Prince Of Dreams (3 page)

Nikolas's speculative gaze traveled down to Phoebe's dainty feet and back up again. “I believe once was enough, Lady Cotterly.” He reached for Emma and led her to the dance floor. Phoebe was left speechless, while Regina appeared bemused.

Emma curtsied in response to Nikolas's bow and put her hand in his. She stared at him with a smile of guilty delight. “Thank you. I've never seen anyone put Phoebe in her place before. I owe you for that.”

“Then we'll consider you in my debt.” He slid his arm around her waist and drew her into a sweeping waltz. Emma followed his steps with ease, their long legs moving in perfect unison. She was momentarily stunned into silence. She had never danced so well with anyone. It was like flying, the skirts of her white gown whirling and flowing around them, her feet taking on a life of their own. She realized that people were looking at them. Some couples even retreated to the side to watch. Emma hated being the focus of attention. A hot flush spread over her face.

“Relax,” Nikolas murmured, and she became aware that she was clutching his hand.

“Sorry.” Instantly Emma loosened her fingers.

“Nikolas…why have you never asked me to dance before tonight?”

“Would you have accepted my invitation?”

“Probably not.”

“That's why I didn't ask.”

Emma stared curiously at the man who held her. It was impossible to tell if he was enjoying himself or not. There was no expression on his face. He moved very lightly for a tall man. His body seemed to be made of muscle and springs, like a cat's. There was a pleasant smell about him, the mixture of warm male skin and birch soap, and the trace of sugared tea on his breath.

At the place where his golden skin met the crisp white edge of his collar, Emma saw the tip of a scar. She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, suddenly remembering when he had come to England seven years before, nearly at the point of death. She had followed her stepmother to his sickbed, and had stared at him intently. She would never forget how Nikolas had looked, so gaunt and pale, barely able to lift his head. And the scars…an ugly map of them spreading over his chest and wrists. She had never seen scars like that before. Somehow Nikolas had managed to capture a lock of her hair in his thin fingers. “
There
,” he had said softly. “
I know a Russian folk tale about a girl who saves a dying prince…by bringing him a magic feather…from the tail of the firebird. The bird's feathers were a color between red and gold…like your hair
…”

Emma had pulled away scornfully, but her curiosity was sparked by his strange words. Later she had asked Tasia what had happened to him, and why he had been wounded in such a way. “
Nikolas was tortured
,” Tasia had said quietly, “
and exiled for treason
.”

“
Will he die from his wounds
?”

“
Not from his physical wounds, no. But the inner ones are much worse, I'm afraid
.”

For a while Emma had tried to feel sorry for him, but it was impossible. Nikolas was too arrogant to inspire pity, no matter how he had suffered for his sins.

Her thoughts were jerked back to the present as they waltzed by Adam Milbank, who was standing at the side of the room. Adam was watching her with astonishment. What must he be thinking? Emma's spine stiffened, and her movements became stilted as Nikolas guided her across the floor. If only she could rush over to Adam and explain the situation!

“Your friend must be watching us,” Nikolas said.

Emma was surprised by his perceptiveness. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“A taste of jealousy never hurts a love affair.”

“I suppose you would know. You've found your way into quite a few beds, haven't you?”

Nikolas looked amused. “Do you ever guard your tongue,
ruyshenka
?”

“Does it offend you?”

“No.”

“Sometimes I try to be polite and restrained. It lasts for a half hour or so, and then I'm back to my old ways.” Emma twisted impatiently to glance at the musicians in their flower-covered alcove. Her movement caused Nikolas to miss a step. “Isn't this waltz nearly over? It seems to have lasted forever.”

“You're not enjoying yourself?” Nikolas asked, compensating for the lost step and reestablishing their rhythm.

“Not with all these people watching us. You may be used to it, but it makes me nervous.”

“I'll end your torment, then.” Drawing her to the side of the room, Nikolas released her waist. He brought her hand to his mouth in a perfunctory gesture. “Thank you for the dance, cousin. You are a most charming partner. I wish you luck with your friend.”

“Oh, I don't need luck,” she replied confidently.

“One never knows.” Nikolas bowed and strode away, thinking to himself that all the luck in the world wasn't going to help Emma's cause. She would never belong to any other man. He had always known she was meant for him, only him…and soon he would have her.

The Milbanks were the brand of European aristocrat that Nikolas despised most, living off an ever-shrinking pool of resources that they were either too lazy or too proud to supplement—except by marrying their children off to wealthy families. They would never work except at some nominal position at a bank, law firm, or insurance company. And they clung too tightly to their dwindling hoard of money to ever make a profitable investment.

Standing at the front door of the Milbanks' London home, Nikolas returned the butler's mildly startled expression with a level gaze.

“I'm here to see Lord Milbank,” he said, extending a calling card.

The butler took the card and recovered himself at once. “Certainly, Your Highness. I believe Lord Milbank is at home, but I could be mistaken. If you will wait in the entrance hall…?”

Nikolas answered with a single nod and came into the house. His expressionless gaze swept over the hall, lingering at the frayed edges of carpet on the stairs, and on the polished but scuffed woodwork. The smell of mustiness and decay hung in the air. As he had expected, the place was badly in need of repair and refurbishing.

In approximately two minutes, the butler returned. He didn't meet Nikolas's eyes as he spoke. “Regrettably I was in error, Your Highness. It seems Lord Milbank is not at home.”

“I see.” Nikolas allowed a long silence to pass, his hard stare boring into the butler's blank face. The butler tensed, his brow turning clammy with sweat. “You and I both know he's here,” Nikolas said quietly. “Go back to Lord Milbank and tell him I need to discuss a business matter with him. It won't take long.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The butler vanished in such haste that one of his polished shoes left a scuff mark on the marble floor.

Soon Adam Milbank appeared in the entrance hall. “Prince Nikolas,” he said with a wary smile. “I can't fathom what brings you here. Business matter, is it?”

“Personal business.”

They exchanged assessing stares. Milbank took an involuntary step backward, perhaps sensing the dislike behind Nikolas's remote expression. He looked younger than Nikolas remembered, with smooth features and brown, puppy-dog eyes.

“Shall we take some refreshment in the parlor?” Milbank offered hesitantly. “Some tea and toast?”

Tea and toast. A typical English offering—generous, even. Refreshment wasn't routinely offered to guests in this country. In Russia, the tradition was to welcome any acquaintance, whether friend or foe, with special food and drink. Thinking longingly of the traditional table of Russian “small bites”—dishes of pickles, caviar, salads, and buttered bread, all washed down with glasses of cold vodka—Nikolas repressed a sigh. He had made a home for himself here in England, but he would never feel entirely comfortable in a culture so different from his own.

“No refreshment, thank you,” he murmured. “This won't take long. I've come to talk to you about the Stokehursts. One Stokehurst in particular.” He paused deliberately, watching Milbank's face grow taut. “I want your involvement with Emma to end.”

The soft brown eyes widened in surprise. “I-I don't understand. Did the duke ask you to warn me away from his daughter?”

“Don't be a fool,” Nikolas said. “Stokehurst is capable of doing that with no help from me.”

Milbank shook his head in confusion. “Then you're asking for yourself? Wh-what is your motive?”

“You don't need to know.”

Milbank drew a sharp breath. “I saw you dancing with Emma last night. My God, what's going on? You couldn't possibly have a personal interest in her.”

“Why not?”

“There's nothing you could want from a girl like Emma. You certainly don't need her dowry.”

Nikolas arched a tawny brow. “You think money is all Emma has to offer?”

“I didn't say that,” Adam replied quickly.

Nikolas kept his face blank, but contempt spilled into his voice. “The Season will be over soon. As usual, there will be some leftover heiresses who were not sufficiently appealing to catch a husband. They would gladly bestow their plump little hands in marriage to you. Since it's money you want, take one of them. Stay away from Emma Stokehurst.”

“The hell I will!” Adam's chin trembled in what seemed to be rage or fear, or some volatile mixture of the two. “I intend to take my chances with Emma. I happen to love her. Now get off my property, and don't ever return.”

Nikolas's mouth curved with a chilling smile. No matter how convincingly Milbank played the part, Nikolas saw through the pretense, the lies, the manipulation. “I don't think you understand,” he murmured.

“If you're trying to frighten me—”

“I'm not giving you a choice regarding Emma. There will be no visits, no correspondence, no secret meetings. If you try to see her, you'll only bring needless suffering on yourself.”

“Are you threatening me?”

The touch of amusement disappeared, and Nikolas replied in deadly seriousness. “I'm promising to make your life such a misery that you'll curse your mother for ever bearing you.” He waited calmly, while the air turned thick with frustration. He enjoyed the sight of Milbank's distress, the internal struggle between greed and fear. Milbank was a cowardly jackal, wanting Emma and her money, but not enough to risk his own safety.

Milbank turned scarlet. “I've heard of all the lives you've destroyed. I've heard about your brutality…your cruelty. If you dare to hurt Emma, I'll kill you!”

“No one will be hurt…as long as you defer to my wishes.”

“Why are you doing this?” Milbank asked hoarsely. “What plans do you have for Emma? I have a right to know!”

“Where Emma Stokehurst is concerned, you have no more rights.” Nikolas bowed with exquisite grace before taking his leave, while Adam Milbank trembled in bewildered fury.

Emma whistled cheerfully as she strode into the Stokehursts' London villa on the Thames. The mornings in June were still cool enough to allow for a vigorous ride in Hyde Park. Her horse, a beautiful but nervous two-year-old, had been difficult to manage today. Red-cheeked and sweating from exertion, Emma unbuttoned the short jacket of her riding habit as soon as she came into the entrance hall.

“Miss Emma.” The butler proffered a small silver tray with a sealed letter on it. “This arrived for you not long ago.”

“Thank you, Seymour. I wonder who…” Emma's voice faded as she recognized the small, perfectly formed handwriting. The letter was from Adam. Emma's heart gave an extra beat of excitement, and she glanced quickly at the butler. “Does Papa or Tasia know about this?”

“Neither of them has seen it,” he admitted.

She gave him her most appealing smile. “I don't think there's any need to tell them, do you?”

“Miss Emma, if you're asking me to deceive them—”

“For heaven's sake, Seymour, I'm not asking you to lie to anyone…just don't say anything unless you're asked. All right?”

He released a brief, almost unnoticeable sigh. “Yes, miss.”

“You adorable, wonderful man!” Emma threw her arms around the shocked butler, hugged him violently, then fled upstairs to read the letter in private.

After locking the door to her room, she flung herself on the bed, ignoring the dirt crumbs that fell from her skirts and boots onto the embroidered linen. She broke the brown wax seal and unfolded the letter. Tenderly her fingertip moved over the first few words.

My dearest Emma
,

I wish I could find the words to tell you how much I love you
…

Emma stopped for a second and pressed the letter to her mouth. “Adam,” she whispered, tears of happiness gathering in her eyes. But as she lowered the paper and continued to read, the smile faded from her lips, and the blood drained from her face.

My life has been changed for the better, knowing you these past months and having the occasional joy to hold you in my arms. It is with deepest sorrow…no, anguish…that I have come to realize any sort of relationship between us is impossible. Your father will never approve of us. Rather than subject you to a life of hardship and sacrifice, I must give up my dream of happiness. It is difficult not to be selfish, my sweet love, but I am compelled by honor to let you go. I am leaving the country for a while, with no idea of when I will return. Do not wait for me. It is my fondest wish that someday you might find happiness with someone who will be able to provide for you in the way your father expects. In closing, I will not say
au revoir,
but
adieu.

Ever your
Adam

Emma's mind was blank for a while, but she was conscious of a terrible pain lurking behind the nothingness, waiting to swamp her. “No, I can't bear it. Oh, God…” She rolled onto her side and clutched the letter to her midriff, struggling to breathe. Her face was dry. It would hurt too much to cry. “Adam…you didn't have to leave me…you said you would wait. You said…” Her throat contracted. She wasn't aware of holding her breath until a burst of air came into her lungs, and then another. “Adam,” she gasped, then was silent, wondering desperately if she would ever be able to feel anything again.

Luke lounged on the hearthrug, staring into the fireplace while Tasia leaned back against his chest. They shared a brandy, sipping from the same glass, occasionally kissing to share the flavor. The sitting room, attached to their private suite, was filled with golden fireglow.