Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(2)

“We're cousins by marriage,” he insisted.

Emma smiled at that, knowing that as cousins, they could have a far more informal relationship, calling each other by first names and talking privately without the need of a chaperone. “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps you would like a tour of my art collection,” Nikolas suggested. “I have an icon wall that might interest you. Many of them are works from thirteenth-century Novgorod.”

“I don't care for art, and I certainly don't want to look at any gloomy old icons.” Emma gave him a skeptical glance. “Why do you keep them? You're the last person I'd expect to collect religious paintings.”

“Icons are the windows to a Russian's soul.”

Emma's wide mouth curled derisively. “I've never seen any evidence that you have a soul.”

“Perhaps you haven't looked closely enough.” He took a step forward and then another, until his feet nearly touched the flowing hem of her white dress.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Stand up.”

For a moment Emma didn't move. Nikolas had never spoken to her like this. He seemed relaxed, his ungloved hands loose at his sides, but she had seen such calculated stillness before, in a cat about to strike. Emma obeyed uneasily, straightening as tall as possible until they stood almost nose to nose.

“What do you want, Nikolas?”

“I want to hear more about this friend of yours. Does he hold you in his arms? Does he whisper love words to you? Does he kiss you?” His fingers closed over her arms, the warmth of his palms sinking through the fragile silk sleeves.

Emma jumped and made a small sound in her throat. Her heart began to beat painfully hard. It was unimaginable, undreamed of, to feel Nikolas Angelovsky's hands on her, to stand so close that her br**sts touched his chest. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

“If you're finished amusing yourself, Nikolas, then kindly remove your royal paws. I don't appreciate your sense of humor.”

“I'm not making a joke, ruyshka.” His arms slid around her, locking her against his body. At her gasp of bewilderment, he explained, “That means ‘little redheaded one.’”

“I'm not little,” she said, straining to break free. He contained her struggles without effort. Although they were almost the same height, he was double her weight, his body muscled and bigboned, his shoulders broad as church doors.

He continued to speak softly, ignoring her gasping protests. “You could easily pass for a Slav, you know, with your red hair and fair skin. Your eyes are the color of the Baltic Sea—the darkest blue I've ever seen.”

Emma thought of calling for help. Why was he doing this? What did he want from her? She recalled all the rumors she had heard about Nikolas. His past was filled with betrayal, murder, treason. He had been permanently exiled from Russia for crimes against the Imperial government. Many women found his aura of danger exciting, but she wasn't one of them.

“Let me go,” she said breathlessly. “I don't like your games.”

“You might.”

He held her so easily, as if she were a doll or a kitten. She sensed that he relished his power over her, that he wanted her to know how much greater his strength was. Her head fell back, her eyes closing. Any moment she would feel his mouth on hers. She held her breath, waiting, waiting…

One of his arms loosened, and his hand camp up to her throat, fondling lightly. His thumb stroked the driving pulse beneath her jaw. The unexpected lightness of his touch made her shiver. Emma lifted her trembling lashes and looked at him. His face was very close to hers. “Someday I will kiss you,” he said. “But not tonight.”

Emma jerked away in an offended flurry. Retreating a few yards, she folded her long arms across her chest. “Why don't you return to your guests and play host?” she snapped. “I'm sure there's any number of women inside who are dying to be near you.”

Nikolas remained in the lampglow, his hair glittering, his mouth twitching with a smile. In spite of her annoyance, Emma couldn't help noticing how indecently beautiful he was.

“Very well, cousin. Enjoy yourself in the arms of your…friend.”

“I will.” Emma didn't move until she was sure he was gone. She made her way back to the bench and sat, sprawling out her long legs. Nikolas had left her shaken…and strangely disappointed.

Someday I'll kiss you…He had only been mocking her, of course. She was hardly the kind that men lost their heads over. Emma remembered all the childrens' parties when spotty-faced boys had made fun of her for being taller than anyone else in the room; and her coming-out, when all the bachelors had ignored her in favor of the pretty, petite girls nearby. She had been a wallflower at seventeen, even though she had the attraction of a large family fortune behind her.

But now she finally had a suitor of her own. She was in love with Lord Adam Milbank. He had been courting her secretly for months now, since the beginning of the Season. Her heart thumped impatiently at the thought of him. Adam should have been here by now. What was taking him so long?

The Angelovsky garden was laid out in a series of “rooms,” each bordered by hedges, flower beds, or trees. Nikolas circled the clearing where Emma sat, keeping himself concealed behind a row of towering Irish yews. Finding a good vantage point, he stopped and waited for Emma's mysterious suitor to appear.