The Princess and the Peer(78)

After his insistence on sharing a dance with her, she’d expected him to approach her at the first available opportunity. Instead, he’d stayed away. But even from across the crowded ballroom, she’d felt the weight of his stare. The cold expression that masked his face made her tremble.

And so she’d done her best to ignore him, to act for all the world as if her heart were not breaking all over again.

She wished she could call for the carriage and go home. But Sigrid would want to know why, then Rupert, the pair of them and their concern only making the situation worse.

A few minutes’ quiet, here on her own, she told herself, and she would be strong enough to get through the remainder of the evening. And when the ball was over and the time came for her to part again from Nick—even if it was only from a distance—–she would hold back her misery and pretend everything was exactly as it ought to be.

Part of her wished she could go to him and explain, but she feared he would not listen. Besides, what was there to say? What excuses could she offer that would absolve her of deceiving him in such a reprehensible way?

She was steeling herself to return to the ballroom, knowing she would be missed if she was absent much longer, when a footfall in the doorway caused her to look up.

And there stood Nick.

He looked as dark and forceful as a vengeful god, his powerful shoulders so broad they seemed to fill the width of the doorframe. She couldn’t help but find him beautiful, his austere black and white evening clothes a perfect complement for his coloring and physique. His face appeared calm, even remote. Then she looked into his eyes and caught her breath.

She’d seen his gray eyes look stormy, but tonight they burned with a deep, brooding temper that sent a frisson of unease chasing down her spine. She’d witnessed many of his moods, but never one quite like this. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see small lightning bolts flash inside his pupils if such a thing were physically possible.

“All alone?” he drawled darkly before sauntering into the room. “I presumed you would have company.”

Her brows drew close. “No, I needed some time to myself. The ballroom had become—”

Oppressive.

Overwhelming.

An opulent, unendurable hell.

“—too warm,” she finished. “I decided to come here to cool off.”

Wherever here might be, she thought. She wasn’t entirely sure at this point exactly how far into the house she had wandered.

“Oh, of course,” he said sarcastically, strolling closer. “It’s only natural to withdraw to an interior room hundreds of yards from the festivities in order to cool off. Have you managed yet?” Pausing, he cast a pointed look at the fire that burned robustly in the room’s overlarge grate.

Emma knew he was angry with her—understandably so—but what was wrong with him? And why was he looking around as if he expected to catch someone hiding behind the curtains or under one of the chairs?

“I am much improved,” she said. “In my estimation, however, your prince has invited far too many people, even for such a large edifice. I suspect all the guests would be far more comfortable if the windows were opened to let in some fresh air in spite of the season.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “My prince? What an interesting way to refer to the prince regent. But I suppose you are right that he is my prince. I guess your brother is yours, is he not, Princess Emmaline?”

She flinched at the nasty way he said her name, as if it were a curse or a taunt. But Princess Emmaline was who she was—the truth at long last laid bare between them.

“Yes. Rupert is regent in my country, so I feel the distinction needs to be made.”

He bowed, the act mocking rather than respectful. “As you say, Your Highness.” Straightening again, he surveyed the room. “You really are alone, aren’t you?”

Her frown deepened, puzzling at the remark. “Yes.”

“Stood you up, did he?”

Now she truly was perplexed. “He who?”

Nick turned a pair of stony eyes upon her. “Whoever it is you were planning to meet here. Which one of your admirers is it? Not that royal duke who took you into supper, I hope. The man looked oily enough to leave grease stains behind.”

She drew a steadying breath, finally understanding his line of questioning. Could it be that he was jealous? Was it possible he had been even a fraction as wounded by their parting as she?

“There is no one,” she said, her voice softening. “How could there be after…”

Her words trailed off as memories of their night together raced through her mind.

“After? After what? Us, do you mean?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I already know how deeply affected you were by our interlude, seeing that you ran off without so much as a word.”