, leaving her to wake with wet, tearstained cheeks, his name a forbidden whisper on her lips.
But he was in her past, and whatever it took, that was where he must stay.
Dutifully, she raised her arm.
The dressmaker resumed her pinning.
Emma had just begun to drift away again when the great double doors to her dressing room flew open and a slim woman with silvery blond hair strode inside. The elegant skirts of her cerulean satin gown swished around her trim ankles, a set of matching sapphires glinting at her throat and wrist. An equally exquisite pearl that looked big enough to have cracked the shell of the oyster that had borne it rode on her right hand. A plain gold band that signified her once married, but now widowed, state, adorned her left.
In spite of her being a widow and the mother of two young daughters, she was still young herself, only seven-and-twenty. Her ivory skin was smooth as a debutante’s, her features undeniably beautiful. The shape of her deep-set blue eyes and pert nose were similar to Emma’s, enough so that there could be no mistaking the fact that they were sisters.
Walking briskly forward, Sigrid, Duchesa d’Tuscani, halted a few feet in front of her and conducted a head-to-toe inspection of the dressmaker’s work before clasping her hands against the healthy curve of her bosom.
“Stunning,” she declared. “No one attending this Saturday’s ball will be able to take their eyes off you. The English prince we are to meet may stumble over his own feet in his haste to make your acquaintance.”
This time Emma did not restrain the urge to shrug; the reward for her impertinence was a new jab from the sharp end of one of the many pins holding the dress together. She scowled, wishing suddenly that she could return to her bedchamber and sleep.
“The gown will be ready in time?” Sigrid questioned, ignoring Emma’s little display of rebellion in order to consult with the modiste.
“Oh yes, Your Highness,” the woman assured. “My girls and I shall work day and night to ensure the prompt delivery of Princess Emmaline’s wardrobe.”
Sigrid gave a regal tilt of her head. “And mine as well, I presume? I can wait on a few pieces, if necessary, but I must have the ruby satin for the ball. Nothing else will suffice, you understand.”
The dressmaker nodded deferentially. “That gown is a top priority as well. I have hired five new seamstresses to work on your commission and no other.”
Sigrid sniffed as if she expected no less, then brushed a hand along her skirt—one of several new gowns she’d already had made since her arrival in England.
Emma might find the selection and fitting process for her new wardrobe tedious, but her sister was in heaven. She loved nothing more than acquiring new clothes—well, perhaps there was one thing she loved more, and that was jewelry. Luckily, the late duke’s family had not objected to Sigrid taking more than two dozen highly expensive pieces with her when she left her former home in Italy.
“Every one of the gemstones in my possession was a personal gift from Carlo,” she had explained. “I mean, what would I want with his family’s ancient medieval heirlooms anyway? The ugliest monstrosities I’ve ever had the misfortune to see. Why do you think I made him buy me new ones after we were married?”
As for her new wardrobe, Sigrid had convinced Rupert that she could not possibly make her introduction to the British crown in her shabby old gowns. All she had were widow’s weeds, which surely he would be embarrassed to see her wear now that she was out of mourning.
Once Rupert’s temper had cooled over not finding Emma at the estate as planned, he had been more than happy to placate Sigrid and her request for new clothes. He had forgiven Emma as well, assuming she would be as delighted as her older sister at the prospect of receiving her own elegant new wardrobe. Emma had thanked him, but as for being delighted, she hadn’t been able to drum up any more enthusiastic an emotion than boredom. Instead, she had let Sigrid be excited for them both.
Nor had she been as excited as she surely ought to have been by the news that Duchess Weissmuller had been dismissed. When Rupert learned that Emma’s former chaperone had made her so miserable she’d felt the need to run away, he had been furious. Emma heard that the usually unflappable duchess had emerged ashen-faced and on the verge of tears after her interview with Rupert. The following morning, her bags had been packed and a coach made ready for her return trip to Rosewald. Sunk deep in disgrace, none of the household, most particularly Rupert and Sigrid, had gone to wish her good-bye.