Becoming aware that Baroness Zimmer was still waiting, clearly expecting her to offer some reply to her remark about the roses, Emma forced herself to gaze at the mantel where the older woman had placed the flowers.
“Lovely, yes,” Emma said. “And such a beautiful color.”
“How many is that now?” Rupert asked as the countess left the room. “A dozen bouquets each for you and Sigrid?”
“Eleven for Emma,” Sigrid informed him. “And eight for me. A widow of my years can only expect so much attention.”
Rupert arched a brow. “Of your years? You sound as if you’re about to enter your dotage. Shall I open the dower house once we return to Rosewald?”
“Don’t you dare,” Sigrid said, sending him an exaggerated pout. “As you know already, I shall be more than content with the summer cottage, despite its size.”
The summer cottage, as Sigrid called it, was more in the way of a manor house with forty-five rooms and a staff of sixty.
Rupert made a noise under his breath as if this were an ongoing debate between the two of them. “Just don’t let any of your would-be suitors get ideas in their heads. I’ve met no one here with whom you could make an advantageous marriage. As for Emma, it seems pointless for her to invite the attentions of these English when she is already promised.”
“Yes, but since the betrothal will not be announced for another few weeks, they must be allowed to hope, even if their efforts prove to be in vain. Emma deserves a bit of fun before she must take her vows, gentlemen with whom she can dance and converse and gain a last measure of polish.”
Drawing her needle through the fabric, Sigrid paused to send Emma a smile that Emma knew was meant to be reassuring. But her sister’s words only made the present situation worse and her future sound like a prison whose cell door would soon swing closed behind her.
“Well, if I am to put up with such nonsense as hopeless suitors,” Rupert stated, “the least you ladies can do is remove some of the outpourings of their devotion. Damned room is starting to smell like an undertaker’s parlor.”
“Language, Your Highness,” Sigrid said reprovingly. “I don’t care for such talk.”
Rupert’s blue eyes gleamed, since he knew Sigrid’s late husband had made an art of cursing—even among the ladies. Although perhaps that was the very reason she objected. Forgoing further comment, he refolded his paper into neat quarters, then resumed his reading.
Emma tried to follow his lead, but met with the same dismal results, the printed words still unable to hold her attention.
At the opposite end of the sofa, Sigrid continued to sew.
Five minutes later, the baroness announced herself yet again with a light tap on the door. “More late arrivals, Your Highnesses. Red carnations for the Duchesa—”
“Oh, do bring them here,” Sigrid chimed, setting aside her embroidery. “I’m longing to see who else counts himself among my admirers.”
From behind his newspaper, Rupert gave a quiet snort.
Sigrid ignored him, taking the mass of blooms in hand with a delighted smile.
The baroness turned toward Emma. “And these were sent for you, Your Highness. A rather… unusual selection, if I might be frank.” She held out a small nosegay of flowers, her upper lip tight with disapproval for what she clearly believed to be an unworthy offering.
Emma accepted them, holding the little arrangement inside her grasp. Rather than another huge vase overflowing with lavish, overly dramatic flowers, these were simple, even ordinary. As she gazed at the cheerful purple and yellow petals, her heart began to pound.
Violas.
“Are those heartsease?” her sister remarked, dragging her attention away from her own bouquet long enough to take a look at Emma’s gift. “How quaint. Whoever would send you those?”
A long-ago conversation filled Emma’s mind, and in her thoughts she found herself seated once again across the dinner table from Nick while he plied her with questions.
What is your favorite color?
Favorite book?
Favorite season of the year?
And hidden somewhere amid those twenty questions he’d asked about flowers, surprised to learn that she loved common wildflowers the best and that violas—heartsease—were her very favorite.
But they couldn’t be from him, she realized with a sinking sensation. He loathed her now. He certainly would not be sending her flowers. Yet she couldn’t resist the impulse to pretend, even briefly. Cradling the nosegay in her palms, she lifted the delicate blossoms to her face and brushed the velvety petals against one cheek, then the other.
“Well? Who are they from?” Sigrid asked again. “Is there a card?”