Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘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.

  ‘I did not think I would find you alone, today,’ he began, pulling out into the traffic. ‘I had elaborate plans for stealing you away from your crowd of adoring suitors. A drive is so much better.’

  ‘They were here earlier. You just missed them.’ She kept her answers cool and short. It was all the defence she had. Perhaps if she did not encourage him a second time, he would leave her alone. What a pity that would be. Her thoughts had grown a mind of their own. She was supposed to be resisting him, dissuading him. And yet, there was no denying he was the most intriguing person she’d met in London.

  ‘Then I am the lull before the second wave. I’ve saved you. Perhaps you should be thanking me.’ He chuckled conspiratorially, his laugh warm and congenial as he nudged her with his elbow. ‘You are disappointed? I wonder, Lady Dove, if it’s me that disappoints you or that you’ll miss the other suitors? Was there someone you were hoping to see?’ That was the problem. The only one she’d been hoping to see was him. Now that he was here, she had no idea what to do with him. She couldn’t encourage him and she didn’t want to turn him away even though she should.

  ‘I am disappointed by neither,’ Dove protested.

  He fixed her with a sideways slide of his blue stare. ‘Don’t lie to me. That’s the second time in two days, Lady Dove. It’s why I am here. I want the truth about last night. Why were you dismayed to dance with me? Was it me or the occasion? I was lying in bed... Well actually, I was lying on a sofa—very narrow by the way—thinking of you and our dance and it occurred to me that perhaps your reaction was not to me specifically.’

  Dove felt herself blush at the image of him lying in any sort of bed. ‘That is a most improper reference, your Highness. In England, unmarried men and women don’t discuss their nightly, um, rituals with one another.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen, I don’t think married men and women do either,’ he answered boldly. ‘Perhaps they should.’ Dear heavens, his conversation was positively rash! This was not how gentlemen talked.

  ‘Perhaps it is your use of innuendo I object to,’ Dove replied. ‘This is the second time in two days you’ve couched our conversation in rather intimate terms.’

  ‘Couched. I like that,’ Illarion said wryly, his blue eyes merry. ‘Now who’s being audacious, Lady Dove?’

  Her cheeks heated. The schoolroom had not prepared her for matching wits with a man like this. She was out of her depth, but not outdone. If she couldn’t match wits, she would do her best to end the interaction. ‘If I were truly bold, your Highness, I wouldn’t be here at all, toeing society’s line like a good daughter.’

  He ignored the finality in her tone and pursued the conversation. ‘Where would you be?’ The breeze changed. She caught the scent of him: lemon and bergamot mixed with basil and the exoticism of patchouli. He smelled better than any man had smelled today with their heavy colognes. If she closed her eyes, Dove could imagine herself in Tuscany, or perhaps even further east in Aladdin’s Arabia or far-off India, pencils and charcoal in hand, drawing everything she saw. ‘Not London. Not now that I’ve seen it.’ She prevaricated, unwilling to let him into her thoughts. He’d divined enough as it was. Did he also see that she was not nearly as opposed to him as she let on?

  ‘Ah ha! It is the occasion you are opposed to, not the man.’ He grinned, teasing her. ‘I am relieved. I thought I was losing my charm.’

  ‘You are arrogant in the extreme. I think it’s important you know I don’t care for conceited men,’ Dove cautioned. She was glad his arrogance was back. It gave her something to be annoyed at. For a moment, he’d been far too likeable.

  ‘And I don’t like liars,’ he cautioned, his eyes on her again. ‘Be honest, Lady Dove—the truth is you wanted to escape this afternoon. So badly, in fact, you made quite the deal with the devil, didn’t you? You had to choose to go with the arrogant prince and claim an afternoon of freedom, or stay behind in the drawing room to entertain whatever boring gentlemen walk through that door until six o’clock.’

  Dove did not reply. What would her response be? That he was right? It occurred to he
r, however, that she was not the only one who’d made a bargain. The Prince had, too. After all, what could he possibly want badly enough to take a girl driving who had made no secret of her dislike for him?

  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.