Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(42)

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 br**sts. 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?