Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(66)

Feeling ridiculous in his elaborate attire, Nikolas went to Emelia's room. He found his wife sitting at a mahogany dressing table of French design, staring in perplexity at the blue flask of perfume he had given her that afternoon. Looking over her shoulder at the sound of his entrance, Emelia smiled in admiration. “What splendid clothes, Nikolai.”

He made a noncommittal grunt and approached the dressing table. Emelia was wearing the red sarafan, with matching red ribbons wound through her plait in back. She had draped a fragile veil over her hair and secured it with the gold wire circlet. Unable to keep from touching her, Nikolas reached out on the pretext of arranging the tiny paste ruby of her diadem so it lay exactly in the center of her forehead. His thumb passed lightly over one of her eyebrows, smoothing the bright auburn arc. He would have to give her some jewelry—no wife of an Angelovsky should wear fake stones.

Emelia fidgeted with the blue flask. “I've never worn perfume before. How should I put it on?”

“Most people make the mistake of using too much. Just rub a small drop on your wrists and behind your ears.” Drawing the stopper from the glass bottle, Nikolas touched the end of the wand to her wrist. He massaged the moist spot with his fingertip, until the heady scent of summer flowers drifted to his nose. “Some women like to perfume the places where the pulse beats strongest…the throat, the backs of the knees…”

Emelia laughed, holding still as he touched the tender hollows behind her earlobes. “But no one will see my legs!”

The thought of her strong, slim calves, lifting to wrap tightly around him, made Nikolas's mouth go dry. He stared into her smiling blue eyes. If he wanted to, he could seduce her right here, take her to the bed just a few yards away, lift the hem of her sarafan to her waist…

With her face at the level of his hips, Emelia couldn't help but notice the change in his body as his flesh hardened beneath the iron restriction of his breeches. She turned pink and cleared her throat before asking, “Nikolai, do you want to—”

“No,” he snapped, turning away. He strode to the doorway and paused at the threshold, speaking without looking back at her. “I suggest that you hurry, madam. Like it or not, you're going to play hostess for the tsar tonight. And you'd better make the performance a good one, or there will be hell to pay for us both.”

The troupe of six actors performed the comedy by Molière with engaging lightness. A group of approximately thirty guests clustered around the tsar as they relaxed in the private theater at the Angelovsky estate. The theater was small but luxurious, the walls thickly covered with gilt and oval-shaped portraits of family ancestors. Flanked by Nikolas on his left and Aleksandr Menshikov on his right, the tsar laughed heartily at the antics of the actors.

Nikolas was acutely aware of his wife's tension. Emelia was frozen in the seat beside him, darting occasional glances at the tsar. Nikolas guessed that she was intimidated by Peter. Peasants of Emelia's humble background were all taught that the tsar of Russia was the most powerful man on earth, a fatherly and omnipotent figure, and the only being above him was God. To soothe Emelia and keep her attention on the play, Nikolas whispered frequently in her ear, translating the French phrases and jokes into Russian.

When the play was concluded, the guests were led into the dining room and arranged at a long table. Again, Nikolas sat on Peter's left, Menshikov on his right. Emelia was located several places away, looking uncomfortable in comparison to the fashionably gowned court women at the table. Platters of heavily seasoned fish and roasted game were served, and wine was poured into silver goblets lined in pink crystal.

Nikolas said very little, merely sat back in his chair and watched the tsar and Menshikov. There had been few people in his life Nikolas had hated on sight, but Aleksandr Danilovich Menshikov, recently titled Prince of Izhora, was one of them. Perhaps it was because Menshikov so clearly hated him with the same intensity.

A tall, cold-faced man, bone-thin from the hardships of his service in Poland, Menshikov clung to the tsar like a shadow, trying to anticipate all his thoughts and needs. He had unusual turquoise eyes, intense and calculating, and a hard, small mouth adorned with a mustache identical to Peter's. Through a combination of endurance, cleverness, and ambition, Menshikov had risen to a power that often allowed him to speak for Peter himself. A deep sense of comradeship seemed to exist between the two men. Menshikov was fiercely jealous of his relationship with the tsar, and was obviously threatened by anyone whom Peter spoke with or admired.

Menshikov spoke to Nikolas in a catlike tone. “How admirable of you to follow the Angelovsky tradition of marrying a peasant woman! They breed with no difficulty, and it is but a simple matter to train them.”

“Alexashka,” Peter said in a warning tone, but Menshikov continued idly.

“It was wise of you to marry without love, Nikolai. Nothing must interfere with a man's devotion to the tsar and Russia, especially not love for a woman. Demanding creatures, women…they want everything for themselves. As long as a man knows what should come first, he will do well.”

“I know what should come first,” Nikolas assured him, his voice quiet, his eyes hard. He saw how Emelia flushed in embarrassment at Menshikov's pointed remarks about her background. Turning to her, Nikolas commented blandly, “Just see how far you may rise, ruyshka. Our friend Menshikov may be a prince of Russia now, but he began as a pie seller in the Moscow marketplace.”