Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(32)

“Nikolas will follow wherever I send her. The only way I can prevent this is to kill him—or lock my daughter in a room for the rest of her life.”

“I'll keep talking to Emma. Somehow I'll make her understand what kind of man Nikolas really is.”

“You can try,” he said tonelessly. “I don't think it will do any good.”

“Luke…” She approached him from behind, trying to slide her arms around his waist, but he stiffened.

“I need some time alone,” he said, facing away from her. “I need to think.” He shook his head and made an agonized sound. “My God, how I've failed Emma's mother. All the things Mary would have wanted for her daughter…and I've let it come to this.”

“You haven't failed anyone. You've been the most loving and generous father imaginable. This isn't your fault.” Tasia stroked the rigid line of his back. “Emma was born with so much spirit. She's stubborn and hot-tempered, but she has a loving heart, and she does learn from her mistakes.”

Luke turned to her then, his blue eyes glittering. “Not this mistake,” he said hoarsely. “This one will ruin her…and I'll be damned if I can do anything about it.”

After returning to the Angelovsky estate, Nikolas spent the afternoon reading the latest reports on his financial investments, then settled in for the evening with a bottle of chilled vodka. Wearing a gray silk dressing robe, lounging on the amber leather settee in his private suite, he paged idly through a volume of writings by Lermontov.

There was a hesitant tap on the door, and the muffled voice of his servant Karl. “Your Highness, there is a visitor from the Stokehurst household.”

Nikolas was mildly surprised by the news. “Is it Lady Emma?”

Karl peeked around the edge of the door, his fair Russian face drawn in perplexed lines. “No, Your Highness. Her stepmother, the duchess.”

Surprise deepened into astonishment, and Nikolas raised his brows inquiringly. Tasia hadn't paid him a private visit since his illness seven years ago, when she had nursed him back from the brink of death. “This should be interesting,” he said. “Bring her to me.”

He watched the door intently until Tasia appeared. Her face was as fragile and pale as porcelain. As always, she was perfectly composed, her expression serene, every strand of her shining dark hair pinned smoothly in place. The lavender gown she wore was a perfect foil for the silvery blue of her eyes. She had looked exactly this way at age eighteen, with an otherworldly quality that had never failed to intrigue him.

“You're dressed in the color of mourning,” Nikolas said with a touch of mockery, standing as she entered the room. “But this is a time for celebration, Cousin Tasia.” He gestured to the refreshments beside him. “Vodka? Zakuski?”

Tasia shook her head at the sight of the “little snacks” so dear to a Russian's heart: slivers of buttered bread topped with caviar; tiny meat pies dotted with sour cream; sardines; pickles; all artfully arranged on a silver tray.

“At least have a seat,” Nikolas said.

Tasia remained standing. “You owe me,” she said quietly. “You admitted it all those years ago. You said the debt would last through your children's children. You believed I killed your brother, Mikhail—and of all the people calling for my execution, your voice was the loudest. When I escaped from Russia, you followed me to England, kidnapped me, and brought me back to St. Petersburg. You intended for me to die, to pay for a crime I didn't commit.”

“I was wrong,” Nikolas said impatiently. “I discovered my mistake, and I did my best to rectify it.”

“And then later,” Tasia continued without inflection, “when you were exiled and you came to England half-dead, I took care of you until you were well again. You might have died without my help.”

“I would have died,” he acknowledged gruffly.

“I've never asked you for anything in return—until now.”

“What are you asking, cousin?” Nikolas murmured, although he knew.

“Don't marry Emma. Leave England for good, and never see my stepdaughter again.”

“And what will it do to her, to have been abandoned by two men in such a short time?”

“Emma is young. She's stronger than you think. She'll recover in good form.”

His lips twisted in a half sneer. “Don't be a fool. If I leave her, she'll be devastated. At the very least she'll never trust a man again. She'll hate you and your self-righteous English husband. Is that what you want?”

Tasia's composure faltered, and a flush of rage crept over her face. “That might be better for her than to be destroyed by you, day by day, piece by piece, until nothing's left of her!”

“I'll be a better husband to Emma than any of the men she was likely to get.”

“Oh, a fine husband,” Tasia agreed acidly, “who's done nothing so far but manipulate and seduce her. I can scarcely wait to see what comes next. You may have good intentions, Nikolas—you may even have convinced yourself that you'll be an adequate husband—but in the end, Emma will be hurt by you. Because you can't change your nature. You've been shaped by a past filled with such pain and ugliness that it's warped you forever. Much of it wasn't your fault, but that doesn't matter. You are what you are. I understand why you want Emma. She has all the goodness and innocence and compassion you've never been able to feel. You intend to own her, and to keep her here along with all the other beautiful objects you've collected. But I ask you now to honor the debt you owe me. You must leave Emma alone.”