Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(24)

“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.