Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(6)

“I know why she looks so out of place,” Phoebe said to Regina. “Our Emma feels much more at home in a barnyard than a ballroom. Isn't that right, Emma?”

Emma felt her throat tighten. She glanced across the room at Adam, who was involved in a conversation with friends. Taking courage from his distant presence, Emma told herself that Adam loved her, and therefore this girl's snide comments shouldn't matter one bit. But they still hurt.

“What a wholesome, unaffected girl you are,” Phoebe purred, digging her claws in deeper. “So unique. You should have men flocking around you. I simply don't understand why they don't appreciate your rustic charms.”

Before Emma could reply, she was startled to discover that Nikolas Angelovsky had suddenly appeared at her side. Blinking in surprise, she looked up into his inscrutable face.

“I believe it's time for the dance you promised me, cousin,” he said softly.

Emma was temporarily speechless, as were the other girls. Here in the glittering splendor of the ballroom, dressed in severe black-and-white evening clothes, Nikolas was too extraordinary to be real. The light gleamed on his austere features, highlighting each golden curve and angle, turning his eyes into iridescent pools of yellow. His goldtipped eyelashes were so long, they had tangled at the outside corners.

Phoebe Cotterly's lips drooped open with dismay as she realized that Nikolas had overheard her petty taunts. “Prince Nikolas,” she said breathlessly, “what a marvelous evening this is—and what an exceptional host you are! I'm enjoying myself very much tonight. Everything is perfect, the music, the flowers—”

“We are pleased that you approve,” Nikolas interrupted coldly.

Emma struggled to suppress a laugh. She had never heard Nikolas use the royal “we” before, but it was quite effective.

“Did you call Emma ‘cousin’?” Phoebe asked. “I wasn't aware you were related.”

“Distant cousins, by marriage,” Emma explained, ignoring the faint smile that had appeared on Nikolas's mouth.

“Our dance?” he prompted, holding out his arm.

“But, Your Highness,” Phoebe protested, “you've danced with me only once before, at the Brimforth Ball. It was an experience worth repeating, don't you think?”

Nikolas's speculative gaze traveled down to Phoebe's dainty feet and back up again. “I believe once was enough, Lady Cotterly.” He reached for Emma and led her to the dance floor. Phoebe was left speechless, while Regina appeared bemused.

Emma curtsied in response to Nikolas's bow and put her hand in his. She stared at him with a smile of guilty delight. “Thank you. I've never seen anyone put Phoebe in her place before. I owe you for that.”

“Then we'll consider you in my debt.” He slid his arm around her waist and drew her into a sweeping waltz. Emma followed his steps with ease, their long legs moving in perfect unison. She was momentarily stunned into silence. She had never danced so well with anyone. It was like flying, the skirts of her white gown whirling and flowing around them, her feet taking on a life of their own. She realized that people were looking at them. Some couples even retreated to the side to watch. Emma hated being the focus of attention. A hot flush spread over her face.

“Relax,” Nikolas murmured, and she became aware that she was clutching his hand.

“Sorry.” Instantly Emma loosened her fingers.

“Nikolas…why have you never asked me to dance before tonight?”

“Would you have accepted my invitation?”

“Probably not.”

“That's why I didn't ask.”

Emma stared curiously at the man who held her. It was impossible to tell if he was enjoying himself or not. There was no expression on his face. He moved very lightly for a tall man. His body seemed to be made of muscle and springs, like a cat's. There was a pleasant smell about him, the mixture of warm male skin and birch soap, and the trace of sugared tea on his breath.

At the place where his golden skin met the crisp white edge of his collar, Emma saw the tip of a scar. She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, suddenly remembering when he had come to England seven years before, nearly at the point of death. She had followed her stepmother to his sickbed, and had stared at him intently. She would never forget how Nikolas had looked, so gaunt and pale, barely able to lift his head. And the scars…an ugly map of them spreading over his chest and wrists. She had never seen scars like that before. Somehow Nikolas had managed to capture a lock of her hair in his thin fingers. “There,” he had said softly. “I know a Russian folk tale about a girl who saves a dying prince…by bringing him a magic feather…from the tail of the firebird. The bird's feathers were a color between red and gold…like your hair…”

Emma had pulled away scornfully, but her curiosity was sparked by his strange words. Later she had asked Tasia what had happened to him, and why he had been wounded in such a way. “Nikolas was tortured,” Tasia had said quietly, “and exiled for treason.”

“Will he die from his wounds?”

“Not from his physical wounds, no. But the inner ones are much worse, I'm afraid.”

For a while Emma had tried to feel sorry for him, but it was impossible. Nikolas was too arrogant to inspire pity, no matter how he had suffered for his sins.