Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(52)

“The truth is important,” Adam insisted, with an intensity that Emma hadn't remembered from before. She had always been the intense one, whereas Adam had been quiet and elusive. “I won't leave until you listen to me, Em. Regardless of what anyone believes, I did love you. I still do. I didn't realize exactly how much until I'd lost you. You're such a special woman. You're so damn easy to love.”

“Easy to leave, you mean.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “I was threatened into leaving you. I never wanted to, but I wasn't strong enough to stand up to him. I'll regret it every day for the rest of my life.”

“Threatened by whom? My father?”

“By your husband. He came to see me the morning after the Angelovsky ball.”

“And what did he say?” Emma asked softly.

“Nikolas told me that I was to leave you alone, for good, or he would make my life a living hell. He said I should marry someone else, because I had no more rights where you were concerned. He implied that if I continued to court you, someone would be hurt. I was afraid, Emma. Afraid for both of us. You can hate me for being a coward, but at least you must know that I love you.”

Emma felt herself turn white with shock. Adam's story fit in with everything she already knew about her manipulative, lying husband. She thought of the way Nikolas had comforted her after Adam's desertion, making use of her hurt and humiliation…seducing her the night she had discovered Adam's engagement. Every move had been calculated. Nikolas had destroyed her love with Adam, methodically taken her life apart, in order to get what he wanted. And he had encouraged her to blame her father for all of it.

“Please leave,” she said hoarsely.

“Emma, say that you believe me—”

“I believe you. But it changes nothing. It's too late for both of us.”

“It doesn't have to be. We can salvage something of what we once had.”

Emma stared at him incredulously. What was there left to salvage? What could he want from her now? “Are you suggesting an affair?”

The word seemed to startle Adam, and she saw that he hadn't expected to have it voiced openly. “As blunt as ever,” he murmured, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “It's one of the things I love most about you. What I'm trying to say is that I want to be some part of your life. I miss you, Emma.”

She closed her eyes, remembering how warm and caring Adam had been. She missed him too. If only she could go to his arms right now, and let him kiss and soothe her. But she had lost that particular freedom. Just because her husband had been unfaithful didn't mean she could abandon her own principles. There was no excuse for committing adultery. She couldn't live with herself if she did.

“I don't think there's anything I can give you,” she whispered.

“I'll be satisfied with the smallest portion of your heart. You're my true love, Em. You will be until the day I die. No one can change that—not even Nikolas Angelovsky.” His face turned hard, as she had never seen it before. “My God, someone should do the world a favor and get rid of him—before he ruins any more innocent lives!”

Nikolas heard a knock on his library door and turned away from his desk with an impatient growl. He'd had a headache all morning, and it made his work difficult. Numbers and ink scrawls seemed to dance before his eyes. Damned hangover, he thought, and made up his mind to limit his after-dinner vodka from now on.

“What is it?” he asked.

Robert Soames poked his head past the door, looking oddly excited. “Prince Nikolas, I've come to tell you that I've almost completely uncovered the painting. Some touch-up work will be required, of course, but we have an excellent impression of the original portrait.”

“I'll have a look at it later.”

“Your Highness, would you permit me to bring it downstairs for your immediate inspection? I think you'll be quite astonished.”

Nikolas quirked his brows sardonically. “Very well.”

The artist left in such haste that the door remained open. Nikolas scowled and bent over his work once more, but the lines of accounting seemed incomprehensible. He heard a little smacking noise, and he glanced at the doorway once more.

The boy, Jacob, stood there with a sugar-coated tart in his hands. Crumbs scattered on the carpeted floor with each small, careful bite.

“What do you want?” Nikolas muttered.

Jacob didn't answer, only continued to look at him with fearless curiosity.

“Where is Emma? You're usually with her this time of day.”

Jacob spoke then, in the rough country accent that never failed to surprise Nikolas, coming from a child with such classic Russian features. “She's in the menagerie. A man came to see ‘er.”

Nikolas had the feeling the boy had told him deliberately, that he hoped Nikolas would go outside and drive the stranger away. “What part of the menagerie?” he asked in a controlled voice. “Is she with the tiger?”

“No…with Cleo.”

Nikolas stood and strode from the room, using the French doors to reach the outside grounds. He was halfway through the garden when he saw Emma coming from the stables. The clang of the gates near the house alerted him that someone was heading to the front drive. Torn between going after the visitor and cornering Emma about the incident, he decided on the latter course. He went toward his wife with rapid strides.