“Arie! Of all the outrageous things to say.”
But Ariadne merely shrugged, unconcerned. “I only say what I think. Why is that so outrageous?”
“And he’s not my beau,” Emma declared. “My hand is already promised to another, remember?”
“Promised, but not given,” Ariadne corrected. “Your future isn’t written yet and that is what you need to remember. Well now,” she said, her gaze traveling ahead, “if my eyes don’t deceive me, here comes your Nick.”
Emma looked up, finding him as though he were the only person in the corridor instead of one of many meandering within the crowd. Her heart beat wildly up into her throat, as she drank in the sight of his tall, powerful body and masterful stride. Dressed in requisite black-and-white evening attire, he was every inch as delectable as Ariadne had proclaimed. His black coat was smoothed precisely over his wide shoulders, his breeches molded to his heavily muscled thighs, snug as a second skin.
Skin that once had touched her skin.
Muscles that had moved in rhythm with her muscles as the two of them made passionate, intoxicating love.
Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her as he drew near. She fought them off, fought them down, striving to regulate the expression on her face so that she appeared outwardly calm and serene.
As far as the world knew, she and Nick were virtual strangers.
As far as even Ariadne knew—at least not for certain—she and Nick had never even kissed, let alone spent one unforgettable night wrapped in each other’s arms.
She and Ariadne slowly came to a halt.
Nick did as well.
Meeting her gaze, he bent into a low, respectful bow. “Your Royal Highness. Good evening.”
Emma inclined her head in appropriately formal greeting. “My lord.”
She couldn’t help but stare, long and lingeringly, her eyes tracing his features as if she hoped to memorize them. Only when Ariadne gave a faint hmm-hmm did Emma recall the young woman at her side.
“Oh,” Emma said, returning to the present. “Allow me to introduce my companion to you, my lord. This is Her Highness, Princess Ariadne of Nordenbourg. Princess, the Earl of Lyndhurst.”
Nick bowed again, this time to Ariadne, who gave him a warm smile.
“A pleasure,” she said. “I do hope you are enjoying tonight’s entertainment.”
“Yes, it is most”—Nick’s gaze turned to Emma—“enlivening.”
“Well, I would simply love to stay and chat, but the interval grows short.” Ariadne looked over the crowd with a sweeping gaze. “Oh, look now, I see a dear acquaintance with whom I simply must speak. If you will both please excuse me. Carry on.”
“Arie,” Emma said on a protesting whisper as her friend disengaged her arm from her own.
Emma knew that Ariadne couldn’t possibly have a “dear acquaintance” here in London, since she had been to only a few parties and had formed no important new friendships. But Ariadne was clearly determined to give her and Nick as much time together as possible, even if they could not actually be alone.
With anxiety fluttering in her stomach, she watched Ariadne drift away. Slowly she turned back to Nick.
He gazed at her, his eyes unexpectedly hungry. “You are well?”
“Yes. Quite well.” If you don’t count my broken heart, that is. “And you, my lord?” she asked.
“Fine. Well.”
He fell silent and so did she. It was, she realized, the first time they had ever been awkward with each other.
“You are enjoying the play?” he ventured.
“Yes,” she answered, when in truth she couldn’t remember the title and had no idea what the plot was about.
She stared at his chin, noticing the slight shadow of a beard that was just beginning to darken his jaw. She wondered whether his skin would feel as warm and rough against her fingertips as she recalled. She clasped her hands together at her waist. “I had your flowers. They were from you, I presume? N.”
One corner of his mouth curved upward. “I assumed you would toss them away once you read the card.”
“Oh, I did,” she shot back. “Even so, the violas were lovely.”
His eyes darkened like a shifting storm and bore into hers. “Your favorite.”
Her pulse throbbed in her wrists. “Yes. You remembered.”
“I remember everything,” he said meaningfully.
Another small silence fell. Without conscious awareness, each of them drew fractionally closer so as to afford more privacy while still appearing to be engaged in nothing more important than small talk.
“Are you still angry?” she ventured.
“I should be, I suppose,” he said, “but somehow I find that particular emotion eludes me at present.”