Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(34)

“Emma,” her father said quietly, “if you ever have regrets…if the time comes when you decide this was a mistake…you can always come back. I'll welcome you with open arms.”

“You're expecting me to regret this, aren't you?” she asked.

He didn't reply, but the way he averted his gaze was answer enough.

“My marriage will be fine,” Emma said coolly. “It won't be the kind you have with Tasia, but it will be quite satisfactory for me.”

“I hope so.”

“Do you?” she asked softly. “I'm not so sure of that, Papa.” Her spine stiffened with pride, and she decided right then that nothing would stop her from marrying Nikolas Angelovsky. But later, when they walked down the aisle together, there were unshed tears in her eyes.

Locked in her own dolorous silence, Emma remembered little of the wedding, except that it was short and devoid of joy. Nikolas was handsome but grave, making her realize that he considered the wedding nothing more than a necessary duty. For Emma, there was little feeling of spirituality in the ceremony, except for the reading of a passage from Ruth:…whither thou goest, I will go, And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God…The eternal words of love, of commitment, seemed to carry the echo of a heavy door closing shut.

It was only afterward, at the forced cheerfulness of the reception, that Emma began to breathe easier. There was much toasting and dancing, and a wedding feast of English and Russian dishes. The cake was a towering concoction ornamented with flowers, birds, and cherubs all made from sparkling crushed sugar. Finally, as the evening ripened, it was time for the newlyweds to leave, and they rushed to a waiting carriage in a stinging shower of rice and congratulations.

Once in the carriage, Emma dissolved in a fit of dismayed laughter and shook her head, sending a scattering of rice everywhere. Nikolas combed his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to get rid of the grains caught in his thick blond-brown locks.

“I think we'll be fertile,” Emma said, and Nikolas laughed at the unmaidenly comment.

“I never doubted it, ruyshka.”

His expression made her blush. She ducked her head and asked abashedly, “How many children will you want?”

“As many as God sees fit to bestow.”

Emma fingered the ring he had given her, an ostentatious blood red ruby surrounded by diamonds. “Thank you for this,” she said. “It's lovely.”

“Do you like it? Your expression was rather strange when you first saw the ring during the ceremony.”

“I was surprised,” she said honestly. “I've never had a jewel this large.”

Nikolas smiled, reaching for her slender hand and toying with her long fingers. “You'll own many larger than this. Your hands were made for wearing jewels.”

“Yes, I need them to cover all the animal bites,” she said, pulling her hand away.

Nikolas bent down and lifted her feet into his lap, forcing her to rest her long legs across his.

“Nikki,” she protested, squirming as he removed her low-heeled satin slippers. “What are you doing?”

“I'm making you comfortable until we reach the estate.” He began to knead her silk-covered ankles and feet, ignoring her protests.

“I don't want to be comfortable. I…” She winced as he gently rubbed her sore arches, and found herself relaxing back against the velvet cushions. “My feet are too big,” she murmured.

“They're enchanting.” Nikolas pressed the sole of her right foot into the lee of his thighs. Emma started as she felt the hard length of his arousal against her sole, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to move away.

The blissful interlude ended as they approached the Angelovsky manor, and Nikolas slipped the shoes back onto her feet. Emma was filled with wonder as she realized that this palatial residence was her new home. The huge circular ballroom with its endless rows of columns and mirrors, the spacious rooms lined in gold and precious stones, the countless suites and galleries and glass-paneled rooms…all of it was hers, to wander through at will.

“Princess Emma,” Nikolas said, as if he could read her mind. “Will it take long for you to get used to the title?”

“I may never get used to it,” she answered, making a face.

The carriage stopped in front of the wide staircase leading up to the door. Nikolas assisted Emma from the carriage. There was a sudden flurry of servants: footmen rushing to open the door, the butler waiting to greet them, a view of the maids gathering in the entrance hall.

Nikolas led her to the threshold and gestured to the waiting butler. “You know Stanislaus, of course, from the other times you've visited.”

Emma turned crimson at the memory of the last time, when she had stayed the night with Nikolas.

The butler's face remained reassuringly impassive. He spoke in lightly accented English. “Your Highness, the household offers its sincere wishes for your happiness. We hope to serve you well.”

“Thank you, Stanislov, er, Stanlisl—” Emma looked up at him apologetically. “I'll practice your name until I can say it right.”

Before the butler could reply, Nikolas scooped Emma up in his arms, lifting her high against his chest. She gasped in surprise. “What are you doing?”