“As Nikolai finally despaired of ever finding a maiden to please him, he caught sight of Emelia, a lovely peasant girl. The sun had touched her hair with its rays, and made it shine like the magical gold-and-red feathers of a firebird. The longer Prince Nikolai stared at the beautiful light, the more warmth he felt in his heart, until the stone shell melted away. ‘This is my bride,’ Nikolai said, and lifted Emelia in his arms, carrying her away to his palace. The rest of the disappointed maidens were sent back to their families. Prince Nikolai and Emelia were married, to the great rejoicing of everyone in the land. They shared a great love, and conceived a child…but then the story turns tragic.”
“Why?” Emma asked, intrigued in spite of herself. “What happened?”
“Soon after their marriage, Prince Nikolai fell out of favor with the tsar, and many jealous boyars used the opportunity to turn on him. Nikolai was thrown in prison, where he took ill and died. Princess Emelia nearly died also, from grief. She went to a convent to hide from her enemies, and there she bore Nikolai's son in secret. The boy grew to be as noble and handsome as his father had been, and he became one of the most powerful men in Russia—one of the consorts of Empress Elizabeth.”
“Is this a true story?” Emma asked skeptically.
“Oh, yes, Your Highness.”
Emma stared at the tiny embroidered bag in her lap and toyed with the glinting beads. She was touched by the sad tale, but rather than admit it, she took refuge in a show of mild scorn. “Only an Angelovsky ancestor would be so arrogant. Making all the peasant women stand there for him to choose his wife…why, I would spit in his face!”
“Perhaps,” Rashel said with a sly gleam in her eyes. “But it is said that Prince Nikolai was a very beautiful man. Sometimes that makes up a little for arrogance, yes?”
“I don't care how handsome he was. The whole thing sounds barbaric.”
“It was the family tradition. Those days were very different. Now, of course, Russians have adopted Western ways, and it is not done anymore.”
“Thank God for progress,” Emma said. She leaned over and lifted a cloth-wrapped frame from the trunk. With the girls' help, she unwrapped the frame and discovered an old, crumbling landscape. The paint was chipped and coated with decades of grime. Emma was unimpressed by the picture, which was clearly an amateurish effort. “Why would anyone save this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Could it have any value, aside from sentimental?”
Rashel and Marinka gathered behind her to look at the painting. It was a hunting scene of Russian borzoi dogs chasing a wolf through dark fields. There was a country palace in the background, poised on the horizon against a soft lavender sky. “Look,” Marinka said, pointing to the corner where the paint had been eroded. “There is something underneath.”
Emma leaned close to the canvas and scraped the cracked paint with her fingernail. A large flake fell away, revealing a sheen of copper brown and a touch of flesh-toned paint. “I do believe you're right,” she remarked. “Someone has covered up another picture. I wonder what it could be.”
She set the painting aside in a pile to be taken downstairs, and continued sorting through the objects in the storage room. After two more hours had passed, Emma was covered with dust and sweat. She grinned at the Sidarovas, who seemed as tired as she was. “Shall we leave off for today?” she asked, and they both agreed immediately. Emma carried an armload of her newfound belongings as she descended to her suite.
Just as she had propped the painting on the velvet settee in her receiving room, Emma heard a knock at the door and Nikolas's voice.
“I came to see if you were ready for dinner. A group of American manufacturers will be attending, and you—” Nikolas broke off as he took in the sight of her wrinkled clothes and dusty skin. A look of annoyance crossed his features, but then he laughed in reluctant amusement. “You've been looking through the attic rooms.”
“It's a treasure trove!”
“You must wash and dress for supper at once,” he said, casting a dubious glance at the pile of “treasure” she had found. “The Americans—”
“Come have a look at this painting,” Emma insisted, gesturing him over to the settee. “Is it familiar? Does it mean anything to you?”
“Nothing at all.”
“See where the paint has come off in the corner? I think there's another picture hidden beneath this one.”
“Perhaps,” he said indifferently. “Now, about supper—”
“Could we ask someone if it's worth restoring? There may be a wonderful painting just waiting to be uncovered.”
“If it pleases you, we'll find someone to work on it. Though I doubt there's anything worth seeing. Emma, you must clean yourself up right away and come downstairs.”
“What could I possibly say to a group of manufacturers?”
“Just sit quietly and smile.” Nikolas shot her a meaningful glance. “And no remarks about little animal corpses when the pheasant is brought out.”
A flashing grin appeared on her face. “Or else?” She moved to her dressing table and layered the antique Russian veil and diadem on her hair, exactly as Rashel had shown her. Glancing over her shoulder with a teasing smile, she said, “If I offended all your American guests, would you beat me for it? Exactly how does a Russian prince punish his wife?”
She fell silent as she saw the change come over Nikolas's face. He had turned utterly white, his eyes dark pools of horror as he stared at her. Slowly Emma removed the frail headdress. “What's wrong?” she asked.
Nikolas didn't answer. There were no words for the sensation of being jolted into some other place. Something had snatched him away for no more than a second, as if he had been yanked through a door from one time into another. He had a vision of Emma crying, her face red and her hair loose and tangled…
“Please punish me,” she begged.
“You little fool,” came his own harsh reply. He pulled her closer in an effort to soothe her, and he stroked her shaking back. “How in God's name do you think I could leave a mark on you? How could I cause you pain with my own hands? Oh, don't think it's not tempting, my clever one. But even if I tried, I could never lift a finger against you.”
“Because I'm your wife?” she asked tremulously.
“Because you're mine. You're the only one I've ever wanted, no matter that you'll probably be my downfall…”
With a violent shake of his head, he sent the vision spinning away. He didn't understand the strong emotion, sweet, piercing, painful, that clawed at the back of his throat. Aware that Emma was waiting for him to say something, he returned her stare with sudden, baffled anger.
“Nikki,” she began, but he had already turned away. He left with the panic of a claustrophobic, unable to put enough distance between himself and his bewildered wife.
Emma welcomed the American guests with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. She had dressed in one of her favorite gowns, a yellow-and-ivory silk, with a square neckline cut low to reveal the tops of her breasts. Luxuriant fringe trimmed the double overskirt and the elbow-length sleeves. Her hair was gathered on top of her head, two long curls falling down her back. The whole effect was bright and fashionable, and it gave her a boost of confidence that she needed.
Nikolas had fallen into an unpredictable mood after the episode in her suite. He behaved indifferently toward her, but there was a touch of scorn in his attitude that annoyed her. Emma knew that she had done nothing wrong. She couldn't help it if he had occasional “spells”—whatever they were—and she certainly wasn't causing them. He was drinking too much, or maybe he was overworking himself. She might visit Tasia soon, and talk to her about Nikolas's problem. Tasia had always said that Russians had a very mystical and mysterious nature. She might be able to shed some light on the situation. If only Nikolas would help Emma to understand what was happening…but she knew better than to question him about it.
The ten guests were seated at the long, linen-covered dining table, with Emma and
Nikolas at opposite ends. As usual, the service was à la russe, with footmen bringing hot serving dishes from the kitchen and offering a portion to each guest. Turning to her left, Emma smiled at the gentleman seated next to her, a man in his early thirties named Mr. Oliver Brixton. He was far from handsome, for his face was round and plain, and his hair was thinning, but there was a confidence and friendliness in his manner that made him appealing.
“Is this is your first trip to England, Mr. Brixton?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” he admitted in a flat New York accent. “I've never been abroad in my life until now. My tour began in France, then Italy, now England. It isn't nearly as stuffy here as I'd feared.”
Emma was charmed by his honesty. “Is England more or less stuffy than New York?”
“A little less, to my surprise. I think it's because Americans have so much to prove, since we live in such a young country. In New York society we muster all the pomposity we can, hoping it will distract others from our raw edges.”
Pausing in the middle of lifting her spoon to her lips, Emma glanced at him with teasing speculation. “There's not a raw edge in sight, as far as I can tell.”
Brixton smiled, partaking of the herbed and truffled soup. “That's good to hear, Your Highness, since I'll be making many more visits to England.”
“Business reasons, Mr. Brixton?”
“Yes, but in addition, I'll want to visit my sister, Charlotte. She's engaged to an Englishman, you know. Charming fellow we happened to meet in France a few months ago.”
Emma set her spoon down and stared at him, her mind buzzing with horrified speculation. Brixton, Brixton…where had she heard that name before? No, it couldn't be…
From his position across the table, Nikolas must have been alerted by her strange expression. His attention broke from the woman on his right, and he focused on Emma's pale face.
Misreading Emma's reaction as one of curiosity, Brixton proceeded to explain. “A week from now, my sister will marry Lord Adam Milbank. Perhaps you know of him, Your Highness?”
Locked in a dumbstruck silence, Emma nodded. Nikolas answered for her, startling the others at the table away from their own light conversations. “Indeed, the princess does know of him. Before our marriage, the princess set her cap for Milbank, but he proved too elusive…and so she had to settle for me.”
Emma's gaze flew to his. There was a gleam in his amber eyes that betrayed a touch of malicious enjoyment. Had he planned this? Had he remembered that Brixton was the name of the woman Adam was betrothed to? Confusion and outrage tangled inside her. She tried to conceal her emotions by picking up her silver spoon, her fingers trembling slightly.
The sultry beauty to Nikolas's right interceded. She was all dark-eyed flirtatiousness as she spoke to him in a honeyed voice. “Your Highness, I would hardly call that ‘settling’! A man as wealthy and attractive as you are would be any rational woman's first choice.”
“My only choice,” Emma said with poisonous sweetness.
Only Nikolas understood the barb. He acknowledged it with a mocking smile, raising his glass to her. “Let us say that both Lord Milbank and I have been blessed with good fortune—he for attaining the hand of Miss Brixton, and I for winning the beautiful Emelia.”
For the next several minutes Emma ate mechanically and listened to Brixton's chatter. Thankfully he didn't seem to require anything more than an occasional smile and nod.
Meeting Brixton tonight was like a slap in the face. In all the activity of her new life, Emma had managed not to think about Adam too often. But seeing this man made it a reality, that there was indeed a woman Adam would make his wife, a week from now—a week…She steeled herself to keep her eyes from watering, to keep from thinking, God, I want it to be me…Every time she glanced at Nikolas, she found him watching her, coolly analyzing her heightened color, every flutter of her lashes, every shade of expression. What did he want from her? What did he hope to see in her face?
“You're quite the most enjoyable English lady I've met,” Brixton said. “So friendly and open. It's a nice change.”
Emma forced her attention back to him. “I'll admit the English have a well-earned reputation for being reserved.”
“Why aren't you, then?”
“I don't know,” she answered, smiling. “I'm just odd, I suppose.”
Brixton gave her a blatantly admiring glance. “Perhaps so, Your Highness. But in the nicest possible way.”
Emma blushed and looked across the table. Nikolas stared at her impassively, his lips touched with a mocking smile, as if she were some foolish child he had caught in a lie.
Although the interplay between Emma and Nikolas was never what anyone would call affectionate, at least they had always managed a friendly banter in front of guests. This evening it was impossible. Emma was miserably aware of the strained silences between them. Nikolas was at his most obnoxious, treating her to cold stares and jeering taunts. Emma longed to snap at him that she had done nothing to deserve such treatment. Had Nikolas guessed somehow that she had been affected by Oliver Brixton's presence tonight? Did it annoy him that she still had feelings for Adam? Was he jealous? No, Nikolas had never shown any signs of caring for her that way. It must be that his pride had been stung.
Emma suffered through the rest of the evening, profoundly relieved when the guests finally took their leave after midnight. Without a word to Nikolas, she hurried up to her suite and slammed the door. The effort of smiling and eating and making conversation had exhausted her. Trying to calm her jangling nerves, she rang for Rashel to help her undress, and paced around the suite until the maid arrived. Seeming to understand her mistress's fury, Rashel was silent and efficient as she unfastened Emma's gown and unhooked her stays.
“I can do the rest,” Emma said shortly, motioning for her to leave. “Thank you, Rashel. Spahkóynigh nóchyee.”
“Good night, Your Highness,” the maid replied in kind, slipping out the door.
Emma donned an embroidered linen nightgown and went to bed, pausing only to jerk the pins from her hair and run her fingers through it. She lay in the darkness with a sheet pulled up to her breasts, and tried to recall Oliver Brixton's face in detail. Did Charlotte Brixton resemble her brother? The same round cheeks, the same light, thin hair? I hope she has a fortune big enough to satisfy you, Adam, Emma thought grimly, if that's what you really wanted. She remembered Adam at their last meeting, at the Angelovsky ball…his warm brown eyes, his boyish smile, the pressure of his lips on hers, his voice saying, I adore you…A tear squeezed from beneath her lashes, and she buried her face in the pillow.
She had almost drifted off to sleep, her body curled and relaxed, when there was movement in the darkness. Making a drowsy, questioning sound, Emma began to roll onto her back. A heavy body pounced on hers, a spring of coiled muscle. In her drugged confusion she thought she was dreaming and was being attacked by her tiger, Manchu. A man's hot breath pelted against her ear, and she was stunned to realize it was her husband.
“Nikolas?”
He pinned her to the mattress with his weight. Although he was fully clothed, the insistent jut of his arousal was unmistakable as it pressed against her bottom. Emma gasped in surprise, wriggling to free herself as his liquor-soured breath wafted to her nostrils.
“You're a possession to me, do you understand?” came Nikolas's sneering voice. “I own every damn bit of you. I knew what you wanted tonight—I saw the way you flirted and smiled while Brixton looked down your dress. You wanted me to be jealous, my scheming little wife, but it didn't work. I will never be jealous of you.”
Emma recovered enough from her astonishment to jab her elbow against his ribs. “Get off me, you drunken ass,” she cried in a muffled voice.
Nikolas flipped her over and pressed himself between her thighs. He was breathing heavily, from rage or passion, or from some volatile mixture of both. “You want to tie my soul into knots,” he muttered. “But you won't make me feel anything I don't wan
t to feel. I will never love you.”
“Who asked you to?” Emma replied hotly. Then she was still, and in a peculiar flash of understanding she knew that Nikolas was afraid, that he was fighting desperately against his own feelings. Wonderingly she reached up to his shadowy figure, her fingers touching the rumpled locks at the side of his head. “Nikki—”
He jerked back with a furious sound. “Don't call me that.”
“Coward,” she said, the accusation soft but clear. “Why are you so terrified of being close to me?”
Emma felt his tremor of anger as he crouched astride her hips, anger that made his bones lock and his muscles clench. Then Nikolas gave a defeated groan and bent over her. His mouth sought hers, yearning, passionate, and his hands tore at her nightgown to find her willing body beneath. She moved to help him, pulling at her own clothes and his, ripping his white lawn shirt, yanking at his trousers with such urgency that the buttons popped.
When their clothes were shredded and disarranged, Nikolas pressed his bare skin against hers. He fastened his mouth against the sweet softness of her throat, sucking and licking, working down to her breasts. Moaning in pleasure, Emma opened her thighs and reached down to guide him inside her. He was taut and enlarged, filling her until she quivered with the ecstasy of it. She pushed upward to take more of him, and gasped as he rolled over in an unexpected movement. She rose above him, riding him steadily, pleasuring herself on his aroused body.
Nikolas pulled her down to his chest and hugged her as he thrust straight into her center. Emma moved her mouth against his ear and caught the soft lobe in her teeth, making him growl with desire. Clasped against his long, scarred body, she felt the waves of excitement deepen until she was lost in a searing climax. She sobbed against his neck and writhed in delight. Almost immediately Nikolas convulsed with the same pleasure, his breath hissing through his teeth as he drew a sharp breath. He made a low, helpless sound and pushed one last time, holding himself deep inside her.