Her smile disappeared, her pulse picking up speed again. She looked away, wondering how she could find a way to refuse him. Once she and Nick parted company in this receiving line, she knew she could not afford to speak to him again. It would be far too perilous. And much, much too tempting.
Her gaze fell on Rupert, and she saw that he was finally alone. “Ah, my brother appears to have concluded his conversation with the Austrian ambassador. It has been a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
Nick’s eyes flashed, his gaze hard and sharp as glass. “The dance, Your Highness. What do you say to taking a turn with me later tonight?”
“I do not waltz, I am afraid,” she told him.
And it was nothing but the truth. Countess Hortensia did not approve of the waltz, finding it much too bold and improper for young ladies. For that reason, it was omitted from the dance instruction given by the academy. Even if Emma had wished, she would not have been able to accept his offer.
But Nick was not to be deterred. “The quadrille or a cotillion, then? Surely you are familiar with one of those forms of dance?”
Emma forced herself not to scowl, both of them fully aware he had her neatly trapped. She could refuse him outright, of course; it was her prerogative as a royal to accept whichever offers she preferred. But she knew him well enough to realize her refusal would make no difference. He would seek her out by one means or another. Perhaps a dance would be the easiest way to satisfy his demands.
“The quadrille, then,” she agreed. “I shall look forward to the occasion.”
“As will I.”
Executing another elegant bow, he moved away.
Nick leaned against a pillar in a distant corner of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in his hand as he stared at Emma. Idly he took a drink, barely registering the crisp effervescence of the wine on his tongue, his body still humming with shock in spite of the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the past three hours. He might as well have been drinking water for all the help it had provided in smoothing out his rough edges.
And tonight he had a lot of extremely rough edges.
He knew he should turn away, but he couldn’t keep from watching her. Even now, a part of him was unable to process the reality of coming face-to-face with her here tonight and even more so of learning her true identity.
Emma—his Emma—a princess?
It seemed impossible, implausible, yet there she stood in the flesh, more beautiful even than he remembered. He’d always sensed something regal about her bearing, he’d just never realized before how accurate his estimation had been.
For an odd second when he’d first seen her this evening, he’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him. The young woman—Princess Emmaline of Rosewald, to whom he was about to be introduced—reminded him painfully of Emma. She possessed the same coloring, the same figure. Even her mannerisms were a mirror image. As for her face, he’d found himself thinking they could have been identical twins, they were so alike.
Had Emma’s absence driven him so near the edge that he was imagining seeing her in every young blond woman he met? he’d wondered. Even the princess’s sister, the Duchesa d’Tuscani, reminded him vaguely of the girl he’d lost.
Then the princess turned and met his gaze, her eyes the same unusual shade of hyacinth as Emma’s.
The exact same.
Because she was Emma!
He knew it was her as surely as he knew the sound of his own name.
The ballroom had whirled around him, the world narrowing so that he was aware of nothing and no one except her.
He’d searched for her.
Pined for her.
Worried over her, wondering if she was well and safe and happy.
Yet here she stood in the most unlikely of places—at Prinny’s evening ball, dressed in a gown of luxurious, expensive silk embroidered with flowers and tiny, sparkling diamonds, if he wasn’t mistaken, a bejeweled tiara set crownlike in her upswept sunshine gold hair.
She looked stunning. And exactly like what she was—a princess.
For one insane instant, he’d nearly pulled her into his arms, thinking only about the fact that he’d found her, that he loved her, that she was his.
But then he’d seen the expression on her face, astonishment mingled with something that had chilled him to the bone.
Alarm—her eyes beseeching him not to acknowledge their relationship, not to give her away.
Anger burned through him like acid when she began her charade, pretending she did not know him, acting as if they had never met.
But she was a good actress, he realized. She’d certainly fooled him, making him believe she was poor and in desperate straits, alone in the world with nothing and no one to whom she could turn.