Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(7)

Her thoughts were jerked back to the present as they waltzed by Adam Milbank, who was standing at the side of the room. Adam was watching her with astonishment. What must he be thinking? Emma's spine stiffened, and her movements became stilted as Nikolas guided her across the floor. If only she could rush over to Adam and explain the situation!

“Your friend must be watching us,” Nikolas said.

Emma was surprised by his perceptiveness. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“A taste of jealousy never hurts a love affair.”

“I suppose you would know. You've found your way into quite a few beds, haven't you?”

Nikolas looked amused. “Do you ever guard your tongue, ruyshenka?”

“Does it offend you?”

“No.”

“Sometimes I try to be polite and restrained. It lasts for a half hour or so, and then I'm back to my old ways.” Emma twisted impatiently to glance at the musicians in their flower-covered alcove. Her movement caused Nikolas to miss a step. “Isn't this waltz nearly over? It seems to have lasted forever.”

“You're not enjoying yourself?” Nikolas asked, compensating for the lost step and reestablishing their rhythm.

“Not with all these people watching us. You may be used to it, but it makes me nervous.”

“I'll end your torment, then.” Drawing her to the side of the room, Nikolas released her waist. He brought her hand to his mouth in a perfunctory gesture. “Thank you for the dance, cousin. You are a most charming partner. I wish you luck with your friend.”

“Oh, I don't need luck,” she replied confidently.

“One never knows.” Nikolas bowed and strode away, thinking to himself that all the luck in the world wasn't going to help Emma's cause. She would never belong to any other man. He had always known she was meant for him, only him…and soon he would have her.

The Milbanks were the brand of European aristocrat that Nikolas despised most, living off an ever-shrinking pool of resources that they were either too lazy or too proud to supplement—except by marrying their children off to wealthy families. They would never work except at some nominal position at a bank, law firm, or insurance company. And they clung too tightly to their dwindling hoard of money to ever make a profitable investment.

Standing at the front door of the Milbanks' London home, Nikolas returned the butler's mildly startled expression with a level gaze.

“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?”