Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(55)

“Come,” the steward coaxed, “we must go to the bride-choosing. At least favor them by walking along the line. Who knows? You may see a beautiful girl and fall in love at first sight.”

Wildly Nikolas dragged both hands through his disheveled hair. He didn't want to participate in this ridiculous farce. He had enough trouble with the wife he'd already married. But he decided he would play along until the dream was over. “Let's get it over with,” he said gruffly. “I'll go—but I won't choose any of them.”

“That's fine,” Sidarov soothed. “Just have a look. It's only fair, after they came so far.”

A small crowd of servants appeared to accompany Nikolas to the carriage, leading him down the slick steps. Efficiently they tucked fur robes around his legs and lap, placed hot stones at his feet, and pressed a goblet of wine in his hand.

“No more wine—” Sidarov began as he climbed into the carriage.

Nikolas silenced him with a gesture, and glared at him over the rim of the jeweled goblet. He needed a drink badly, and he'd had enough of the bossy little servant. The heated wine was strong and bracing, blunting the edges of his panic.

The gilded carriage was pulled by six black horses and mounted on runners that allowed it to glide swiftly over the carpet of snow. The Angelovsky crest was embroidered on the velvet cushions, and repeated on the ceiling and walls in patterns of jewels, crystal, and gold. “I'm an Angelovsky,” Nikolas said tentatively, placing his hand on the crest.

“You certainly are,” Sidarov agreed in a feeling tone.

Nikolas moved his gaze to the steward, who was beginning to look vaguely familiar. The Sidarovs had worked for his family for generations, had even accompanied him into exile, but Nikolas couldn't recall anyone named Feodor. Except…in his boyhood, he remembered the oldest Sidarov of all, whose name had been Vitya Feodorovich. Perhaps this was Vitya's father? Grandfather?

Then who am I supposed to be? Nikolas gulped the rest of his wine to stave off the sinking coldness inside him. The servant had called him Nikolai…Prince Nikolai…but that was his great-great-great-grandfather's name.

The vehicle passed by the homes and markets of the posád, the area of the city between the fortress walls and the outer earthen ramparts that encircled Moscow. People swathed in long coats, bulky robes, and fur hats began to appear on either side of the street and cheer, waving the vehicle on to its destination. The scene reminded Nikolas uncomfortably of the curious crowds that had gathered to watch him depart St. Petersburg at the beginning of his exile.

“Where are we going?” he asked tersely.

“Don't you remember? Your friend Prince Golorkov is the only one in Moscow with a private home large enough to accommodate all the women. He very kindly offered the use of his ballroom and pavilions for the bride-choosing.”

“Very kind,” Nikolas repeated grimly, gripping the empty goblet in his cold hands. They drove through the city, built in rings like the layers of an onion, with the Kremlin at its center. Some sections contained clusters of noblemen's homes and small, perfect orchards. In others, bunches of gold church domes were gathered like exotic flowers, dwarfing the small wooden cottages nearby. The roads had not been paved or modernized, and the buildings were constructed of wood.

With a dreamlike sensation, Nikolas listened to the pealing of bells as Orthodox churches signaled the approach of morning Mass. No other city on earth rang bells so frequently, filling the air with joyful music. If this was a dream, it was more detailed and vivid than any he'd experienced before.

Finally the carriage-sleigh was pulled up to a great house fronted with slender wooden columns and an octagonal pavilion on either side. People crowded on both sides of the street and at the gates, cheering as they caught sight of Nikolas through the carriage windows. He sank lower in his seat, his face dark and brooding.

“You must be nervous,” Sidarov remarked. “Don't worry, Your Highness, it will all be over soon.”

“It had better be.”

A complement of shivering, brocade-covered footmen opened the carriage door and escorted Nikolas to the house. Sidarov followed close behind, carrying a wooden box with golden latches. Their host, presumably Prince Golorkov, waited in the wide, low-ceilinged entrance hall. Golorkov was a balding old man with a thin gray mustache that curved along with his lips as he smiled. “Nikolai, my friend,” he said, a sly gleam in his eyes. He moved forward to embrace Nikolas, and drew back to look at him. “You will be very pleased by the women inside, I assure you. Such an array of beauty I have never seen. Hair like fine silk, br**sts like the choicest fruit—you will have no difficulty finding a girl to suit you. Shall we have a drink first, or proceed directly to the ballroom?”

“Nothing to drink,” Sidarov interceded hastily, ignoring Nikolas's glare. “I'm certain that Prince Nikolai, in his great eagerness, will want to see the women immediately.”

Golorkov laughed. “And who could blame him? Follow me, Nikolai, and I will lead the way to paradise.”

The hallways echoed with a roar of excited female chatter that grew louder as they approached the ballroom. Smugly Golorkov reached for the lion's-head door handle, and sent the door swinging open. There was a chorus of gasps, and then an anticipatory silence fell over the room. Nikolas hesitated before entering, until Sidarov and Golorkov pushed him inside.