Ariadne raised a pale brow. “I think it far more likely that the barnyard animals at the academy will all sprout wings and fly away. But even if he is kind and interesting and likable, he isn’t the man Emma loves.”
“No,” Mercedes agreed on a sigh. “Poor Emma.”
“Which is why we’re going to find a way to give her a chance with her Nick, whoever he may turn out to be.”
Mercedes let out a soft gasp. “But you heard what Emma said. The prince is firmly set on her marriage to the king. He isn’t going to release her from her promise.”
Ariadne gave a dismissive shrug. “We’ll find a way. I don’t know how yet, but something will come to me.”
“Arie, don’t. You heard Emma,” Mercedes said on a near hiss. “She doesn’t want you interfering.”
“Maybe not, but people don’t always know what’s best for them. I’m simply going to tweak things a little and let fate takes its course.”
“Maybe her fate is to marry the king.”
Ariadne shot her a pitying stare. “It wouldn’t dare be so cruel.” She paused, her forehead drawing tight with concentration. “Now, how are we going to identify this Nick person? Even more, how are we going to get him and Emma together?”
Chapter 21
“Enough of this moping, Emmaline,” Prince Rupert said nearly a week later as he prowled across the drawing room floor. “I have been more than tolerant of your moods, but I grow weary of making excuses for your absences.”
Emma sat silently, hands folded in her lap, as she stared out the window at the grounds beyond.
Her brother scowled. “I expect you to begin making appearances, if not with your sister and myself, then at least with your friends. I presume there is something you would enjoy attending?”
Emma refrained from uttering the retort that came to mind, well aware that Rupert would not appreciate the sentiment of her words.
When she said nothing again, he gave an exasperated sigh and tossed up his hands. “Choose something or I will choose for you. You will cease to behave as if you were five years old.”
A hollow laugh rose inside her throat, though she did not make a sound.
How ironic to be accused of acting like a child, she thought. She had never behaved like a child, not even when she had been one; she hadn’t been allowed. For as long as she could remember, she had been expected to behave with a maturity far beyond her years, to act like an adult even when she’d still wanted to play with dolls and pretty, painted toys.
“Is that a command?” she asked, slowly lifting her gaze to his.
He scowled, clearly catching her reference to their conversation from a week past. “Yes, if it needs to be.”
She looked away. “Then of course I shall obey, Your Royal Highness.”
She knew the formality irritated him, especially under the present circumstances. She supposed it was petty, even childish of her to do so, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from uttering the small defiance.
The only avenue of rebellion she had left.
Her future had been decided for her in direct opposition to her wishes and now her personal rights were being curtailed as well. No longer would she be allowed her privacy here inside the estate. Instead, she would be forced to smile and perform and parade before the English aristocrats when, in truth, she had no interest in facing the outside world. She would much rather read and sleep and chat quietly of inconsequential things with Mercedes and Ariadne before it was time to go to bed again.
She craved peace and solitude during the brief time she had left to her before the engagement became official—time that would be coming to an end far sooner than she thought she could bear.
For even she was not so oblivious that she hadn’t heard the news that King Otto would be joining them in England for the Christmas holidays. They were all to journey to the estate of some duke in order to celebrate the yuletide. Rupert had already informed her that she was to smile and make merry with the guests—most especially her bridegroom-to-be.
Yet how could she possibly make merry when her heart was in tatters? How could she be pleasant to a man of whom she now loathed the very thought?
A miniature of the king had been sent along with his last correspondence, but she’d done no more than glance at the painted image before thrusting it back into its velvet pouch. Sigrid had declared him “darkly intriguing,” but Emma had no opinion of his looks and truthfully did not care.
Whether he proved in person to be as beautiful as Cinderella’s prince or as ugly and foul as a troll, her fate remained the same. He represented her doom, and all she knew was that once she took her vows and became his bride, her life would be over.