Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(65)

“You're very strange,” Emelia said, a wondering smile crossing her face. “I've never heard a man say such a thing.”

The carriage stopped at the marketplace. Many stares focused on them as they descended from the vehicle. Nikolas held Emelia steady as her feet touched a patch of ice. “Easy,” he murmured, gripping her arms. “Watch your step, or you'll fall before I can catch you.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, and laughed as she looked at the marketplace. “Oh, there's so much to see!”

Nikolas kept his hand at her back as they walked past the trade rows, lined with benches and stalls overflowing with goods. Merchants clamored for their attention, calling out the merits of their wares. “Fine leather boots!” “Soft sheepskin blankets!” “Holy icons for sale!” Peddlers strolled by with trays of foodstuffs hanging around their necks: small bottles of honey liquor, pirozhki stuffed with cabbage and rice, little salted fish, and occasionally, delicacies such as lemons or apples. Customers both wealthy and poor ate from the same trays, showing no reluctance to mingle together.

Beyond the rows were the more established shops, housing craftsmen who specialized in goldsmithing, carpentry, and haberdashery. Stonecutters had brought their wares from Ekaterinburg: perfectly cut buttons and charms made of vibrant emerald malachite or bright blue lapis; crystals, topaz, and amethyst made into beads and jewelry. Other shops displayed kegs of caviar and spices, or piles of deep, luxurious furs, including tiger and wolf pelts. Aside from a number of Chinese tea shops, there appeared to be only a handful of foreign-owned businesses, compared with the multitude that would populate the city in the nineteenth century.

Stopping at a lacemaker's, Nikolas drew Emelia inside. She exclaimed in delight at the tables piled with lace of every quality, some of it as fine as spiders' webs. Hunting through the offerings, Nikolas selected a shawl of white lace so intricate it could only have been woven at the rate of an inch per hour.

“Do you like it?” he asked casually, and at Emelia's bemused nod, he flipped a coin to the lacemaker, who waited nearby.

“For me?” Emelia exclaimed, her face glowing with excitement.

“Of course it's for you.” A smile tugged at Nikolas's lips. Carefully he removed the dark cloth from her head and draped the fine, soft lace over her hair. “Who else would I buy this for?”

The lacemaker, a little old woman with hands like the twigs of a gnarled tree, nodded approvingly. “Very beautiful. It looks like snow on your red hair.”

Emelia reached up and touched the lace gently. “I've never owned anything so beautiful,” she murmured. “Even my wedding clothes were borrowed.”

The shawl was carefully wrapped in a paper parcel. Next Nikolas took Emelia to a perfumery, filled with incense, oils, and perfumes that made the air sweet. While Emelia investigated the assortment of intriguing flasks and scent boxes, Nikolas spoke to the elderly Frenchman in the corner. “Monsieur, I'd like to choose a scent for my wife.”

The perfumer regarded Emelia with bright, dark eyes. “She is a fine-looking woman. Perhaps someday you will allow me to mix a special perfume for her, Your Highness. In the meantime, I have an excellent one already prepared. Rose, bergamot, and a touch of mint.” Foraging in the back of the shop, he located a flask of blue glass and removed the stopper. He proffered it to Emelia invitingly. “Your wrist, madame.”

Cautiously Emelia extended her arm, and the perfumer rubbed a tiny drop on her skin. Emelia sniffed her wrist and looked at Nikolas with an amazed grin. “It smells just like the meadow in spring!”

“I told you it was excellent,” the perfumer said proudly. “I create perfumes for all the women at court.”

After a few minutes of negotiations, Nikolas bought the perfume and gave it to Emelia. She received it with an awestruck expression.

“I didn't expect you to buy presents for me,” she said, cradling the flask gingerly as she followed Nikolas from the shop. “I haven't done anything to deserve them.”

“You're my wife now. You can have anything you want.”

“What I really want…” she began, and blushed up to her hairline.

“Yes?” Nikolas prompted, half-afraid of what she might say.

“I really want—” Emelia tried again, but broke off nervously.

Nikolas stopped at the side of the street, his gaze searching her face. He wasn't certain why he had bought gifts for her, or why it had seemed necessary to show her that she pleased him. She was the one woman on earth he couldn't have. Bitterly he wondered why life wasn't simple for him as it was for other men. He had never been able to reconcile the divided halves of himself, the part that wanted her and the part that feared her.

“We'd better return to the estate,” he finally said. “Peter and his entourage will be arriving soon.”

The clothes set out for Nikolas, including a long amber velvet coat with brocade cuffs, tight velvet breeches, and a jeweled brocade vest, were the height of fashion for the day. He hated everything about them. The constricting fit, the bright colors, the ostentation—all of it was contrary to his own taste. He was accustomed to the elegant simplicity of black and white for evening, tailored with room to spare in the jacket and trousers, everything crisp and neat. That was the style in the time of Queen Victoria. In the early eighteenth century, however, a man of means was supposed to dress with all the subtlety of a peacock.