The illusion shattered at her sister’s question. Emma opened her eyes on a resigned sigh. “I do not know.”
Aware she had no choice but to check, Emma inspected the white silk that bound the stems. She discovered that there was indeed a small card tucked inside. Withdrawing it, she bent her head to read.
To Princess Emmaline,
In honor of finally making her acquaintance.
N
Her heart gave a jagged double beat, her fingers trembling ever so faintly against the stiff vellum. Contradictory emotions poured through her like a dam unleashed: pleasure that the flowers were from Nick, after all, and chagrin over the cutting sentiment of his words.
To anyone else, what he’d written would seem no more than a simple gesture of politeness, but Emma knew better. Her cheeks warmed as she reread the sentence, hearing the cutting, carefully veiled sarcasm of his honey-smooth voice. Abruptly she was assailed by a new rush of emotions, unsure whether to be glad or sad or angry and chagrined to find herself all three at once.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught her sister watching and saw again the baroness’s inquiring gaze. Even Rupert had lowered his newspaper.
“Well?” Sigrid urged.
Emma fought not to let so much as a shred of her inner turmoil show, giving a seemingly indifferent shrug instead. “I have no idea. Someone named N, whoever that might be.”
She placed the card back inside the silk, then handed the nosegay to her lady-in-waiting as if it were of absolutely no more importance to her. “Put it with the others, would you?”
The baroness took the small bouquet and crossed the room to add it to the collection, setting it where it would not be readily seen.
Emma forced herself to turn away.
“N?” Sigrid mused aloud as she once again picked up her sewing. “Who could N be? I cannot think of anyone we have met who would style themselves in such a manner. Lord Nightmather comes to mind, but considering that he’s married and old enough to be your grandfather I find that unlikely. Hmm? Very puzzling.”
Emma shrugged again. “Honestly, I cannot recall half of the people to whom we were introduced last night, so it’s really of no moment.” Pausing, she waved a hand toward the collection of flowers. “Later, I suppose we should do as Rupert suggests and dispense with these. My bouquets at least, although I do not wish to speak for you, Sigrid. Perhaps the servants might enjoy some of the roses to brighten their dinner table and bedchambers.”
Sigrid smiled. “What a generous idea. Mayhap I shall donate a few of mine as well.”
“That, dear sisters, would be a blessing,” Rupert said.
Sigrid shot him a look, then launched into a new round of good-spirited bickering.
Emma opened her book and once again pretended to read.
Many hours later, when the house was dark and quiet, Emma crept downstairs to the drawing room. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating when she saw that a large number of the flowers were gone, the heavy vases carried away as she had so foolishly suggested.
But then she saw it, the little nosegay lying forgotten and neglected in a corner. Hurrying forward, she reached out and picked it up.
Without water, many of the delicate wildflowers had wilted, lying shriveled and shapeless against the silk. But a careful inspection revealed a handful that survived, their colorful faces still plump and pretty with life and color.
Of these she took the best one, sliding it free of its neighbors with a gentle touch. Taking a handkerchief from her robe pocket, she wrapped the flower inside. Once she reached her bedchamber, she would find a heavy book in which she could safely press it. Maybe even the one she had so unsuccessfully tried to read today.
As for the card, Nick’s animosity radiated from every bold, dark stroke of his pen. Clearly he was still angry. Plainly he had not forgiven her in the slightest for deceiving him. And why should he? she supposed. To his mind, he must be the wronged party in all ways.
If she had any sense, an iota of pride, she would tear the note to pieces and toss the bits into the fire. She would do the same with the flower she cradled like glass in her palm as well.
Instead, she traced a fingertip over the elegant, impatient script on the vellum, aware that he had held this paper, too. He had placed the tip of his pen onto its face. He had written words upon it in his ink. Calling herself a thousand times a fool, she lifted the card to her nose and inhaled. And there, ever so faintly, she caught a hint of sandalwood soap and another ineffable scent that was unlike any other on earth.
Nick.
Without giving herself time to reconsider, she placed the card inside her handkerchief as well. She laid the rest of the wilted bouquet back where it had been, then turned and hurried from the room.