“Ahh, yes, the younger sister.” He gestures vaguely to my face. “The resemblance is uncanny. You’ve got the same eyes.”
“I’m surprised you remember her,” I answer tensely.
“You think she’s out there somewhere?” he asks, pointedly not addressing my remark.
“Yes. I can’t explain it, but I’d be able to feel it if she were gone.”
Emmett looks at me, unnervingly still. “Feel it?”
We jolt as the carriage rounds another corner.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I have a brother,” he says. “I might understand better than you think.”
I’m surprised to hear him refer to Prince Bram as his brother.
Emmett’s status as prince is still a lightning rod for gossip, nearly two decades after his birth. He’s the human son of Queen Moryen’s husband, Prince Consort Edgar, and his first, human,wife, who died in childbirth. The queen legitimized Emmett on his eighth birthday, though whether it was a favor to his father, an act of love, or something else entirely, no one knows.
His name is whispered in drawing rooms across town.A rake of a prince, why can’t he be sweet like Bram?There are always new rumors about who he is spotted with at whatever social events he deigns to attend. There was the scullery maid scandal in Lord Tremaine’s rose garden last season. Only a month later, he was caught wrapped up in the curtains of Duke Cambere’s study with the family’s middle daughter. Just last week, I heard my mother mutter something about a ballerina. And my face still burns with anger when I think about how he was with Lydia during her first season. I wasn’t there, but she told me all about it when she returned home in tears.
When he’s not sullying someone else’s reputation, he’s causing an uproar over his refusal to begin his studies at Oxford—or his hunting trips with his friends, other lords, and second sons that sound more like bacchanalia.
Emmett turns to me, the full force of his gaze hitting me for the first time. I’ve never seen him about town without a surly frown on his face. But he doesn’t look anything like that now. His eyes are a peculiar shade of hazel, lined with dark lashes and glinting with fire. This close, I can see the spray of soft freckles across his nose. I never recognized the refined, handsome face behind the pouting. But itishandsome. He’s so handsome it nearly knocks the breath from me.
The carriage clatters through the night, down the still streets of a sleeping London. I tilt my head against the back of the seat andwonder how I’m going to get the blood out of this dress without Mama or the maids finding out.
“What are you thinking about?” Emmett asks.
“Stabbing you,” I reply, eyes closed.
“That’s not very polite.”
“Running me over wasn’t very polite.”
“Again, you tripped.”
There’s a sudden flood of heat, and I open my eyes to find Emmett crowded into my space, peering up at me intently. I’m still holding his coat against my bleeding head, and gingerly, he raises his fingers and peels away the edges of the wool. It’s gone sticky, half dried, and it pulls at my hair as he tugs it away.
“Ouch.” I resist the urge to jab him with my elbow.
“Stop squirming. The bleeding has slowed,” he declares. “But you should keep the pressure on it.”
With the hand that isn’t holding the coat, I salute.
He tilts his head slightly, still staring at me. “You know, you’re really quite pretty.”
An infuriating blush rises in my chest. “Are you trying to seduce me right now? I know your reputation, but I didn’t expect the nerve.”
“My reputation?”
“Being seen with you would ruin me.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl to worry about things like that.” Men never do understand. The slow death of being cast out of society is a fate few are strong enough to bear.
“You don’t know anything about the kind of girl I am.”
“I know you snuck out in the middle of the night to search for your sister.”
