Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(99)

“There's no way in hell Charles will let her visit Angelovsky.”

“Ah. So both you and Charles are in complete control of your wives?” Tasia sprang from her chair, unable to sit and talk calmly any longer. Resentment boiled up inside her. “When I married you, I expected to have an English husband who would respect me, who would allow me to say what I think, and give me the freedom to make choices for myself. From what you've told me, that was no less than what you gave your first wife. You can't claim that I would be in any danger from Nikolas, nor would I do harm to anyone by seeing him! You can't forbid me something without offering any explanation why.”

Luke's face darkened with rage. “In this you'll obey me,” he said in a guttural tone, “and I'll be damned if I give you an explanation. In some matters my decision is final.”

“Simply because you're my husband?”

“Yes. Mary abided by that, and so will you.”

“I will not!” Tasia quivered like a tightly drawn bow. Her hands knotted into fists. “I'm not a child you can order about! I'm not a belonging, or an animal you can harness and lead wherever you wish, or a slave to do your bidding. My mind and body are my own—and until you reverse your decision about letting me see Nikolas, you are not to touch me!”

Luke moved so swiftly that she didn't have time to react. All at once she was caught up against him, his hand twisted in her hair, his crushing mouth fastened on hers. He kissed her hard, grinding her lips against her teeth until she tasted blood. She whimpered and pushed against him, gasping with fury when he released her. Slowly her trembling fingers moved up to her bruised lips.

“I'll touch you whenever and however I want,” Luke said harshly. “Don't push me too far, Tasia…or you'll regret it.”

Although Alicia had no desire to see Nikolas, she was curious about his situation. “They say it took twenty wagons to bring his valuables from the docks to the house he let,” she told Tasia as the two of them talked over tea. “He's had all sorts of callers already, but he won't see anyone. It's all anyone is talking about—the mysterious exiled Prince Nikolas Angelovsky.”

“Are you going to visit him?” Tasia asked quietly.

“My dear, I haven't seen Nikolas since I was a little girl, and I have no desire or obligation to see him now. Besides, Charles would explode if I set one foot on Nikolas's property.”

“I can't imagine Charles in a temper,” Tasia said. “He's the most mild-mannered person I've ever known.”

“It does happen,” Alicia assured her. “Once every two years or so. You wouldn't want to be in the vicinity when he blows.”

Tasia smiled slightly, then gave a deep sigh. “Luke is angry with me,” she confided. “Very angry. Perhaps he has every right to be. I can't explain why I must see Nikolas…All I know is that he's alone and suffering, and there must be some way I can help him.”

“Why would you want to, when all Nikolas has ever done for you is cause trouble?”

“He also helped me to escape from Russia,” Tasia pointed out. “Do you know where his house is? Tell me, Alicia.”

“Surely you're not going to disobey your husband?”

Tasia's brows quirked with a frown. She had changed over the past months. Once there would have been no need to ask such a question. She had been raised to regard a husband's word as law, to accept his authority without question. She remembered the bitter irony of Karolina Pavlova, a Russian writer: “Learn, as a wife, the suffering of a wife…she must not seek the path to her own dreams, her own desires…all her soul is in his power…even her thoughts are fettered.”

But that was no longer her fate. She had come too far, had changed too much, to let someone else own her soul. It was important for her to prove that to herself as well as to Luke. She would act according to her own conscience, and love her husband as a partner rather than revere him as her master.

“Tell me where Nikolas lives,” she said firmly.

“Forty-three Upper Brook Street,” Alicia murmured, wincing. “The big white marble house. And don't let anyone know that I was the one who told you—I shall deny it to my last breath.”

Tasia waited until the next afternoon, when Luke was gone and Emma was immersed in French philosophy. She ordered a carriage to be prepared and left on the pretext of paying a call on the Ashbournes. Upper Brook Street was only a short distance from the Stokehurst estate. Tasia wondered why Nikolas had taken a house there, and if anyone had accompanied him from Russia. Her feeling of urgency increased, not to mention her nervousness, as the carriage stopped in front of a huge marble mansion. A footman preceded her up the front steps to knock at the door. They were greeted by the housekeeper, an old Russian woman dressed in black, with a gray scarf tied over her hair. Evidently Nikolas had not seen fit to hire a butler. The housekeeper muttered a few words in broken English and gestured for Tasia to go away.

Tasia spoke briskly. “I am Lady Anastasia Ivanovna Stokehurst. I have come to see my cousin.”

The woman was surprised by her perfectly accented Russian. She answered in kind, seeming relieved to have a countrywoman to confide in. “The prince is very ill, madam.”

“How ill?”

“He is dying, madam. Dying very slowly.” The housekeeper crossed herself. “A curse must have been placed on the Angelovsky family. He has been this way ever since he was questioned by the special committee in St. Petersburg.”