Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(15)

His large hands spread over her back, traced the length of her spine until he came to the swell of her hips. Beneath her shirt and trousers, she wore only a chemise and thin linen drawers…no corset, stays, laces; no protective layers that would disguise the shape of her body. She knew he could feel the softness of her br**sts, the natural curve of her waist. Shame and sensation collided within her, making her sway dizzily against him. She shook with the effort not to clench her arms around him, pull him harder, closer, twine her fingers in his beautiful hair. Her flesh ached wherever it pressed his…breasts, legs, stomach…she wanted to bring his hands to her body…God, she wanted…

His lips broke from hers, and she gave a little moan of frustration. Her hands worked in the folds of his shirt, grasping aimlessly. He murmured something in Russian, his breath sinking through her hair to her scalp. Gradually her hands relaxed on his shoulders. Opening her eyes, Emma looked over his shoulder and saw that Manchu was watching them with unblinking yellow eyes, his tail flicking in an idle pattern. She snatched her hands away from Nikolas and tugged nervously at her shirt and belt.

Nikolas drew back and stared at her without emotion. “If you ever need anything,” he said quietly, “you can come to me. I want to be your friend, Emma.”

“I should th-think you have quite enough friends.”

He used his thumb to smooth the crimson silk of her eyebrow. “Not like you.”

“Friends don't kiss like that.”

He flicked his forefinger lightly against her cheek. “Don't be a child, Emma.”

The remark stung, and she replied in the haughtiest tone she could manage. “What could either of us have to gain from friendship?”

She stiffened as he slid his fingers beneath her chin. His lips almost brushed hers as he answered, “Perhaps we'll find out, ruyshka.”

Then he released her. She stood with her eyes half-closed, leaning against the wall while he walked away.

As the rest of the week passed, Emma could think of nothing except Nikolas's visit and the possible reasons for his behavior. She didn't understand what he wanted. Surely Nikolas wasn't angling to have an affair with her, the eccentric daughter of an English duke, when so many beautiful women in London were eager to have him in their beds. And she wasn't stupid enough to believe he really wanted her friendship. He had the company of innumerable aristocrats, intellectuals, artists, politicians, all ready to come running whenever he snapped his fingers. He was never at a loss for companionship of any kind.

Just when she decided that the episode had been a temporary amusement for Nikolas, he came to visit again. Emma was in her room, reading a novel and basking in the morning light that streamed over her cushioned window seat. Her dog, Samson, a mongrel with a large dose of wolfhound, looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps.

Tasia appeared in the doorway and tapped on the frame with her knuckle. “Emma,” she said in a strange voice, “Nikolas is here.”

The book wavered in Emma's hands. She looked at Tasia with open surprise.

Tasia continued softly. “He asked if you would care to go riding with him.”

Emma was filled with a storm of confusion that made her want to leap up and pace around the room. Instead she turned toward the window and fixed her gaze on a point in the distance. “I don't know,” she said, unnerved by the thought of being alone with Nikolas. What would he say? What did he want? Would he try to kiss her again?

“I don't think Luke would approve,” Tasia said tentatively.

Emma scowled. “I'm sure he wouldn't! Papa wants me to stay alone and never see anyone. I don't care if there's hell to pay when he comes back from his meeting in London—I'm going to do as I please. Tell Nikolas I'll be down in five minutes.”

“You're not being fair to your father.”

“Has he been fair to me?” Emma stood and went to her armoire, opening the top drawer and searching for riding gloves.

“You need a chaperone.”

“Why?” Emma asked scornfully. “Nikolas is a cousin, isn't he?”

“Not really. Perhaps a case could be made that he's an extremely distant relation by marriage.”

“Well, I doubt there's any possibility of scandal if I go riding with him. No one in his right mind would believe Nikolas Angelovsky has taken a sudden interest in carrot-topped spinsters.”

“You're not a spinster.”

“I'm not the toast of London either.” She kept her back to Tasia, continuing to rummage through the armoire.

There was the sound of Tasia's soft sigh. “Emma, when will you stop being so angry at your family?”

“Maybe when you stop interfering in every part of my life. I feel as caged as those poor animals in my menagerie.” Resolutely Emma kept her back turned toward Tasia until she heard the sound of retreating footsteps. She glanced defiantly at Samson, whose furry face was wreathed in puzzled dismay, his tongue drooping limply from the side of his mouth. “Don't look at me like that,” Emma muttered. “She's taken Papa's side, as always.” The dog continued to stare at her, ears twitching with curiosity. Suddenly he flipped over onto his back and stretched out his paws in an invitation to a tummy scratch.

Emma's rebellious anger faded, and she went to him with a muffled laugh. “Silly old dog. Silly boy.” Squatting next to him, she scrubbed her short nails through his rough coat while he whined and wriggled happily. Emma gave a deep sigh. “Oh, Samson…how many thousands of secrets have I told you? You're my best friend.” She smoothed his long ears as she continued to talk wistfully. “I wonder why I can't be calm about everything the way Tasia is. She always manages her feelings so well. Mine are always exploding out of control. Phoebe Cotterly was right—I am more at home in a barnyard than a ballroom. Thank God I don't have to be clever or sophisticated or well behaved around my animals. All I have to do is love you, and you love me right back. Isn't that right, Samson?” She smiled bleakly as the dog nudged her hand with his moist nose. “Maybe Adam's love for me would have faded in time. I don't think I would be a good wife for anyone. Love isn't enough. A woman needs to be obedient and devoted, and beautiful, and helpful to her husband…instead I'm plain and wild and…”