Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(56)

“My God,” Nikolas muttered. There were at least five hundred women in the ballroom, maybe more. They stood in an uneven line, staring at him, waiting for his inspection. Most of them wore smocks and over-dresses of red, the favorite color of all Russians. Each girl wore her hair in the traditional maiden's braid, dressed with a ribbon or scarf, or with a diadem of gold or silver wire. A few of the boldest women sighed admiringly as Nikolas walked nearer.

Nikolas felt a tide of burning color rise from his neck. He turned back to Sidarov, who was close behind him. “I can't—” he began, and the steward elbowed him hard.

“Just glance over them, Your Highness.”

“Shy?” Golorkov asked with a mocking laugh.

“This isn't like you, Nikolai. Or is it that you're still reluctant to marry? I promise you, it isn't so bad. Besides, the Angelovsky name must be perpetuated. Pick a wife, my friend, and then we'll share a bottle of vodka.”

“Pick a wife”…uttered as casually as if he were offering a tidbit from a tray of zakuski. Nikolas swallowed hard and approached the beginning of the line. His feet felt as if they were encased in lead. Hesitantly he moved past one girl after another, barely able to look them in the eye. He was showered with timid giggles, smiling glances, encouraging whispers—and occasionally, a look of dread from a girl who clearly had no more desire to be there than Nikolas himself. As he walked along the line, spines straightened to display well-endowed figures, and slender fingers plucked nervously at scarves and skirts. For each girl whom Nikolas rejected and passed, there was a word of consolation from Sidarov, as well as a gold coin from the box he carried.

About halfway through the crowd of prospective brides, Nikolas caught a glimpse of a girl with red hair, taller than the rest. She was standing several places down the line, noticeable because of her extreme stillness, while all the others fidgeted. Her face was turned away from him, but the way she stood with her shoulders slumped to conceal her height…

He strode directly to her. Sidarov followed in consternation, calling, “Prince Nikolai, you've passed over some of these very nice girls…”

As soon as Nikolas reached the young woman, he seized her by the arms, stared into her startled blue eyes, and shook her slightly. Mingled fury and relief coursed through his body. “Emma,” he snapped, automatically switching to English. “What's going on? What are you doing here?”

She shook her head in bewilderment and answered in flawless Russian. “Your Highness…I don't understand. Forgive me if I have offended you.”

Nikolas let go of her as if he'd received an electric shock. Emma didn't speak Russian. But it was her voice, her face and body, her eyes. He was quiet, baffled, staring hard at her while the rest of the assemblage broke into questioning chatter.

Sidarov took it upon himself to address the girl. “You with the red hair,” he said calmly. “What is your name?”

She replied while still holding Nikolas's gaze. “Emelia.”

“I want to talk with you,” Nikolas said in a low voice. “Now.”

Before anyone had time to react, he swept her out of the ballroom. The crowd of women swarmed in disarray, the line dissolving into a confused mass. Prince Golorkov began to laugh heartily. “Nikolai,” he called out, “you're supposed to wait until after the ceremony for that!”

Nikolas ignored the group and continued tugging at the girl's wrist. She followed more or less obediently as he led her to the first available room and closed the door behind them. Only then did she pull free of him, twisting her wrist hard in order to break his grip.

“What happened?” Nikolas demanded, looming over her. “We were arguing in the parlor, and Soames brought in the damned portrait, and everything went dark—”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand,” she said in Russian, rubbing her reddened wrist. She stared at him apprehensively, as if wondering about his sanity.

Nikolas was enraged by the fluid ease with which she spoke. “The last time I saw you, you knew fewer than ten words of Russian!”

The girl began to back away from him. “I don't think we've ever met before,” she whispered, her gaze darkening with alarm. “Your Highness, please let me leave—”

“Wait. Wait. Don't be afraid of me.” Nikolas snatched her back and held her stiff body close to his. Wildly he tried to collect his wits. “Don't you know me, Emma?”

“I…I know of you, Prince Nikolai. Everyone respects and fears you.”

Nikolas freed one hand and grasped the vibrant red plait hanging down her back. “The same hair,” he murmured. His fingers brushed the pale, downy surface of her cheek. “The same skin…the same freckles…the same blue eyes…” He felt a surge of deep pleasure at holding her in his arms, so beautiful, so familiar. Her lips, parted in dismay, were as full and tempting as ever. He bent and kissed her suddenly. She gasped in shock, offering neither response nor rejection. Nikolas finished the kiss with a gentle brush of his lips and lifted his head. “The same taste,” he said hoarsely. “It has to be you. Don't you remember me?”

There was a knock at the door, and Sidarov's anxious voice. “Prince Nikolai? Your Highness—”

“Not now!” Nikolas snarled. He waited until he heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Returning his attention to the girl in his arms, Nikolas pulled her tightly against him. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrance of her skin. “I don't know what's happening,” he said into the soft space just below her ear. “Nothing makes sense.”