Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(5)

“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 “She seems to be withdrawn tonight.”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. I meant what I said. Who could possibly be a worse son-in-law than Milbank?”

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.”