The Princess and the Peer(70)

Considering her past encounters with the woman, Emma knew she had reason to be grateful for her former chaperone’s departure. Yet even that tiny spark of relief had done little to intrude on the abject misery of those first days after her return. She supposed her pallor and silence had gone a long way toward convincing Rupert that she was truly repentant for her unauthorized escape to London.

Of Nick and his aunt, she made no reference. Instead, she’d told her brother that she had spent the entire time in residence with Mrs. Brown-Jones. There was no reason why he need ever know otherwise. Once she and her siblings left England in a few weeks’ time, there would be no chance of her ever meeting Nick or his aunt again. In many ways, it would be as if those weeks in his home—in his arms—had never happened. As if he were no more than a stranger, someone whose life never had, and never would, intersect with hers.

A crushing pain radiated through her at the thought, squeezing the air from her lungs as if she had taken a killing blow. Only by sheer strength of will did she keep from wrapping her arms around herself and giving in to the cry trapped inside her.

No! she ordered herself. Do not think of him.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever, if you know what’s good for you.

Tugging desperately at the edges of the comforting quilt of numbness in which she’d lately taken to shrouding herself, she closed her eyes and wished the world away.

“Et voilà!” the modiste stated in a pleased voice not long afterward. Emma opened her eyes, watching dully as the woman stepped back to admire her work one final time. “Finished at last.” She sent Emma a wide smile. “Would you care to take a look in the pier glass, Your Highness? Just to make sure everything is to your liking.”

Emma said nothing, grateful when Sigrid came forward to offer several effusive words of praise and the promise of a generous delivery bonus that put a twinkle in the dressmaker’s eye.

The modiste clapped her hands dramatically. “Girls, assist Princess Emmaline into her own gown, then we shall be on our way. We have much to do!”

Emma retreated to her bedchamber, standing pliable and silent as she let the two dressmaker’s assistants extract her from the ball gown and button her back into a day dress of pale peach silk. She paid scant attention to them as they gathered up the heavily pinned gown and bade her good day.

Crossing to one of the tall casement windows that lined the expansive room, she contemplated pulling the drapes and climbing into bed. An afternoon nap wouldn’t elicit much comment. Many ladies rested before rising to dress for dinner. The fact that she had never been one of those ladies, at least not before she’d returned to the estate, was of no moment.

She was reaching out to ring for one of her ladies to inform her that she did not wish to be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon when a soft knock came at the door. Without waiting for permission, her sister strolled inside.

Emma restrained a sigh.

“Your gowns truly are magnificent,” Sigrid stated conversationally as she moved deeper into the room. “I cannot wait to see you made ready for the ball. I have a diamond and pearl diadem I think would look splendid with your hair. You shall have to come to my rooms to try it on.”

“Hmm, that sounds lovely,” Emma told her in an absent tone.

“Wonderful. Then what about now?”

Now?

She almost shook her head. She was going to take a nap now.

She loved her sister, but at the moment she really wished Sigrid would figure out that she wished to be alone and would leave. She desperately wanted to sleep, longing for a couple hours’ escape into nothingness with an ache that was almost physical.

“Perhaps later.” She offered a placating smile. “I want to rest before dinner.”

Sigrid sent her a look that was half exasperated, half concerned. “You are eighteen years old. You shouldn’t need any rest. When I was your age, I raced from one entertainment to the next during the day, then danced every evening away. I don’t think I got more than a night’s sleep each week.”

“How lucky for you,” Emma said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

The exasperation eased from her sister’s face, leaving only concern behind. “What is it, Emma? What is wrong? You haven’t… Well, you haven’t seemed yourself since your excursion to London. Did something happen there to make you unhappy?”

Emma froze, her pulse racing in alarm at what Sigrid might know or have guessed. Could she possibly have found out about Nick? She was certain Mrs. Brown-Jones would never betray her confidence, and there was no one else who could have told her sister anything. No, she decided, feeling her pulse slow again, she didn’t know anything about him. Sigrid must simply be fishing for information and explanations.