Prince of Dreams by Lisa Kleypas
Emma squared her jaw. “I'll talk to my stepmother,” she said. “Somehow I'll make her understand that you and I belong together. Then she'll convince Papa to allow the match.”
“That's my good girl.” Adam smiled and kissed her. “You return to the ball first, Em. I'll wait out here for a few minutes.”
She hesitated, staring at him wistfully. “Do you love me, Adam?”
He pulled her close against his lean body, nearly crushing the breath from her. “I adore you. You're the most precious thing in the world to me. Don't be afraid—nothing is going to keep us apart.”
Emma found her stepmother in the circular ballroom, a sumptuous cavern of gold leaf and carvings and mirrors. Sipping from a glass of wine and smiling at the easy chatter of her friends, Tasia looked like a girl in her teens rather than a matron of twenty-five. She had the same air of mystery that made her cousin Nikolas Angelovsky so fascinating. They were both full-blooded Russians, compelled by circumstance to make their home in England.
Emma went over to her stepmother and pulled her aside. “Belle-mère,” she said urgently, “I have to talk to you about something important.”
Tasia regarded her without surprise. There was little that escaped Tasia—at times it seemed she had the power to read minds. “It has to do with Lord Milbank, doesn't it?”
“Who told you?”
“No one. It's been obvious for months, Emma. Every time you disappear at a ball or soirée, so does Lord Milbank. You've been meeting each other in secret.” Tasia gave her a chiding glance. “You know I don't approve of doing things behind your father's back.”
“I've been forced into it,” Emma said guiltily. “All because Papa won't be fair about letting Adam court me.”
“Your father doesn't want anyone to take advantage of you, least of all a fortune hunter.”
“Adam is not a fortune hunter!”
“He's certainly given everyone that impression. There was that dreadful business with Lady Clarissa Enderly last year—”
“He explained that to me,” Emma said, wincing at the reminder that before he had begun courting her, Adam had been caught trying to elope with a naive young heiress. The outraged Enderly family had threatened Adam within an inch of his life, and quickly married their daughter off to a wealthy old baron. “It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.”
“Emma, your father and I want to see you with a husband who values you, who is worthy of you—”
“Who's rich enough,” Emma interrupted. “That's what this is all about. You and Papa don't like it that Adam doesn't have a great family fortune behind him.”
“And if you were penniless?” Tasia asked softly. “Would Adam still want to marry you? Of course money isn't the only reason he wants you—but you can't deny that it's a factor.”
Emma scowled. “Why is it so impossible for everyone to believe that a man could actually love me? He doesn't care about my fortune, not in the way you think. All he wants is for me to be happy!”
Tasia's eyes were soft with sympathy. “I know that you love him, Emma, and you believe he feels the same way. But your father would think so much more of Adam if he had the courage to come to him and say, ‘Lord Stokehurst, I want you to reconsider your decision about forbidding me to court Emma, because I want a chance to prove how much I respect and love her’…but no, Adam has talked you into this very suspicious hole-and-corner arrangement—”
“Can you blame Adam for being afraid of Papa?” Emma asked in a fierce undertone. “I certainly don't! There are quite a number of people who think Papa is an ogre!”
Tasia laughed, her pale blue-gray eyes finding the broad-shouldered outline of her husband in the crowd. “So did I, once. But now I know better.”
As if he sensed Tasia's gaze, Lucas Stokehurst turned and glanced at her. He was striking rather than handsome, with strong masculine features and vivid blue eyes. Some people were disconcerted by the sight of the silver hook in place of his left hand. Long ago he had lost the hand in an accident, trying to save Emma and her mother from a deadly house fire. Emma had lived through the disaster, but her mother hadn't. Sometimes Emma wondered how she might have turned out if she'd grown up with a mother. Instead there had only been her father, loving, domineering, and far too overprotective.
At the sight of his wife and daughter, Luke excused himself from a casual conversation and began to make his way over to them.
“You deserve a man like your father,” Tasia murmured as she watched Luke approach. “He would do anything for the people he loves, even sacrifice his life for them.”
“There are no other men like that,” Emma said ruefully. “Good Lord, if I have to hold every suitor up to those standards, I'll never find anyone to marry.”
“You'll find someone who's worthy of you. It will just take a little time.”
“It will take forever. If you haven't noticed, there aren't exactly crowds of frantic bachelors running after me.”
“If you would show them the side of yourself that your family sees, you would have crowds of bachelors chasing you. You have so much natural warmth and charm, but when you're around men, you turn as stiff as a statue.”
“I can't help the way I am.” Emma let out a long sigh. “But I'm different around Adam, Belle-mère. He makes me feel special…even beautiful. Please try to understand. You have to talk to Papa for me, and make him invite Adam to the house.”
Perturbed, Tasia patted Emma's arm and nodded. “I'll see what I can do. But don't expect too much. Luke isn't going to like the idea at all.”
Emma's father reached them, and though his smile encompassed both of them, his gaze lingered on Tasia. For a moment they seemed lost in a private world. It was rare to see a husband and wife so passionately in love with each other. After his first wife had died, Luke had never expected to marry again, but from the moment Tasia had entered his life, he had been bewitched by her. Since their marriage, she had given him two dark-haired sons, William and Zachary. There were times when Emma felt separate from their close-knit circle, in spite of their efforts to include her.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Luke asked Tasia, staring into her smoky cat-eyes.
“Yes,” she replied softly, smoothing the wide lapel of his black evening jacket. “But you haven't yet asked your daughter to dance.”
Emma interrupted quickly. “I'd rather be a wallflower than have my father as my only waltz partner for the evening,” she said. “And no, I don't want you to procure a partner for me, Papa. No one likes duty dances.”
“I'm going to bring over young Lord Lyndon for an introduction,” Luke said. “He's an intelligent man with a quick wit—” “I've already met him,” Emma said dryly. “He strongly dislikes dogs.”
“That's hardly reason to condemn a man.”
“Since I always seem to be covered in some sort of animal hair and smelling of dogs or horses, I don't think we'd get on well. Don't start matchmaking, Papa—you're beginning to terrify me.”
Luke smiled and tugged lightly at one of her brilliant red curls. “All right.” He turned to Tasia. “Will you do me the honor, madam?” The pair went to the dance floor, and Luke took his slender wife into his arms. Relaxing into the rhythm of the waltz, they were able to exchange a few words in private.
“Why isn't Emma socializing with anyone?” Luke asked. “She seems to be withdrawn tonight.”
“She's interested in only one man.”
A scowl crossed Luke's face. “Still Adam Milbank?” he asked grimly. “I thought I had taken care of that problem.”
Tasia smiled. “Darling, just because you forbade them to see each other doesn't mean their feelings cease to exist.”
“I'd rather marry her off to anyone but that spineless fortune hunter. Anyone would be better.”
“Don't say such things aloud,” Tasia cautioned, her fine brows drawing together. “You always like to tempt fate.”
Luke grinned suddenly. “You and your superstitious Russian nature.
Left to her own devices, Emma wandered over to the wall and leaned her back against it. She sighed fretfully, wishing she could leave the ball, or at least meander by herself through the Angelovsky manor. It was filled with ancient Russian treasures, magnificent works of art, intricately carved furniture, priceless panels thickly covered in jewels. Nikolas had brought it all with him—along with an army of family retainers—when he had come to England.
Nikolas's home was like a museum, breathtakingly opulent, intimidating, richly gloomy. The central hall was lined with fifteen towering gold pillars—an extra having been added in deference to the Russian superstition that even numbers were bad luck. A grand staircase with blue-and-gold spindles arched delicately up to the second and third floors. Dove-colored walls were highlighted with rich stained glass, rising from black-and-gray marble floors.
The manor was set in the middle of fifty thousand acres of cultivated land just to the west of London, covering territory on both sides of the Thames. Nikolas had bought the estate three years before, and had decorated it to his taste. It was a splendid setting worthy of a prince, but it must be small compared with the palaces Nikolas had owned in Russia. He had been permitted to take a tenth of his fortune with him in exile, and that fraction alone was estimated to be thirty million pounds. Nikolas was one of the richest men in Europe, and by far the most eligible. A man with all that wealth should be very happy, yet Nikolas seemed like one of the least happy people Emma had ever met. Was there some elusive thing he wanted but couldn't have, or some private desire that had never been fulfilled?
A delicately brittle voice interrupted her thoughts. “Why, look, Regina, it's our friend Emma, standing at the wall as usual. I'm surprised they haven't put a plaque there to mark your special place…‘Here Lady Emma Stokehurst has waited thousands of hours in hopes of an invitation to dance.’”
The speaker was Lady Phoebe Cotterly, accompanied by her friend Lady Regina Bradford. Phoebe was the success of the Season, possessing the magical combination of gleaming blond beauty, a revered family name, and the assurance of a generous dowry. Her only problem was deciding which of her legions of suitors she would marry.
Emma smiled uncomfortably, feeling like a towering giant as she loomed awkwardly over the two of them. She slumped her shoulders and retreated until her back was plastered against the wall. “Hello, Phoebe.”
“I know why she looks so out of place,” Phoebe said to Regina. “Our Emma feels much more at home in a barnyard than a ballroom. Isn't that right, Emma?”
Emma felt her throat tighten. She glanced across the room at Adam, who was involved in a conversation with friends. Taking courage from his distant presence, Emma told herself that Adam loved her, and therefore this girl's snide comments shouldn't matter one bit. But they still hurt.
“What a wholesome, unaffected girl you are,” Phoebe purred, digging her claws in deeper. “So unique. You should have men flocking around you. I simply don't understand why they don't appreciate your rustic charms.”
Before Emma could reply, she was startled to discover that Nikolas Angelovsky had suddenly appeared at her side. Blinking in surprise, she looked up into his inscrutable face.
“I believe it's time for the dance you promised me, cousin,” he said softly.
Emma was temporarily speechless, as were the other girls. Here in the glittering splendor of the ballroom, dressed in severe black-and-white evening clothes, Nikolas was too extraordinary to be real. The light gleamed on his austere features, highlighting each golden curve and angle, turning his eyes into iridescent pools of yellow. His goldtipped eyelashes were so long, they had tangled at the outside corners.
Phoebe Cotterly's lips drooped open with dismay as she realized that Nikolas had overheard her petty taunts. “Prince Nikolas,” she said breathlessly, “what a marvelous evening this is—and what an exceptional host you are! I'm enjoying myself very much tonight. Everything is perfect, the music, the flowers—”
“We are pleased that you approve,” Nikolas interrupted coldly.
Emma struggled to suppress a laugh. She had never heard Nikolas use the royal “we” before, but it was quite effective.
“Did you call Emma ‘cousin’?” Phoebe asked. “I wasn't aware you were related.”
“Distant cousins, by marriage,” Emma explained, ignoring the faint smile that had appeared on Nikolas's mouth.
“Our dance?” he prompted, holding out his arm.
“But, Your Highness,” Phoebe protested, “you've danced with me only once before, at the Brimforth Ball. It was an experience worth repeating, don't you think?”
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
“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.