Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(61)

Whether Sidarov knew or merely suspected that Nikolas hadn't bedded Emelia, he said nothing about it the next morning. His lean face was carefully expressionless, but his dark brown eyes were speculative as he gazed at Nikolas's disheveled form. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he remarked. “I took the liberty of having a bath prepared, in case you should want one today.”

Nikolas nodded and followed the steward to the private bath house attached to the main residence. “You haven't changed your clothes in two days,” Sidarov remarked, scooping up garments as Nikolas disrobed. “Your bath will be welcome news to the entire household.”

The comment reminded Nikolas of the Russians' scrupulous standards of cleanliness. Even the most humble peasants washed themselves frequently. It was one of the few areas in which the Slavs were more advanced than their Western counterparts, especially at this time in history. The English actually feared to bathe themselves too often, believing it made them vulnerable to illness.

The wooden bathhouse was well scrubbed and roomy, with glass windows set high in the walls to allow light from outside. It opened into a comfortable chamber filled with elegant brocaded furniture and large fireplaces. For now, the doors were closed to preserve the warmth of the bath. Steam collected on the windowpanes and ran down in bright rivulets. Nikolas sighed in comfort as he stepped into the bath and sat chest-deep in water infused with herbs. The heat of it permeated his body, soothing tense muscles and a multitude of aches. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim of the wooden bath.

“Shall I leave you for a while?” Sidarov inquired.

“Yes,” Nikolas said, keeping his eyes closed.

“I will return with your shaving instruments when your beard has softened.”

For a while there was no sound except the dripping of water from the windows, and the slosh of small waves in the bath as Nikolas moved his foot back and forth. Puffs of steam rose from the tiled stove. Drowsing, luxuriating, Nikolas let his mind drift, until he heard the scrape of a footstep on the floor. “Sidarov?” he murmured.

“No,” came a woman's soft reply.

Nikolas opened his eyes. Through the luminous, hot mist he saw Emelia approach the tub. She wore a simple blue peasant dress. Her eyes were red from crying, and her jaw was set with a determination that he recognized. He sat up and stared at her warily, wondering if she had come to reproach him. God knew she had every right.

Her voice trembled a little. “I asked Sidarov where you were. I…had to talk with you right away, to ask you…”

“Ask me what?” Nikolas murmured, transfixed by her otherworldly appearance, her slender form silhouetted in steam clouds.

“If you're sorry that you chose me.” Emelia frowned earnestly and continued in a rush. “I may not be pretty enough, or maybe I seem somewhat odd, but I promise you, I would make a very good wife! I can learn to be just like the Western women—”

“Emelia,” he interrupted, “come here.” She hesitated and moved forward, leaning her hip against the edge of the tub. Nikolas reached out and enfolded her slender fingers in his wet hand. He forced himself to meet her direct gaze. “I…I'm sorry about last night. About sending you away like that.” He almost choked on the words. Apologies had never been easy for him. “You did nothing wrong,” he added with an effort.

She regarded him doubtfully, her fingers tightening on his. “I hope that's true, but—”

“You were the only woman I wanted. If you hadn't been at the Golorkov estate yesterday, I wouldn't have chosen anyone.”

A pink blush seeped into the paleness of her skin. “Is that true?”

“You're a beautiful woman. God knows I find you desirable.”

“Then last night, why didn't you—”

“Things are very…complicated for me.” Nikolas grimaced at his own ineptitude. “I can't explain it in a way you would understand. Hell, I wish I understood.”

Emelia absorbed that for a moment, her gaze locked with his. “All I would like to know is…do you want to keep me as your wife?”

Nikolas was trapped by her intense blue eyes. “Yes,” he heard himself say.

She nodded, visibly relieved. “Then I will stay. And I will abide by your decisions. When you want me to come to your bed, you only need tell me.”

Swallowing hard, Nikolas released his grip on her fingers and busied himself with splashing hot water on his face. Having her in his bed, easing his aching need within her, was not a subject he could allow himself to think about. It was forbidden to him, unless he cared to set off a chain reaction that would culminate in his disastrous future. “Sidarov should bring in my shaving razor soon,” he said, swiping at the water that dripped from his face and chin.

Shyly Emelia gestured to the dish of lavender soap beside the bath. “Shall I wash your hair, Prince Nikolai?”

“No, I'll take care of it.”

“It will be no trouble. A wife should learn to do these things for her husband.” She picked up one of the buckets of water resting on the tiled stove and brought it to him.

Nikolas hesitated, wondering how to refuse her. He met her expectant gaze and relented with a taut sigh. Why not let her help him with his bath? What harm could it do? He bent his head forward, jumping slightly at the heat of the water as Emelia poured it over his head.