Innocent In The Prince's Bed

Chapter Four

In the end, they went to Kensington Gardens instead, a less-populated alternative to crowded Hyde Park. ‘I think it’s quieter here. I come when I want to think or talk. There’s less chance of being interrupted,’ the Prince explained, coming around to help her alight. Dove was suddenly self-conscious of her hands on his broad shoulders, of his strong hands at her waist, blue eyes laughing up at her. Were those eyes always laughing? Her reaction was silly. She’d touched him before. She had danced with him last night and they were in public with his tiger and her maid just a few feet away, to say nothing of the other carriages and couples nearby. This was hardly an intimate moment or an intimate setting, yet she was acutely aware of him.

He reached past her for something under the seat, a canvas bag he slung across his chest, then offered her his arm, taking them down to the Long Water, where the lake joined Hyde Park’s Serpentine on the park’s western edge. Her maid trailed discreetly behind them.

The light breeze off the water was refreshing and the lake was quiet. Not many were out today. An empty bench beneath a tree at the shoreline beckoned invitingly. ‘This would be the perfect place to draw.’ Dove sighed wistfully, the words slipping out. She had not drawn or painted nearly as much as she’d hoped since she’d come to London and she missed it sorely.

‘What would you draw?’ He dusted off the bench with his hand, ridding it of random tree debris.

‘The ducks and the trees with their low-hanging branches skimming the water’s surface. If I had my pencils, I could practise with the light, like Constable does.’

‘Then we should come again some time and bring your things. Today we can sit and enjoy the lake,’ he offered, ‘and you can tell me why you found your coming-out ball so distasteful last night.’ Another trade. He was constantly bartering with her, giving her what she wanted in exchange for her secrets.

‘Is everything a negotiation with you?’ Dove said amiably, settling her skirts as she sat. He’d traded her a chance at escape in exchange for his company in the drawing room and now this; the peace of the lake.

‘Is everything always defence with you? You are a suspicious soul, Lady Dove.’ Prince Kutejnikov laughed, undaunted by her boldness. He was probably used to bold women. ‘Now, tell me what had you so prickly last night. Your secrets are safe with me.’ In that moment, she wanted to believe him. Maybe it was the eyes, the smile, the pleasantness of the afternoon, the freedom of being out of doors that she found so intoxicating. Or maybe it was simply that someone had asked her what she wanted. Whatever the reason, the dam of her polite reserve broke. Her newly formed truth came out haltingly as she searched for words to express it.

‘I think I am a bit disappointed in London. It had been built up for me as a shining city of fairy tales, a metropolis beyond belief. For years, I had this image of London—women in silks and jewels, beautiful ballrooms filled with music, gallant men full of honour waiting on them.’ Dove shook her head. ‘But London wasn’t like that.’

The Prince nodded, his gaze contemplative. ‘Were there no silks last night? No jewels? No ballrooms? No gallant men?’

Dove argued. ‘Of course there were, except perhaps the gallant men, but it wasn’t enough.’ She paused, letting out a sigh. ‘You’re making me sound ungrateful.’

‘Not ungrateful. Honest, perhaps, even if that honesty is based on some rather naïve assumptions.’ The Prince crossed a long leg over a knee. ‘Are you comfortable with that?’

Dove shook her head. ‘It’s a rather unflattering depiction.’

‘Innocence is unflattering? I thought it was valued—virginity, innocence, purity, all one and the same,’ he prompted obliquely.

‘Last night you said London had taken our virginity.’

He chuckled. ‘So I did. The city has deflowered you if you have become a cynic. How does that feel? To have the proverbial scales lifted from your eyes? London is a lover who demands to be accepted on its own terms.’ His allusion was wicked and highly inappropriate. Not unlike the man himself. He was being audacious on purpose. Perhaps part of her had waited all day to hear such things, to be secretly thrilled by a man who dared to speak his mind instead of posturing. And yet, she was required to scold him for it, lest he think her too easy.

‘Does everything come back to...?’ Dove groped for a decent word, one she could say out loud and still convey what she meant, which was a scold for his boldness.

‘Sex?’ he filled in coolly. ‘Definitely. Most things in this world come down to sex. If you haven’t figured that out yet, you are still in possession of your innocence.’

‘I thought most things came down to money,’ she retorted sharply, to be perverse. It was too easy to call to mind the calculating gentlemen from the ball.

‘That is also true,’ the Prince acceded, leaning towards her conspiratorially. ‘But I think more things come down to sex.’ He laughed at her reaction. The more she scolded the more audacious he became. ‘Does the truth scandalise you, Lady Dove?’ It was easy to see him as a poet today, the way he played with words to derive certain responses. ‘Do I make you uncomfortable?’

Uncomfortable seemed a mild adjective for what he did to her. He set her skin to tingling, her thoughts to jangling, the order of her world to spinning. ‘No one has ever talked to me in such a way.’

‘Honestly? No one has ever talked to you honestly? Would you prefer I be like everyone else and continue to tell you sugar-coated versions of reality? You’ve seen how well that’s worked out.’

That might have been the hardest truth yet. Maybe she had wanted that, expected that at least; that he would argue against her version of the ball, that London was indeed the fairy tale she’d dreamed of. He’d made none of those arguments. Instead, he’d held up a mirror to her own flaws. In his mind, the problem wasn’t London, the problem was her; her naïvety in not questioning the assumptions her mother and aunts had fed her; her arrogance in assuming such a fairy tale was her due as the daughter of a duke. ‘Life was simpler in Cornwall. I spent years yearning to get away from there and now I find I wax nostalgic for it.’

‘Are you homesick? I know something about that. London takes getting used to.’

Dove gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t believe that. London suits you perfectly.’ With the exception of his clothing last night, she couldn’t imagine a man better adapted. His manners, his athletic grace on the dance floor. He had every nuance London valued in a gentleman and he was entirely at ease with himself. That was where his confidence came from, his boldness.

‘Is that your way of telling me you find me superficial, empty and disappointing?’ His words were sharp.

‘That is not fair!’ Dove snapped. He was putting words in her mouth and twisting them to be unflattering.

‘Is it honest, though?’ he pushed with a wry smile.

‘I don’t know you well enough to make such a verdict.’ The line was a flimsy refuge and he charged straight through it with all the bluntness of a raging bull.

‘And yet, you have. I saw it in your eyes last night. I saw it again this afternoon. You wanted to refuse. It was quite the sacrifice you made for your freedom back there in your drawing room. You don’t know what to make of me. It’s easier to push me away than it is to figure me out. You’re not sure you like me, but you want to.’

She blushed hotly and rose from the bench, ‘You are the most infuriating man! Is this what you wanted? To take me out so you could insult me at every turn? You’ve managed to malign innocence as a virtue and you’ve equated naïvety with stupidity. Is that what you see when you look at me? An empty-headed debutante, a spoiled princess?’ Her temper was running far ahead of her words. She was embarrassed to have been caught out, embarrassed to be seen as a hypocrite, a woman condemning the shallowness of others while being thought shallow in her judgements as well. Her mother would have a fit if she’d witnessed her daughter’s outburst. Dove had managed to break at least two of the rules.

‘Forgive me if truth and honesty are offensive to you, Lady Dove.’ His tone was cool. He didn’t want the forgiveness he alluded to. He was not sorry. She could see that in his eyes.

Dove huffed in frustration. ‘Being truthful and being honest are not permissions to be rude and insensitive. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like a moment to collect myself.’

Dove wandered to the shoreline, wanting space between her and the Prince. What sort of gentleman said such things to a lady? An honest one, apparently, to resort to his overused word of the afternoon. But such honesty created awkwardness. It was one thing to think such things privately, it was another to say them. Sharing such thoughts made interacting more difficult. How did one manage to communicate with someone who had announced your flaws out loud? Without the necessary screen of a façade, there was no protection. Perhaps she was a hypocrite after all. She was starting to understand the callers in her drawing room with their posturing and façades, but that didn’t make her like them any better.

Prince Kutejnikov was a paradox of a gentleman. For all of his royalty, he was ill bred, if this conversation was anything to go on. Actually, she had two conversations to go on and both had been highly unacceptable. The schoolroom had not taught her to converse on such subjects or in such a manner. Now they were stuck in Kensington Gardens, with awkward truths and behaviours between them. It was like being caught out of doors in an unexpected spring deluge and no refuge in sight. Unless the Prince apologised. That might be enough repair for them to survive the carriage drive home in decency.

Yes, an apology would be just the thing. She needed to prepare herself for that. Dove ran through the scenario in her mind. He would come down to the shoreline and make reparations for his boldness. In return, she would do her part and murmur regret over her own reaction. She’d better start thinking of the words she wanted to use.

* * *

But after five minutes, five very long minutes, he hadn’t come. After ten minutes, she began to fear he had left her. How would she explain that to her mother? How would she explain that the Prince had merely been exacting retribution for her having left him on the dance floor? Or that they’d quarrelled over her perceptions of him? Any one of those explanations would horrify her mother. For two more minutes, she fought the urge to look over her shoulder and see if he was still on the bench.

The curiosity was killing her. Dove bent down, feigning a check of her shoe for a non-existent pebble and shot a hasty glance at the bench. She felt some relief. He was still there and he was writing. Writing? A small travelling desk was open on his lap, a quill in hand, and he was utterly engrossed in whatever he was doing. At least that explained why he hadn’t come to her and what had been in his bag. But it was still odd. She’d been down here, worrying over an apology, expecting an apology, and he had so obviously moved past the quarrel. Blown right by it, in fact. It had not even been a ripple on his pond. Unless that was an apology he was penning?

* * *

She was watching him with those silver eyes that hid and revealed her by turn. He could feel the intensity of her gaze on him. That gaze would expose her if he looked up. But he didn’t need to. He knew what she wanted. ‘I will not give you a lie, Lady Dove.’ Illarion concentrated on the paper before him, on the words flowing out of his pen. He almost had it. He wouldn’t look up until he was done. ‘I cannot give you what I don’t possess.’

‘And what is that?’ She was cross with him anew, no doubt for giving her riddles when she wanted a very certain speech from him.

‘Remorse.’ He did look up then, setting aside his pen. ‘You want an apology from me. I cannot give it since I possess none over our last exchange. In short, I am not sorry for a single word I said.’ He watched her gaze move from him to the paper on the writing desk. He blew on the sheet once more to ensure the ink was dry and tucked the sheet inside the case. ‘Did you think I was writing you an apology?’ Lady Dove had confidence in spades to make such assumptions, to think that every man she met was dying of need to make himself presentable to her.

‘I did think it was a possibility given the nature of our conversation.’ The straightforward expectation of her due was fast becoming part of her appeal. Illarion studied her carefully, seeing beyond the outer shell of loveliness. There was a beautiful boldness to such naïve belief that she would never be denied. It was that which he had tried to capture on paper today, not an apology. That boldness could not last. It was like a bloom of spring, a bright splash of colour for a season, but ultimately destined to fade after heat and weather had its way. He had seen it happen to too many women. He didn’t want to see it happen to Dove.

He rose, tucking his writing case back into the canvas bag. ‘Since I cannot offer you an apology, I shall make a peace offering. Before we go, I would like to show you one of my favourite places, if you’ll permit?’ He placed a hand lightly at her back, guiding her towards the path, the gesture giving her permission to stay a while longer. He had decided for them. He guided her down the Lancaster Walk towards the Queen’s Temple, keeping up easy conversation as the building came into view through the trees. ‘It was built for Queen Caroline in 1734. It was meant to be a summer house.’ How odd to be the guide and not the tourist. Perhaps London truly was becoming his home now.

He paused long enough to let her study the classical parchment-coloured architecture of the last century before leading her inside where it was dim and cool and empty. Whatever treasures the Queen had once kept in here for her comfort had long been removed. Illarion let Dove wander through the three chambers ahead of him, taking in the grace of her movements, the way her hand trailed against a wall, tracing the etched initials irreverently marking the presence of guests before them. ‘That’s a shame,’ she murmured. ‘To deface a thing of beauty by marking it.’

Illarion stopped behind her, close enough to catch the light spring lilac of her perfume. ‘This is naught but an empty building to the public.’

She shook her head. ‘But once it was someone’s refuge, a place they went for privacy, where the world could not touch them for a brief while.’

There was such longing in her voice and knowledge, too, about the value of such a place. Illarion could not help but ask, ‘Did you have refuge like this in Cornwall?’

She did not look at him. Her gaze remained riveted on the ignoble etching on the wall, but a smile quirked at her lips. ‘I did. We had an orangery. It was always warm, even in the winter. I would go there and draw. In the summers, I would open the doors and sit outside.’

‘Had?’ Illarion gave a laugh. She talked as if she’d never go back. ‘London isn’t the end of the world.’

Her grey gaze swivelled to him, her voice quiet in the empty space. ‘It may not be the end of the world, Prince Kutejnikov, but it is the end of the world as I know it. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis will not go back there. When I return, it will be as someone’s Duchess if my father has his way. I will only return to visit, never to live, never to stay. My place will be with my husband. There is no question of if I will “take” this Season, or if I will wed. The only thing left to be decided is to whom.’

She moved away from him, her back to him as she spoke as the enormity of her realisation swamped her anew. ‘The stories, the fairy tales I’d been raised on about the Season, all grew my hopes. I was so excited to come and it distracted me from what coming here really meant.’

‘And what is that?’ Illarion asked carefully. He could feel the old anger begin to stir in him, the anger that had seen him exiled from Kuban, the anger that had earned the Kubanian Tsar’s displeasure.

‘That I have a duty to my family in marrying well, and that marrying “well” is not defined by finding someone with whom one shares a mutual affection, but by finding someone who’s bloodline and title and wealth are worthy of your own. My duty is to show up at the church, a beautiful symbol of my family’s part of the alliance. A symbol!’ she spat. ‘Not a person with any free will of her own.’ Her resentment was raw, palpably new and she was grappling with what it all meant.

Illarion was struck by the irony beneath her struggle. For all the liberalism of London, for all the modernity of England, some things had not changed. Even among the glittering ballrooms of the ton with its silks and jewels, women were still slaves. The hatred of such a system flooded back to him, a reminder of how dormant his passions had been in the year since he’d left Kuban, of how he’d tried to bury them, forget them. Life was easier when one did not trouble oneself with issues of social justice. It had also proven to be emptier.

Here, in the dimness of the Queen’s Temple, he felt himself coming to life. The poet-warrior in him waking after hibernation, old habits, old emotions surfacing. He closed the distance between them, wanting to touch her, wanting to give her reassurance, protection against the reality she’d glimpsed, the anger she felt over the betrayal and her own impotence, he wanted to remind her that she was a person, with free will and real feelings. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t have to be that way for you.’ He let his voice linger at her ear, let his hands rest at her shoulders as he whispered his temptation.

‘Of course it does. I cannot shame my family.’ He heard the resignation in her tone. Despite her anger, she was a loyal daughter. Did she even think of fighting it? Or like Katya, did she feel forced to accept her fate?

‘At the expense of your own happiness?’ he said softly, urging her to think about the cost of her acquiescence. He turned her then, moving her to face him, his hand tipping her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. ‘It’s easy to give up that which you don’t understand. You don’t fully know what you’d be missing.’ He wanted to awaken her, wanted to give her a reason to fight. He could show her and, if she drew certain conclusions from the demonstration, then so be it. He dropped his eyes to her lips in the briefest of warnings before he claimed them.

He teased her lips apart, his mouth patient in its instruction as she opened to him, her body answering him along with her lips and he knew then he was her first kiss, her first taste of desire, first taste of a little wickedness, too. He deepened the kiss, slowly, expertly, so as not to rush her or pressure her, but to answer her, to lead her at her pace where he wanted her to go. She was delicious in her inexperience, eager and hesitant by turns. He would ensure she didn’t regret this...until she did. Without warning, she was out of his arms and thwack!

Her palm struck his cheek, her eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell was that for?’ He was too stunned to correct his language. It wasn’t the first time curiosity over a kiss had sparked a rebellion, but it was the first time he’d been slapped for it.