The Princess and the Peer(93)

She tried not the think about the loveless years ahead.

She tried—and far too often failed—not to think of Nick. As if she had no emotions left at all, she had put him behind her.

What other choice did she have? Rupert had seen to that.

And here he said she was behaving like a child. A child would never be able to give up the one thing—the only thing—they would ever truly want, or would ever really love.

She set a smile on her lips that went no deeper than her skin and rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me,” she told her brother, “I need to decide what to wear this evening. I have an outing to attend.”

Nick climbed from his coach and into the cold night air. With a heavy sigh, he gazed up at the columned facade of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

He didn’t know why he’d come—boredom he supposed. A couple of friends had asked him to dine out this evening, but he’d made up an excuse, saying he had plans to attend the theater. And so here he was, even if he didn’t much care to see the performance.

Striding into the building, he went upstairs to the family box. Once inside, he took a seat; the play was already under way. He watched the action on stage for a couple of minutes before losing interest. Idly, he scanned the patrons in the other boxes.

He recognized one or two faces, including a pretty young marchioness whose husband was old enough to be her grandfather. It was a well-known fact that she liked to amuse herself with men in their prime. He’d seen her at a party some weeks ago where she had made it clear she would welcome his advances. She gave him an inviting smile now and waved her fan in a languid arc, clearly beckoning.

For a moment he considered the idea. Maybe a night in her bed would be just what he needed to distract him. But in spite of his recent lack of feminine companionship, he found himself unmoved. She was nothing to him, and if he took her, it would be only as a substitute for another.

There was only one woman he wanted, he realized with a sense of bitter resignation. Only one woman with whom he knew he would find both pleasure and peace.

Idly, he studied the boxes again, then felt his heart give a jolt as if he’d taken a sharp blow.

Emma.

He whispered her name as he stared, wondering if his longing had somehow conjured her from his imagination. But as he watched, he realized she was as real as he was himself—real and indescribably beautiful.

She looked regal and remote, every inch a princess in a gown of icy blue silk. Her golden hair was caught in a smooth upward twist, the silky locks gleaming like angel fire in the soft glow of the theater light.

His throat grew tight, hands clenched against his thighs in an effort not to jump to his feet and go to her—although what he might say once he arrived he had absolutely no idea. Silently, he willed her to turn, to look at him and acknowledge that he was near. But she continued gazing straight ahead, her attention squarely fixed on the play.

But for him, there was no play, no audience, nothing.

Only Emma.

“Psst,” Ariadne whispered, leaning close to Emma so that no one else could hear, most especially the baroness, who sat on the opposite side of the box, one row behind them.

“What?” Emma said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the play.

Not that she was really paying attention, but she knew the baroness would give Rupert a thorough report once they returned home and she wanted him to hear that she’d had an enjoyable time so he would stop plaguing her to go out more in Society.

“There is a man in one of the boxes across the way,” Ariadne continued in a low voice, “and he is staring at you.”

Emma’s muscles grew tight; she hated when strangers gawked, particularly men who were intrigued by her because of her royal title and everything that came with it.

“Ignore him and watch the play,” she advised.

“Ordinarily I would but…” Ariadne’s words trailed away. “There is something about him that makes me wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“If that’s him.”

She shot her friend a sideways look. “Him who?”

“Him,” Ariadne repeated meaningfully. “Your Nick.”

At mention of Nick, Emma gave a start, her head turning without conscious thought to scan the dimly lit theater.

Suddenly, she saw him, seated alone in a box on the upper right side of the theater. He appeared as dark and bold as Lucifer and every ounce as commanding. Despite the distance between them, she knew his features well enough to trace every curve and angle of his beloved face and take in the outline of his long, powerful frame where he sat in the shadowy depths of the box.

As she looked, he looked back, his gaze fixed on her with a steady, unwavering attention so focused it was as though she were the only other person in the theater.