Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(73)

Menshikov was right, Nikolas thought with a chill. If he wasn't willing to pander to the tsar's whims, then he had no right to expect Peter's good will.

As winter came to Russia in full force, the air was so cold that frostbite was a worry to those who ventured outside for more than a few minutes. Helpful strangers rubbed snow on the faces of passersby who had the telltale white splotches on their skin. No one braved the weather without covering himself in a heavy fur coat, whether it was made of rabbit or sable. The great tile stoves in the Angelovsky mansion filled each room with steady drafts of heat, while the occupants kept their hands warm with steaming glasses of tea, chocolate, or mulled wine. The approach of Christmas was heralded with festive parties and dances, and with carolers who filled the streets with music. Cleverly shaped gingerbread cakes, or pryaniki, were baked in every household and offered to all guests.

Caught up in the holiday revelry, Emelia insisted that Nikolas bring her to the ice hill that had been made for the enjoyment of Russian children and adults alike. It was a giant slide constructed of wood and covered with ice blocks and sheets of water. People carried their wooden sleds up to the top of the forty-foot slide, then careened down it at blinding speed, screaming with laughter all the way.

“You want to go down that?” Nikolas asked reluctantly while Emelia pleaded and tugged at him to accompany her.

“Yes, yes, it's the most wonderful feeling…you've gone down an ice hill before, haven't you?”

“Not since I was a boy.”

“It's been much too long, then!”

Willfully she dragged him over to the mountainous contraption, and she talked someone into letting them borrow a painted wooden sled. They ascended the steps to the platform at the top, where the wind whistled fiercely against their faces.

“I'm going to regret this,” Nikolas muttered, watching the sledders hurtle down the long, impossibly steep incline.

Emelia gestured to the sled with an imperious mittened hand. Her eyes gleamed with enjoyment. Nikolas groaned and obeyed, positioning himself far back on the sled with his legs extended. Emelia sat in the space between his thighs, her body stiff with excitement. The people waiting behind them cheerfully assisted, giving the back of the sled a forceful shove, and off they went.

Air rushed into Nikolas's lungs with a cold, cutting bite, making it impossible for him to breathe for a moment. The sound of the sled's runners was a slick hum in his ears. The exhilarating sensation of speed took over, and they gathered more force as they crossed the middle of the gleaming slide. Emelia laughed and screamed, leaning back hard against him. Faster, faster, racing over the ice…and then they reached the bottom, where sand had been spread to slow the riders' descent. Nikolas used his booted feet to stop the sled.

Still laughing wildly, Emelia collapsed against him. She twisted in an attempt to kiss his windburned face, embracing him with the affectionate clumsiness of an unruly puppy. “I want to do it again!” she cried.

Nikolas smiled and placed a hard kiss on her lips. “Once was enough for me.”

“Oh, Nikki!” She struggled to her feet, and threw her arms around him as he stood up. “Well, it's probably for the best. I was afraid my skirts would end up over my head.”

“Later,” he promised, nuzzling her cold cheek, and she pushed at his chest as she laughed.

That night a Christmas party was held at the home of Prince Golorkov. As they entered the great ballroom, Emelia smiled at Nikolas; both of them remembered the afternoon when he had chosen her from the line of five hundred. “The room looks different now,” Emelia said.

“It's the Christmas decorations,” Nikolas replied, gazing at the swags of red velvet tied with flowers and gold ribbons that covered every inch of wall space. Long tables were ornamented with fir branches and laden with plates of pastry, dried apples and other fruits, and five different kinds of nuts. One table held nothing but gingerbread, which had been baked, cut, and iced to resemble many important buildings in Moscow, including the Kremlin and St. Basil's Cathedral with its profusion of multicolored domes. The spicy, cheerful fragrance of ginger wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of wax and pine.

Intimidated by the grandeur of the gathering, Emelia swished her billowing skirts nervously. “I look like a peasant dressed in borrowed clothes. If only you had let me use the powder for my face—”

“You're magnificent,” Nikolas interrupted, brushing a kiss over the sprinkling of golden freckles on her cheek. It was true; Emelia didn't resemble an aristocrat in spite of her sumptuous garments. The other women present were pale and chalky, their bodies frail and their gestures languid. Emelia was as vivid as a firefly in the company of moths. The glorious red-amber curls had been interwoven with pearls and drawn to the top of her head, with a few long curls dangling to her shoulders. The velvet dress she wore was a shade of blue that made her eyes gleam like sapphires. A squarecut neckline trimmed with a fall of blond lace showed the generous roundness of her br**sts, while a corset had drawn her waist into narrow, compact lines. Nikolas was captivated by his wife's vibrant beauty, and judging from the admiring glances being cast their way, so was every other man present.

Enjoying his admiring gaze, Emelia opened her fan and gazed at him flirtatiously over the scalloped edge. “I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that,” came her muffled voice. “You want to take me to bed.”