Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(97)

She shook her head, staring at the slightly bedraggled blossom. “Whoever the giver is, he's remarkably persistent.”

“Shall we tell Prince Nikolas?”

Emma thought for a moment. She was certain the rose had come from Adam. Mischief-making, probably. He would be glad to provoke Nikolas, and cause trouble between them. “No,” she said brusquely, “It's just a silly gesture. Please dispose of the thing—we'll forget all about it.”

It was Christmas Eve, and the scent of pine emanated from the small tree in the corner of the family parlor, a cozy room lined with tapestries and golden oak paneling. Hangings of burgundy velvet framed the windows, and were parted to reveal a trace of the evening starlight. A fire in the fireplace burned with crackling vigor, sending out a wavering yellow glow to relieve the darkness of the room.

Nikolas lounged amid a pile of velvet pillows on the floor, watching his wife stir about the room. Jacob was asleep in his bed in the nursery, dreaming of the morning to come. And they had the whole night ahead of them.

“Come here,” he said lazily, drinking wine from a glass-lined goblet, its silver and gold exterior glittering with inset diamonds and rubies.

“Soon,” Emma replied, adjusting strings of cranberries on the tree. “I'm not finished yet.”

“You've done nothing for two days except retie ribbons and move garlands up or down a mere inch—”

“With nearly two hundred guests coming tomorrow, I want everything to be perfect.”

“Everything is perfect.” Nikolas poured more wine and admired the shape of his wife's bottom as she bent over in her trousers. “Come here now—I have a present for you.”

“I have one for you too,” she replied pertly. Reaching behind the settee, she pulled out a large, square object that was the right size and shape to be a framed picture. It was covered with a length of dark cloth.

Nikolas sat up straighter, eyeing the object with interest. “Is that your portrait?”

“Yes, Mr. Soames worked night and day to have it finished in time.”

“Let me see it.”

“My present first,” she said, coming to sit beside him. She crossed her long legs Indian-style and accepted a goblet of wine.

Obligingly Nikolas slid a wrapped package from beneath one of the tasseled pillows. Emma reached for the first-sized box with childish glee. “Oh, good, I like the small ones best.” She tore the paper and opened the velvet-lined box and stared at the object inside with delight. Carefully she lifted it out, and it glittered richly in the firelight. Nikolas had commissioned a brooch to be fashioned in the shape of a tiger, with stripes of black onyx and yellow diamonds. “Thank you,” she said, flashing a smile at Nikolas. “It reminds me of you.”

“It's supposed to remind you of Manchu.”

“You and he aren't so far removed,” she commented, reaching out to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. “You're both solitary creatures who have been wounded in the past, and neither of you will ever be completely domesticated.”

His eyes were bright yellow gold as he looked at her. “You wouldn't want us to be.”

Smiling wryly at the truth of his statement, Emma retrieved the nearby picture. “Now for your present.” She paused before unveiling the painting and frowned. “It's rather…unconventional.”

Silently he gestured for her to proceed.

“All right, then.” With a flourish, she whipped the cloth from the portrait. “What do you think of it?”

Nikolas stared at the portrait in silent absorption. Robert Soames had painted Emma half-sitting on a windowsill. She wore a white shirt open at the throat and light beige trousers—and in an oddly sensuous touch, her feet had been left bare. The length of her red hair, made brilliant by the filtering sunlight behind her, cascaded to her hips. A dreamy, slightly serious expression on her face was the perfect counterpoint to the abandon of her posture. Nikolas found the portrait riveting and erotic.

“It's very odd, isn't it?” Emma asked, watching closely for his reaction.

Nikolas smiled and pulled her onto his lap, turning his gaze back to the painting. “It's beautiful. Thank you, ruyshka. I'll value it more than any work of art I possess.”

“I don't know where we'll hang it,” Emma said, leaning against his chest. “Some people would be offended by the sight of a princess in trousers.”

Gently he drew his hand down her coltish legs. “The only kind of princess I want, ruyshka.”

She smiled, pleased by the compliment, and began to fiddle nervously with his shirt buttons. “Nikki, I've been thinking…there's something you should be aware of.”

“What is it?” Nikolas sensed her sudden change of mood. He waited quietly, holding her as she struggled for words.

“I don't know how to tell you,” she finally got out.

Nikolas cupped his fingers beneath her jaw and tilted her face upward, staring into her deep blue eyes. Something trembled inside him, a chord of awe and disbelief. He knew what it was, the sudden certainty resounded through his core, but he had to hear the words. “Just say it, Emma.”

“I…” Her fingers clenched in the soft linen of his shirt. “I think I'm…” She paused and gazed at him wordlessly, unable to finish.