Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(50)

“I'm going to run away.”

“And leave me and Samson? That would make me very sad, Jake.”

He was silent, settling deeper into his pillow, his eyelids trembling with exhaustion.

“I have an idea,” Emma continued. “Why don't we run away for a little while tomorrow, and take a basket lunch with us? We'll find a pond to splash our feet in, and we'll hunt for frogs.”

“Ladies don't like frogs,” he said drowsily.

“I do. I also like bugs, worms, mice…everything but snakes.”

“I like snakes.”

Emma smiled and leaned over to kiss his hair. It smelled fresh and sweet, after the vigorous soaping she had insisted on that morning. She had never felt so protective of a child, not even her own brothers. But they had a loving family, and this little boy had no one in the world, except an indifferent father. “Good night, Jake,” she whispered. “Everything will be all right. I'll always take care of you.”

“‘Night, Emma,” he murmured, dropping off to sleep.

Emma turned down the lamp and left his room quietly. She headed toward Nikolas's suite. A rush of energy filled her. It was time to confront him about the child once and for all. She would make it clear that Jake was going to stay, and Nikolas would be expected to have some sort of communication with him. It wasn't fair that the boy should have to suffer for his parent's past indiscretions. Jacob was an Angelovsky. He was entitled to all that that implied. An education, an inheritance, some knowledge of his heritage…those were things he needed and deserved, and Nikolas had no right to withhold them.

She was chagrined to discover that Nikolas was not in his suite. She searched the wing and went down to the first floor, asking Stanislaus if he had seen Nikolas.

No expression registered on the butler's face. “The prince has left for the night, Your Highness.”

“I see.” Emma turned away, hiding her confusion and hurt. It was late…the only reason Nikolas would have left at this hour was to visit another woman's bed. Even with their petty arguments and distances, he had never been unfaithful to her before. Suddenly she felt like crying. If only she could go after him, and tell him—tell him what? If Nikolas wanted someone else, some other woman's body, there was no way she could stop him. Evidently he was tired of her. She hadn't satisfied him. His Highness was bored with visiting his wife's bed. “Damn you, Nikolas,” she whispered. “I'm going to end up hating myself as much as you.”

She paced in her own room for hours, until the servants had retired and the manor was dark and shadow-filled. It was finally dawning on her that marrying Nikolas had been a tragic mistake. Their marriage would never get better than this. In fact, it was almost guaranteed to become worse. Nikolas's infidelities would humiliate her, and there would be more arguments, more bitterness, unless she found a way to become as hard and emotionless as he was. Her family had been right about Nikolas, but her pride would never allow her to admit it. She longed for a friend to confide in, someone to turn to.

Making her way to the grand staircase, Emma sat on the steps near the bottom, hugging her knees as she waited for her husband to come home. All she needed was one glance at his face, and she would know if he had been unfaithful to her.

Just before dawn, the sounds of carriage wheels and jangling harnesses awoke her from the half sleep she had fallen into. She sat up on the stairs, wincing at the soreness of her muscles. Blinking hard, she stared at the front entrance. Her spine was stiff with apprehension.

Nikolas came inside, looking disheveled and pale, his golden splendor muted by the darkness. The mingled odors of liquor, perfume, and sex reached Emma across the several feet that separated them. So he had done it, she thought, and flinched at the sudden pain in her chest.

Nikolas didn't see her until he had started for the stairs. He stopped suddenly, a shadow of sullen defiance crossing his features. “What do you want?”

“Nothing from you.” Her voice trembled with disgust and outrage. “Nothing at all. I'll try to be sophisticated about this, Nikolas. You don't have to remind me that this sort of thing goes on all the time in upper-crust marriages. But you'd better get used to visiting other women's beds, because it will be a cold day in hell before you're welcomed back to mine!”

“I'll do whatever I want with you,” Nikolas sneered, coming closer to her, looming threateningly. “You're my wife. I own you body and soul—and when I snap my fingers, you'll open your legs for me anyplace and anytime I choose.”

A violent rage swept over Emma. She struck out with a closed fist, aiming straight for his unshaven, hateful face. The force of it jarred her arm all the way up to her elbow. The punch caught Nikolas by surprise, and he staggered back a few steps. His expression was blank with shock. Emma stared at him with equal amazement, wondering if he would hit her back. She waited numbly, rubbing her sore wrist.

Nikolas was silent. They both breathed heavily as they stared at each other. Lifting a hand to his jaw, Nikolas gave a dry huff of laughter. Emma didn't move as her husband walked by her, going up the stairs to his private rooms. When the last sound of footsteps had faded, she sank back down onto the step and rested her head on her knees. She had never felt so trapped, so hopeless.

For the next week there was no conversation between Emma and Nikolas, except for a few sharp exchanges when they saw each other in passing. It was difficult for Emma to eat or sleep. She felt as if she were living in an enemy camp, barricading herself behind locked doors at night, hurrying through the halls during the day to avoid meeting Nikolas. She knew she was beginning to look haggard even before Mr. Soames asked tentatively if she was feeling well. Nikolas, on the other hand, seemed alert and well rested, making Emma realize with renewed anger that he was comfortable with the situation. He had deliberately put a wedge between them, and he intended for it to stay.