Luring a Lady by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

stabbed him with her salad fork. “But when reality rushes in you may find yourself trampled under it. Delegate, Sydney. Hand the responsibilities over to those who understand them.”
    If her spine had been any straighter, it would have snapped her neck. “My grandfather entrusted Hayward to me.”
    â€œThe elderly become sentimental. But I can’t believe he expected you to take it all so seriously.” His smooth, lightly tanned brow wrinkled briefly in what she understood was genuine if misguided concern. “Why, you’ve hardly attended a party in weeks. Everyone’s talking about it.”
    â€œAre they?” She forced her lips to curve over her clenched teeth. If he offered one more shred of advice, she would have to upend the water goblet in his lap. “Channing, why don’t you tell me about the play?”
    At the other end of the table, tucked between Margerite and Mrs.Anthony Lowell of the Boston Lowells, Mikhail kept a weather eye on Sydney. He didn’t like the way she had her head together with pretty boy. No, by God, he didn’t. The man was always touching her. Her hand, her shoulder. Her soft, white, bare shoulder. And she was just smiling and nodding, as though his words were a fascination in themselves.
    Apparently the ice queen didn’t mind being pawed if the hands doing the pawing were as lily-white as her own.
    Mikhail swore under his breath.
    â€œI beg your pardon, Mikhail?”
    With an effort, he turned his attention and a smile toward Margerite. “Nothing. The pheasant is excellent.”
    â€œThank you. I wonder if I might ask what Sydney’s commissioned you to sculpt.”
    He flicked a black look down the length of the table. “I’ll be working on the project in Soho.”
    â€œAh.” Margerite hadn’t a clue what Hayward might own in Soho. “Will it be an indoor or outdoor piece?”
    â€œBoth. Who is the man beside Sydney? I don’t think I met him.”
    â€œOh, that’s Channing, Channing Warfield. The Warfields are old friends.”
    â€œFriends,” he repeated, slightly mollified.
    Conspiratorially Margerite leaned closer. “If I can confide, Wilhelmina Warfield and I are hoping they’ll make an announcement this summer. They’re such a lovely couple, so suitable. And since Sydney’s first marriage is well behind her—”
    â€œFirst marriage?” He swooped down on that tidbit of information like a hawk on a dove. “Sydney was married before?”
    â€œYes, but I’m afraid she and Peter were too young and impetuous,”she told him, conveniently overlooking the family pressure that had brought the marriage about. “Now, Sydney and Channing are mature, responsible people. We’re looking forward to a spring wedding.”
    Mikhail picked up his wine. There was an odd and annoying scratching in his throat. “What does this Channing Warfield do?”
    â€œDo?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”
    â€œPolo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.
    â€œYou’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.
    â€œI was born in the Ukraine.”
    â€œThe Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”
    â€œWe escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”
    â€œA wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”
    Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or