"Then permit it to be later. After your coronation, if you still insist."
Adrian's small mouth set in a firm line rivaling the Regent's own.
"I wish it now. I have arranged that you shall marry the Princess Iría of Spain."
"Sire, forgive me if I presume to remind your Imperial Majesty that I have the right of questioning an order so personal."
The steel-hard anger of Stanief's voice struck fire from the flint of Adrian's determination.
"So I rule you!" he flashed tempestuously. "So you meant your pretty phrases! Dalmorov was right, right. You played with me, and I will never pardon you, Feodor Stanief."
Stanief drew back, realizing all the trap prepared for him.
"You are severe, sire," he retorted with dignity. "Perhaps reflection upon how unexpected this is, upon how serious to me is the amusement which to you signifies nothing, may win your indulgence. My life is full to overflowing; there is no place in it for a wife."
"You refuse?"
Stanief bit his lip.