Prince Of Dreams (9 page)

Nikolas Angelovsky had said she was desirable. He had called her beautiful. Had Adam ever said such things to her? Emma couldn't remember such an occasion. Frowning, she went over to her silk-covered bed and curled up on the blue counterpane. She propped her back against a brocaded pillow, lost in thought until Katie arrived with the tea tray.

“Here, Miss Emma…tea, toast, and the
Times
.”

“Thank you, Katie.” She watched as the maid set the tray beside her on the bed.

Katie gave her a look of friendly concern. “Everything all right, miss? You seem a bit peaked tonight.”

“I'm fine. It was a very long day.” Picking up a slice of buttered toast, Emma managed to produce one of her usual impish grins, then took a large bite of toast. Looking reassured, the maid left the room.

Emma poured tea from a tiny porcelain pot into a flowered cup and stirred in a heaping spoonful of crushed sugar. She took a sip, relishing the strong tea. Flipping open the paper, she scanned the long columns and lingered on items of interest.

Her attention was snared by something near the bottom of an inside page, an announcement nearly hidden in a sea of lines and letters. She started at it in mild surprise. As the words began to make an impression on her mind, the ink seemed to grow blacker and spread before her eyes like a bloodstain. A brittle sound left her lips. The teacup shook in her hand, until there were splashes of burning liquid on her fingers and wrist. Somehow she set the cup in its place, and arranged it on the saucer with unnatural concentration. She looked at the paper again…no, it couldn't be true; it was some horrible joke, a lie.
During his recent travels abroad, Viscount Adam Milbank became betrothed to Miss Charlotte Brixton, renowned as the American enamelware heiress
…

“You couldn't have, Adam,” Emma whispered. “It's only been a few weeks. You wouldn't forget me that quickly…you wouldn't betray me like this.”

But the printed words loomed crazily in front of her, and the pain in her chest kept growing. She needed help. She needed someone…some rational voice to keep her from going mad. She had never felt such pain in her life. She couldn't bear it alone. Blinding tears dropped from her eyes. Stumbling from the bed, she rubbed her shaking hands over her wet face, and searched for her trousers and shirt. When she was finally dressed, she pulled on a hooded cloak and strode from her room.

Katie passed her in the hall leading to the main staircase and stopped in astonishment. “Miss Emma, what are you—”

“I'm going out,” Emma said hoarsely, keeping her face hidden in the deep hood of the cloak. “I don't know when I'll return. And if you say a word to anyone that I've left, I'll have you dismissed.”

“Yes, miss,” Katie said, staring at her with dilated eyes.

Emma dragged a sleeve across her damp nose and blinked more tears from her eyes. “Everything will be all right, Katie,” she muttered. “Just don't tell anyone.”

The maid gave a cautious nod of assent.

Emma hurried out of the house and headed to the stables, taking care that no one else saw her. She saddled a horse herself, abruptly dismissing the sleepy-eyed stablehand, who tried to help her. “I'll do it myself. Go back to your room.”

“Going out to save another beastie, Miss Emma?”

She ignored his cheeky question and fumbled at the saddle girth until it was properly snug. Her hands were unsteady, clumsy; they weren't behaving normally at all. “Go away,” she said to the stablehand, who was watching her with sudden wariness.

“Can I do something, miss?”

“Please just leave,” she said gruffly. He obeyed reluctantly, throwing several glances over his shoulder as he departed.

Emma mounted the gelding and rode through the stableyard into the street, feeling somehow that she had only one chance at survival. She hadn't made a conscious decision about where to go, but it seemed as if the decision had been made for her. Urging the horse into a gallop, she rode west toward the Angelovsky manor, while the humid summer air did little to dry her streaming tears.

When she reached the manor, with its towering white marble columns and classically designed facade, she ascended the semicircular staircase in front and thumped on the door with her knotted fist. An elderly butler with white hair, black brows, and broad Slavic features appeared. She could never quite remember his name, though she had seen him on several occasions.

“Please have someone see to my horse,” Emma said. “And tell Prince Nikolas he has a visitor.”

The butler replied in accented English. “Sir, you will have to return tomorrow. I will take your card, if you wish.”

“I'm not a sir!” Emma cried desperately. She pulled the cloak hood from her head, and a tumble of gleaming red curls fell down to her waist. “I want to see my cousin. Tell him—” She broke off and shook her head with a muffled groan. “Never mind. I shouldn't be here. I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Lady Stokehurst,” the butler said, his expression softening. “Do come inside. I will inquire if Prince Nikolas is available to speak with you.”

“No, I don't think—”

“
Pahzháhlstah
,” he insisted, gesturing her inside. “Please, my lady.”

Emma obeyed and waited tensely in the entrance hall, staring at the pattern of inlaid wood on the floor. Before a full minute had passed, she heard Nikolas's quiet voice.

“Emma.” A pair of gleaming black shoes came into her field of vision. Nikolas slid his fingers beneath her chin, nudging her face upward. His eyes held hers, and his thumb brushed lightly over her tear-stained cheek. His expression was dispassionate, and there was a comforting calmness about him. “Come with me,
dushenka
.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm and pressed it there.

Emma held back skittishly. “Is someone with you? I didn't th-think to ask—”

“No one is with me.” He murmured a few quick phrases in Russian to the butler, who nodded implacably.

Emma held onto Nikolas gratefully as he guided her upstairs. His arm was very strong. Her panic began to fade a little, and her breath came easier. Nikolas, with his cool self-possession, his worldly detachment, wouldn't let her fall apart.

They went to the west wing of the manor, where Nikolas's private suite was located. Emma blinked in surprise as they came to a room she had never seen before. It was decorated in rich colors, with a ceiling of blue glass and bronze moldings. The radiance of a rock crystal lamp filled the air with a serene glow.

Nikolas closed the amethyst-studded door, banishing the outside world. He looked at her in the muted light, his features unreal in their stern beauty. The ivory shirt he wore was open at the throat, revealing a scar that twisted across his skin. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

Emma pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from the pocket of her trousers. She handed it to him silently. He took it from her, his golden eyes locked on her stricken face. Smoothing the paper flat on a nearby table, he read the betrothal announcement without expression. His lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

“Ah,” he said softly.

“You don't s-seem very s-surprised,” Emma faltered. “I suppose on one is except me. I…I thought Adam might actually love me. It was all a sham. And I'm the greatest fool alive for believing his lies.”

“He's the fool,” Nikolas said quietly. “Not you.”

“Oh, God.” She put her trembling hands over her face. “I didn't know it was possible to hurt this much.”

“Sit.” Nikolas nudged her toward a settee upholstered in soft amber leather. Emma curled up at one end, folding her long legs beneath her. Bending her head, she let her hair fall partially over her face. She heard the sounds of crystal and splashing liquid. Silently Nikolas approached and handed her a small frosted glass. Emma took a sip. The liquid was lemon-flavored and very cold, trickling gently down her throat, leaving a path of ice and fire in its wake.

“What is this?” she asked, wheezing slightly.

“Lemon vodka.”

“I've never had vodka before.” She took a large swallow, closed her eyes against the smooth, searing burn, then took another. Coughing, she held out the glass to be refilled.

Amused, Nikolas poured more vodka for her, and one for himself. “Drink it slowly. It's much stronger than the wine you're accustomed to.”

“Do Russian women drink vodka?”

“Everyone in Russia does. It's best when consumed with caviar and buttered bread. Shall I send for some?”

Emma shuddered at the thought of food. “No, I couldn't possibly eat anything.”

Nikolas sat next to her, handing her a linen napkin, watching as she blotted her damp face.

“I can't seem to stop crying,” she said in a muffled voice. “I think my heart is broken.”

“No.” He pushed back a straggling curl from her forehead, his touch as light as a butterfly's. “Your heart isn't broken. It's only wounded pride, Emelia.”

She jerked back, glaring at him in sudden outrage. “I should have known you'd be patronizing!”

“You don't love Milbank,” he said flatly.

“I did! I always will!”

“Oh? And what did he do to earn this great love? What did he give to you? A few smiles, some flattering words, a stolen kiss here and there. That wasn't love. It was seduction, and apparently a poorly executed one. When you have more experience, you'll be able to recognize the difference.”

“It
was
love,” she insisted, gulping down the rest of her vodka. Coughing, gasping for air, she dried her stinging eyes. “You don't understand anything about it because you're too cynical.”

Nikolas laughed as he took the glass from her hand and set it aside. “Yes, I'm cynical. But that doesn't change the fact that Adam Milbank is unworthy of you. And if you're going to give your heart to a scoundrel, you may as well choose one who will give you luxury and freedom…one who knows how to please you in bed. That kind of man would be far more useful to you than Milbank.”

If she were sober, she would have taken further offense at his bluntness. A gentleman would never have used such words to a girl he respected. But the alcohol had wrapped her brain in a cool white fog, and all she could think was that Adam had been her only chance, her only hope. Certainly no one else was waiting in the wings. “Whom do you have in mind?” she asked bitterly.

His hands gripped her shoulders, then eased downward. Gently his palms brushed the sides of her breasts. Emma stiffened, her breath catching. She started at him without blinking, the light from the crystal lamp hovering on her gold-flecked skin. Emotions chased across her face…confusion, anger, denial…and her mouth trembled as he lifted a hand to her cheek. Gently his thumb touched the edge of her lower lip.

Emma spoke in a scratchy whisper. “I…I didn't come here for that.”

“Why are you here, then?” he asked softly.

“I don't know. I wanted…comfort. I wanted to feel better.”

“You were right to come to me,
ruyshka
.”

She made a move to get off the settee, but Nikolas held her there in a light, steely grip, one hand at her shoulder, the other at her waist.

“Nikki…” she said, half-defiant, half-pleading.

He leaned forward and caught her lips with a light kiss, then spoke with his mouth almost brushing hers. “I can offer you more than your family has, more than Adam ever could. I can help you, take care of you…give you pleasure you've never felt before.”

“I have to leave,” she said desperately. The vodka had made everything blurry, her thoughts drowning in a tide of feeling.

“Stay with me, Emma. I'll do only what you want. Only what you choose.” The tip of his tongue flickered against her lips, and then he nibbled at her bottom lip, his teeth closing gently on the soft curve. He possessed her mouth with slow, seeking kisses, pausing to brush his lips over her eyebrows, her temples, her cheeks. His hand played lightly in her hair, pushing the red curls aside to bare her neck.

Emma shivered at the new sensation. His mouth moved softly over her throat, exciting her nerves, seeming to draw a flush of heat up to the surface of her skin. Gradually she lifted her arms around his neck. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man, the hard body beneath the snowy white shirt, the muscles filled with crushing strength. It was wrong to be here with him, wrong to feel his lips and hands caressing her. But it seemed the perfect act of rebellion against her father, against her unfaithful lover, against all the people who had ever called her an eccentric or a wallflower. Why not let Nikolas make love to her? Her virginity was hers to give—it no longer mattered, since she had lost the one man she had ever wanted. Perhaps this was a sin, but there was undeniable pleasure in it.

Emma raised her hands to his beautiful hair, the tawny locks springing like coarse silk beneath her fingers. At her hesitant touch, he took a sharp breath and pulled her closer, stretching along the settee until they were matched together. Emma pressed close to him, wanting friction, pressure, his masculine weight bearing down upon her. His kisses became longer, deeper, changing from question to demand.

She made no protest as Nikolas unfastened her shirt. The garment parted in front, and his hand slipped inside, fingertips spread wide as they traced the smoothness of her stomach. She had never dreamed a man's touch could be so tender, so reverent. The heat of his palm covered her breast, fitting over the soft roundness. Her nipple contracted and ached sweetly from the warmth. Opening her eyes, she found his gaze locked with hers.

All at once she was startled by the lack of emotion in the bright yellow depths of his eyes. They were as intent as a tiger's, devoid of emotion. Even now, in this intimacy, his heart and soul were still locked away. She felt the need to reach him, to make him vulnerable somehow. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton his shirt. Carefully she eased the white linen from his shoulders. Her gaze swept over his torso…over the pattern of raised scars and burn marks.

Even though Emma had known what to expect, had seen the scars as a child, she was still astonished by the legacy of his torture in Russia. Before that, his body must have been beautiful, a work of smoothly sculpted muscle and gleaming golden skin. How strong he must have been to survive such pain. Nikolas held still beneath her gaze, waiting without shame or self-pity for her reaction. She wished for some way to tell him of her compassion and understanding, but there were no words. Instead she leaned forward with deliberate slowness, and held her mouth against the scar at his throat.