Prince of Dreams

  “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.

  “Where are the children?” Luke asked.

  Tasia swirled the brandy in the snifter and offered him another sip, gently tilting the crystal rim against his mouth. “The boys are playing in the nursery. It's almost time for their baths…I suppose I should go up to them now.”

  “Not just yet.” His large hand closed over her arm. “This is my favorite part of evening, when I have you all to myself.”

  Tasia laughed and nuzzled the soft spot beneath his bristled jaw. “I really must go help Nurse, or the boys will splash water everywhere. And I want to check on Emma. She's been closed up in her room all day. I had Cook send up supper for her, but I don't know if she touched it.”

  Luke scowled slightly. “Probably pining over Milbank.”

  “Probably.”

  “I was certain Emma would have gotten over him by now. Can't we do something to hurry it along?”

  “Obviously you have never suffered the pangs of unrequited love,” Tasia said dryly.

  “I did with you.”

  “Hardly! You decided you loved me, and two days later you came to my bed.”

  “It was the longest two days of my life.”

  Tasia laughed at his heartfelt tone. She set aside the brandy and slid her arms around his waist. Her hands settled lightly on his muscled back. “And we've been together almost every night since.”

  “Except for Nikolas Angelovsky's interference,” Luke said darkly.

  “Shhh.” Tasia pressed her lips to his. “We agreed to forgive and forget about all that. It's been seven years.”

  “I haven't forgotten.”

  “And you don't seem to have forgiven either.” Tasia stared into his narrow sapphire eyes and shook her head slowly. “You, my darling, are the second most stubborn person I've ever known.”

  “Only the second?”

  “I think Emma may actually surpass you by a narrow margin.”

  Luke leaned over her and grinned. “The Stokehurst blood,” he informed her. “Neither one of us can help being stubborn.”

  Tasia giggled, turning her face to avoid his kisses. “The Stokehurst blood is your excuse for everything!”

  He used his weight to hold her down, and nibbled amorously on her throat as she squirmed beneath him. “Stubborn and very passionate…Let me show you.”

  “I've already had ample demonstration,” she said, gasping with laughter.

  All at once their play was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Tasia looked in that direction and had an upside-down view of Emma's tall figure. She drew apart from her husband, struggling to a sitting position. “Emma, dear…” She paused and blinked as she saw the girl's face, white and brittle, as if she'd received some dreadful shock. Luke must have seen it at the same instant, for he sat up and said his daughter's name in a questioning tone.

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” Emma said coldly.

  “What's the matter?” Tasia asked in concern. “Has something happened? You look upset—”

  “I'm all right.” Opening her fist, Emma tossed a sheet of crumpled paper at Luke's feet. The firelight played across it in flickers of red and gold. “I hope this pleases you, Papa.”

  Silently Luke picked up the letter, while his eyes remained on his daughter's drawn face.

  “Read it,” Emma said tersely. “It's from Adam. He's given up any hope of marrying me. He's leaving the country for a while. Thanks to you, I'll never have anyone.” The tiny muscles of her cheeks twitched violently. “I'll never forgive you for taking away my only chance to be loved.”

  There was a troubled look on Luke's face. “Adam Milbank didn't love you,” he said quietly.

  Emma's mouth curved in a bitter twist. “Who are you to decide that? What if he did? What if it was real love? Can you be so certain you haven't made a mistake? My father, so noble, so wise…so bloody damn perfect that you can see inside a man's heart and judge him in a glance! It must be nice to be absolutely infallible!”

  Luke didn't answer.

  “You don't want me to be married,” Emma continued in rising vehemence, “unless it's to some spineless puppet whom you can control as you do everyone else—”

  “That's enough,” Tasia interrupted.

  Emma's anguished gaze turned on her. “You don't think I've hurt my father, do you? You have to love someone in order to be hurt by their words—and I'm not privileged to be on the very short list of people Papa cares about.”

  “That's not true,” Luke said, his voice rusty. “I love you, Emma.”

  “Really? I thought loving someone meant wanting them to be happy. Well, you can keep your so-called love, Papa. I've had enough of it for a lifetime.”

  “Emma—”

  “I hate you.” A visible shudder of emotion ran through her body. In the blanket of silence that descended, she turned and walked away.

  Two

  T ASIA WAS THE first to move. Carefully she pried the letter from Luke's hand and read in silence. Luke remained sitting with his head bent, all thoughts concealed.

  After finishing the letter, Tasia set it aside with a sound of disgust. “What melodramatic prattle,” she said flatly. “He's painted them as a pair of starcrossed lovers, with you cast as the villain, of course. Adam is leaving her ‘for the sake of honor’—and he blames you for keeping them apart.”

  Luke raised his face. He was pale, and his mouth was taut. “Who else is to blame but me?”

  “You did what you felt was best.”

  His wife's quick defense brought a warm gleam to his eyes, but then Luke shook his head wearily. “Emma was right. I should have allowed for the possibility that Milbank did love her, but—” He broke off and scowled. “You and I both know he's nothing but a parasite.”

  “I'm afraid it's clear to everyone except Emma.”

  “Should I have allowed him to court her when I knew he would hurt her? Christ, I don't know anything about headstrong daughters! All I know is that she's far too good for Milbank. I couldn't stand by and let him take advantage of her.”

  “No, of course not,” Tasia said gently. “You love her too much for that. And Mary would never have wanted a man like him for her child.”

  The mention of his first wife seemed to be Luke's undoing. He turned away with a groan, staring into the fire. “There were so many lonely years for Emma after Mary died…I should have married someone right away for my daughter's sake. She needed a woman's influence. I should have thought about what it was like for her to grow up without a mother, instead of thinking only of myself—”

  “You're not to blame,” Tasia insisted. “And Emma doesn't hate you.”

  Luke laughed without humor. “She gave a hell of an imitation.”

  “She's angry and hurt because Adam deserted her, and you're the most available target. I'll talk to her when her temper cools. She'll be all right.” Tasia took his jaw in her small hands and urged him to look at her. Her blue-gray eyes were filled with love. “And you may be right about Emma needing a mother when she was young,” she whispered. “But I'm glad you didn't marry someone else. I'm so selfishly glad you waited for me.”

  Luke lowered his face to her rounded shoulder, drawing comfort from her nearnes
s. “So am I,” he said, his voice muffled. Tasia smiled and stroked his black hair, lingering on the threads of silver at his temples. To the rest of the world, Luke was a powerful, confident man who rarely allowed his emotions to show. Only with her did he reveal his doubts and feelings, trusting her with all the secrets of his heart.

  “I love you,” she said against his ear, touching the lobe with the tip of her tongue.

  Luke sought her mouth and kissed her hungrily, his arms drawing tightly around her. “Thank God for you,” he said, and pulled her down to the carpet.

  Now that the London Season was officially over, the Stokehurst household—family, servants, and animals—was transferred to its sprawling country estate. Set on a broad hill overlooking the tidy village below, Southgate Hall was a romantic home built on the remains of the original castle, a Norman fortress. With its lofty turrets and intricate front of brick and glass, it would have been the perfect setting for a fairy tale. The family would relax for the next few months, far from the humid, fetid atmosphere of London. There would be an occasional house party, a few visits paid by friends and relatives, and the activity of the summer harvest.

  Emma spent most of her time riding alone through the green countryside or working in the menagerie, located a quarter mile from Southgate Hall. The endless tasks of caring for her animals helped to take her mind off Adam. During the daylight she worked until her muscles ached, and at night she slept from exhaustion. But it was always there, the knowledge of what she had lost. She found it hard to accept that she would never be with Adam again.

  The worst part of the day was suppertime. Emma gulped down her food and left the table as soon as possible, unable to endure her family's presence. She had never been so angry with her father. Every moment of loneliness was his fault. Every night of solitary sleep was because of him. Her father had made a few apologetic overtures to her, but she had remained coldly unforgiving. As far as Emma was concerned, there was no chance they would ever resume the close relationship they had once had. Something had been broken that could never be repaired.