Innocent In The Prince's Bed

Dove quietly studied her parents as they talked about art, the one appreciation all three of them shared. She’d always seen her parents as kind, conscientious people, who took their roles as community providers responsibly. Her father didn’t drink or gamble excessively, like other men of the ton. Her mother was always dressed in the height of fashion, but not extravagantly so; she did charity work, she took care of the sick and infirm in their village. They’d raised her in love. Dove had never doubted their affection for her. And yet, those same people who loved her and whom she loved in return had just set aside an individual as if he was no more than an ant on the floor to be crushed beneath an arbitrary boot heel.

Something rebellious stirred inside Dove, perhaps flickering to life for the first time, stoked by the questions blooming in her mind, or perhaps it had already existed, ignited by her dissatisfaction with London and her first brush with the reality of the Season and all that entailed. She was meant for the likes of Percivale or someone of his calibre. Even Alfred-Ashby and Lord Fredericks had been relegated to the hangers-on, those who were merely window dressing for the main pursuit of catching a duke. But knowing that didn’t make her like Percivale any better.

What would happen if she didn’t comply? Would she, too, lose her value? This was new ground. It had never occurred to her to not comply. Her parents had always wanted what was best for her and she’d been raised to obey those decisions. She’d never thought to question those decisions. She’d never had a reason to. Until now. These were heady thoughts, indeed, as if she’d seen light for the first time.

* * *

A blazing glare of white light attacked Illarion’s eyelids in one sweeping, orchestrated assault. He groaned and flung an arm over his face in a belated attempt to ward off the morning. Who the hell had let the sun in? To answer that question he’d have to open an eye, or wait until the intruder spoke. He didn’t have to wait long.

There was a growl of disgust from the window, which meant the intruder was Stepan, his friend and occasional adhop. When the four princes had fled Kuban, they’d needed a leader and Stepan had effortlessly stepped into the role, giving them direction and making decisions. Now that they’d arrived in London, they seemed to need him even more as they adjusted to their new lives, whatever those might be. ‘What happened in here? The place looks like a storm passed through.’

‘Inspiration struck,’ Illarion ground out. His tongue felt thick. It was hard to find the motivation to make the words.

‘Looks more like lightning.’

Illarion could hear Stepan moving about the room, clearing a path as he came. There was the sound of books being stacked, papers being shuffled in to order. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ he managed a hoarse warning.

‘I don’t know how you can find anything in here. I should send a maid up to clean.’ That galvanised Illarion into action. He pushed himself up, remembering just in time how narrow the sofa was that he’d fallen asleep on, and how uncomfortable. His neck hurt, his back was stiff, his legs cramped. Inspiration was deuced difficult on a body.

‘I don’t want a maid, Step. I have everything just the way I like it.’ Illarion pushed his hands through his hair and tied the tangles back with last night’s ribbon.

‘Half-empty sheets with words scrawled on them randomly strewn across any available space? You like it that way? It’s impossible to find anything.’

Illarion gave an exasperated sigh. Stepan didn’t always grasp the nuances that went with having an artistic temperament. That Stepan tolerated such nuances was a sign of the tenacity of his friendship. ‘I write poetry, not novels. I don’t need to fill up pages.’

Stepan waved a crumpled sheet. ‘When I said half-sheets, I was being generous. There’s five words on this page. “A bird in my hand...” That’s not even a complete sentence.’ Or a terribly original one when it came down to it.

Illarion grimaced and lurched forward, grabbing for the paper despite the pounding in his head. ‘Give me that! Of course it’s not complete, it’s not done.’ He hated people reading what he wrote before he was ready, especially people who didn’t understand the artistic process, people like Stepan who understood numbers and balance sheets. Protectively, he smoothed the sheet and set it down beside him. ‘You should know better than to disturb a writer at work.’ In Kuban, he’d been a royal poet, the Tsar’s own laureate. But his latest efforts were an embarrassment.

Stepan gave a harsh laugh. ‘At work? I would hardly call the state I found you in work, or the schedule you’ve been keeping, up all hours of the night, asleep all hours of the day.’ Stepan made an up and down gesture indicating the length of him. ‘Look at you. You’re as dishevelled as the room. Your hair’s a wreck, your clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them, I might add, and they’re starting to hang. You’re losing weight, you need a shave and this place is a shambles: half-empty decanters, dirty glasses and not a plate in sight. When’s the last time you ate something?’ Sometimes having a friend like Stepan was a pain in the backside. He saw too much.

Illarion stumbled to the basin and poured water. Cold. Good. It would wake him up faster. ‘You know how it is when I’m trying to write.’ He braced his hands on either side of the bowl and caught sight of himself in the little mirror above it. Good lord, Stepan was right. He did look a bit rough, but nothing a razor and a hot meal couldn’t fix. He just wished his stomach didn’t rebel at the thought of the latter.

A knock at the door brought the servants and the threat of Stepan’s hot meal materialised. Illarion gave a tentative sniff: sausage, toast, coffee. Ah, coffee. That would help immensely. He took his time washing while a space was cleared and food laid out, giving his stomach a chance to ready itself. Breakfast was starting to smell delicious, a good sign he’d get through the meal and pacify Stepan, whose residence in a newly excavated chair made it clear he wasn’t leaving until he was satisfied his friend had eaten.

It was time to get a place of his own, Illarion thought, like Nikolay had done. Stepan was worse than having a father sometimes. Of course, Nikolay had married first. One couldn’t very well be living with three bachelors when one had a new wife. Illarion had no such intentions of marrying. There were far too many women in the world for sampling to limit himself to just one. Besides, the institution of marriage Kubanian style hadn’t exactly recommended itself to him, with all its rules and expectations. Love was not one of those expectations. He’d seen too many people—close friends—forced into marriages not of their choosing. And then he’d seen them wither away; strong people, vibrant people like Katya, becoming husks of their former selves.

Illarion dried his face and took a chair across from Stepan, letting Stepan pour him a cup of coffee. ‘How’s the writing going?’ Stepan passed him the cup, his tone less surly.

‘Better.’ If one called five cliché words strung together in a phrase ‘better’. He’d hurried home from the Burton ball last night, scribbling madly in the carriage, racing to his room to pull out paper and pen in an attempt to capture the emotions brought on by the haughty Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis. The flurry of images, however, had flown, his pen unable to capture the feelings in words, his mind unable to focus, preferring instead to follow the questions she’d prompted. Why hadn’t she liked him? He’d done everything right; he’d allowed the hostess to introduce him, he’d made the guest of honour the centre of his immediate attentions. He’d waltzed with her, made conversation with her. He’d been the ideal gentleman. No woman in Kuban could have faulted his manners or his deportment. But she’d found fault aplenty and, truly, he didn’t understand why.

‘I met a woman who inspired me last night,’ Illarion began, sipping at the hot coffee. ‘The first in a long while, to tell the truth. She was like...sin in satin.’ He had been stirred not just by her beauty, but also her spirit, buried deep behind those eyes, a rebel in white, the outer purity of a debutante juxtaposed against the inner shadow on her soul, the shades of rebellion hidden within. He found it intriguing even if that rebellion had been aimed at him. He wondered now in the clarity of daylight if her dislike had been of him or of the occasion? Was it possible she hadn’t enjoyed the ball? He’d thought she was lying earlier when he’d asked.

‘That sounds promising,’ Stepan encouraged.

‘It was!’ Illarion replied passionately. ‘Right up until I got home and nothing would come. My head was so full I couldn’t get the words out and then the images were gone, just like her.’

‘Ah, hence the bird in the hand,’ Stepan murmured. ‘I like sin in satin better.’

Illarion gave a wry smile and reached for a pen. ‘That is pretty good, isn’t it?’ He’d been disappointed in himself last night. He’d tried everything, even brandy, to get the creative juices to flow, but nothing had worked. Candles had burnt down and eventually he’d thrown himself on the mercy of sleep just before the sun had come up, another night that had begun with promise, wasted. He couldn’t afford many more nights like that. ‘She inspires me, Stepan, and I have to write something. I have the reading in three weeks and nothing to perform. An original work is expected.’

It was to be a grand affair, attended by the ton’s best. He’d been invited to do a reading from some of the poems that had got him exiled from Kuban. People had been clamouring for months now. He’d wisely kept them under wraps until the time was right to make the most of them. But there was also an expectation he’d have something new as well, perhaps something that celebrated his new life in London. To capture that celebration, to seek inspiration from the subject, he’d immersed himself in the ton, with all its beauty and entertainment, its lavishness and grandiosity, and he’d come up empty night after night. Until last night when a woman who disdained him had lit a spark. ‘There’s nothing for it, Stepan, I have to have her.’ He pushed a hand through his hair and went to his wardrobe. He had an introduction and her name. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.

Stepan, however, was more cynical. ‘You have to have her? How, precisely, do you mean that? Surely you don’t mean to bed her. Is she even beddable?’ Meaning, was she of the merry-widow variety and eminently available, or was she a virginal debutante, and as such, untouchable? It was a highly salient question indeed, although one Illarion had no intention of answering. For one, it gave away who the muse was and he wanted to savour the thrill of the secret. For another, he simply didn’t have an answer.

Illarion turned from the wardrobe. He hated when Stepan was a step or two ahead of him. The truth was, he didn’t know exactly what ‘having’ Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis entailed at this point. He was only interested in feeding his muse, but Stepan, as usual, had a point. He couldn’t bed her, not without marriage first and that seemed a bit extreme to contemplate at this point. He just wanted to write poetry the way he used to—poetry, by the way, that focused on avoiding marriage, not engaging in it.

‘Well?’ Stepan pressed. ‘This is important, Illarion. You can’t seduce every Englishwoman you meet.’

Illarion thought back to the night before and all the men gathered around her. ‘I will be part of her court, nothing more. A few dances, a few social calls, a bouquet of flowers now and then.’ It would probably take more than that for what he had planned, but the answer would pacify Stepan and it actually seemed a good place to start when he thought about it. He would play the potential suitor well enough to get her alone, long enough to be inspired. His mind hummed with a plan.

‘You, the swain? It’s hard to imagine,’ Stepan teased.

‘Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.’ Illarion didn’t laugh. He was deadly serious about finding his muse. ‘I have to do something or I will show up to my own reading empty-handed.’ He dived back into his wardrobe, rummaging for a waistcoat.

‘I am sure it’s not as dire as all that. Something will come to you, it always does. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to clean up,’ Stepan offered the reassuring platitudes nonwriters gave their literary friends.

‘Time?’ Illarion said distractedly, hauling out two waistcoats, one blue, one a rich cream. ‘What time is it?’

‘Two o’clock. I’m afraid you slept away most of the day.’

‘Perfect.’ Illarion was undaunted by his friend’s scold. Stepan believed every day began at sunrise. He pulled out a dark blue coat and reached for the bell pull. He needed his valet and a shave. At-homes began at three. He had just enough time to make himself presentable and stop for flowers on the way.

‘What are you doing?’ Stepan asked, undoubtedly perplexed by the burst of energy.

‘I am going calling.’ Illarion rifled through a bureau drawer. ‘Where did I put my cards?’

Stepan rose, rescuing a chased silver case from being drowned in paper on the desk. ‘They’re here. Who may I ask are you calling upon?’

Illarion turned from the wardrobe with a grin. Stepan was like a dog with a bone, but Illarion would not give up her name. ‘My muse. Who else?’ This time he’d be prepared for her. He was already planning how he might separate her from the herd. He had no illusions about finding his muse alone. She’d been vastly popular last night. Gentlemen would be sure to flock to her at-home today to extend their interest. He’d have to charm her into a walk in the gardens, or a tour of the family portrait gallery. Thankfully, charm was his speciality. His haughty inspiration in white satin would not give him the slip again.

‘You are quite determined—’ Stepan began and Illarion sensed a lecture coming on. He cut in swiftly.

‘Don’t you see, Step, she might be the one, the one to break the curse.’

‘You’re not cursed.’ Stepan shook his head in tired disbelief. ‘I can’t belief you’re still carrying that nonsense around with you. It’s been a year and you’ve been able to write. You did an ode last week to the Countess of Somersby. The ladies were wild for it. The society pages even reprinted it.’ Stepan was as practical as they came. On the other hand, Illarion had a healthy respect for the supernatural.

‘That was drivel. It wasn’t a real poem. The Countess is easily impressed,’ Illarion argued. He’d produced nothing but soppy, superficial lines on tired themes for the past year. But that was hopefully about to change. With luck, he’d be able to write tonight.

Chapter Three

Dove glanced at the clock on the mantel and double-checked her mathematics. With luck, no one else would arrive and these gentlemen would leave when their half-hour was up. Then, she’d have the rest of the afternoon to draw. Freedom was only a few minutes away. It was possible. It could happen. After all, so many of the expected gentlemen had arrived as soon as it was decent to do so at quarter past three and they’d kept arriving in wave after wave. The footmen had been kept running for vases under the onslaught of bouquets. Too bad the gentlemen hadn’t brought new personalities instead. If she’d hoped they might shine better by daylight than they had by the light of her godmother’s chandeliers, that notion had been quickly dispelled. The only bright spot was that Percivale hadn’t arrived yet.

Her mother beamed with pride each time a new gentleman had been announced, keeping up a quiet running commentary at her ear, ‘Lord Rupert has four estates and stands to inherit an earldom from his uncle. Lord Alfred-Ashby has a stable to rival Chatsworth in the north. Of course, all that pales compared to Percivale. He is the real catch. He’ll inherit his uncle’s dukedom.’ On the prattle went, each gentleman assessed and categorised as he entered, smiled and bowed, as if he were oblivious to what was really happening, as if he thought he might truly be valued for himself. Dove wondered: Did they know who had already been discarded? In counter to that, who was here simply for politeness’ sake? Who in this room had already discounted her?

Dove was not naïve enough to think her mother was the only one doing any assessing. Each of the gentlemen were appraising her in turn. It was why her hair had taken her maid an hour to style so that it softened the sharp jut of her chin. It was why she’d worn the pale ice-pink afternoon gown to bring out the platinum of her hair. Heaven forbid she be seen in any colour with yellow undertones that clashed with her skin. Even with that effort, there would be those who decided they would do better to marry elsewhere. The idea that she’d been dismissed carried a surprising sting. She wasn’t used to rejection, implied or otherwise.

Dove scanned the room, wondering. To whom in this room had she become only a trinket to be added to their social cache? It was a bitter pill to think that some of the gentlemen were only here because she was the Season’s Diamond of the First Water and they would benefit from association with her. They had no intentions of getting to know her. Just of using her.

Such assessment had never been part of the fairy tale she’d grown up on. How splendidly everyone filling her drawing room pretended to be themselves and how disgusting it was. Her newly awakened sense of injustice rose again. People were basing life-long decisions on these façades. Coupled with the ridiculous rules of courtships and calls it was downright farcical; a gentleman might stay no longer than a half-hour, preferably somewhat less, and he might certainly not be alone with the subject of his affections.

How did one get to know anyone in the confines of a large group and conversation limited to the weather and the previous night’s entertainment? Lord Fredericks laughed at something said in his small group by the window and she heard his standard reply: ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Perhaps the rules weren’t so limiting after all. She already knew she couldn’t spend a lifetime with him, or any of the gentlemen present for that matter. It had only taken one ball and one at-home to make that clear. Maybe the rules had done her a favour, after all, by sparing her any more of Lord Fredericks’ company.

* * *

At the stroke of half past four, the last group of gentlemen dutifully began to take their leave and Dove began to hope. She crossed her fingers for good luck in the folds of her skirt as she smiled politely and accepted goodbyes. She could almost feel the charcoal in her hand, she was that close to freedom. She was working on a drawing of a mare in the mews, bought for her riding pleasure. The mare had a soulful face and she was eager to capture it on paper. She’d already done several sketches in the attempt. But something was missing. Perhaps if she took the mare outside where the light was better?

The last two gentlemen had just left, the door barely shut behind them, when disaster arrived.

‘His Royal Highness, Prince Illarion Kutejnikov,’ the butler intoned.

He was dressed in dark blue superfine and buff breeches and cream waistcoat, far more English today than he’d been last night, but no less tempting. Dove’s pulse sped up in a turmoil of anxious excitement. Just this morning she’d wanted to see him again and now he was here. Lesson learned. One needed to be careful with what one wished for, because wishes could end up in one’s drawing room.

‘Prince Kutejnikov.’ Dove nodded politely as he presented her with a pretty bouquet of lilies of the valley. ‘How kind of you to call and what a surprise.’ What sort of man called on a girl who’d left him on the dance floor? Two options came to mind: obtuse or arrogant. Perhaps the Prince was one of those men who thought every woman was dying of love for him. Only in this case, he might be right.

‘These reminded me of you,’ he murmured with a smile. She waited for the usual accolades to follow—‘you are like springtime in bloom, you are fresh, innocent’. She’d heard them all today. But none of the usual came. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, ‘Beautiful on the outside, poisonous on the inside.’

‘What a lovely concept.’ She forced a smile to match his, but hers was nowhere near as convincing. What did a girl say to a man she’d rejected the night before? He knew he had her cornered. He was laughing at her. She could see it in his eyes—cobalt and merry. The chandeliers last night had not done them justice. ‘I’ll find a vase. I know just the one I want.’ Any vase that took a half-hour to find. The search would let her escape the drawing room for a little while. Perhaps he’d made his point and he’d be gone by the time she returned.

In the hallway, she drew a calming breath. The Prince was outrageous. Another gentleman would have taken her rather broad hint last night and not bothered to call. At least he’s not boring, a small, perverse part of her mind whispered for the sake of argument. True, but what he was might be worse: a temptation, handsome, different, a diversion from the disappointments of the Season. He lit up a room with his presence, where the other gentlemen merely filled up a room with theirs. A footman hurried up to her, a vase in hand, cutting short her search. Her parents’ servants were too well trained. Dove took her time walking back to the drawing room, only to make two discoveries. First, that leaving had been her first mistake. Second, not even her mother was insusceptible. The Prince, it seemed, was not as easily dismissed in person as he had been over breakfast.

Prince Kutejnikov sat beside her mother, smiling, leaning forward, eyes riveted on the Duchess as if the conversation was the most interesting he’d ever had. He rose when she entered, flashing that smile in her direction. Her mother rose, too. ‘There you are, dear. I was just saying to the Prince that it’s too lovely a day to stay inside. He suggested you might enjoy a drive in the park. I’ve sent your maid for your bonnet and gloves.’

‘I have my curricle waiting at the kerb,’ the Prince added, mischief sparking in his eyes as if he knew the very protests running through her head. There’d be no relief for her. She was trapped. With him; a man she’d deserted on the dance floor last night, and he’d given every indication with his lilies of the valley he meant to claim retribution for it. This was his revenge: a drive in the park where they would have to make conversation with each other, where he could say more audacious things and talk about debauching London’s virgins. She didn’t deserve it. She’d been acting out of self-protection.

Her maid arrived with her things and he took the light shawl, settling it about her shoulders, his touch sending sparks of awareness through her. The question of going was settled, too. It did not escape Dove’s notice that she’d not actually accepted the invitation. Now it was too late to turn it down.

The Prince offered her his arm and her awareness of him piqued. She was cognisant of his height, of the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer muscled bulk of him. It was hard to believe he was a poet with a body like that. Poets were wan, pale, intellectuals. ‘Time is of the essence, Lady Dove. Let’s be off before you are beset with more callers.’ To her mother he nodded courteously and said, ‘We won’t be over-long. Thank you for the conversation. I haven’t enjoyed such a talk in a while. I look forward to another one soon.’ Was her mother blushing? It made Dove curious. What had they’d talked about?

She was still pondering the transition as the Prince helped her up to the bench of his curricle. Her mother, a stickler for propriety where her daughter was concerned, had proved not the least bit resistant to her driving in the park with a foreign prince the Duchess of Redruth barely knew. What had happened to rule number two: being polite to all but never falsely encouraging those who are beneath her? There was only one explanation for it. ‘You manipulated my mother,’ Dove said, partly in accusation, and partly in admiration. The Duchess was not easily swayed.

He winked, all easy confidence. ‘Most women like my persuasion. Besides, it’s not every day one’s daughter goes driving with a prince.’ He laughed, settling beside her, his long legs stretched out. He flashed her a smile. ‘What good is it to be a prince if one can’t throw one’s title around?’ But Dove thought it wasn’t entirely the title that had done the trick. She knew what her parents thought of him—that he was not worthy of the Redruth attentions. It made his feat all that more impressive. She was coming to believe that Illarion Kutejnikov usually got what he wanted, prince or not.