Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

Her fists clenched inside the folds of her pristine skirts. The prospect of waiting caused a sense of helplessness to rise in her. If she didn’t tell them how she felt now, when? In a week? In two weeks? In three? When Percivale asked for her hand? If it was au fait accompli, how long would he even wait? At what point would it be too late for her to speak up? The line between too soon and too late was a very grey one indeed; one more thing none of her lessons had ever covered. Perhaps that was because there was no need. Dutiful daughters never rebelled, never spoke out, they did what they were told.

  The carriage rolled to a stop at Tolliver House. She could hear the footman outside setting the steps. Nothing more could be said on the subject tonight. Now there was only time to endure, to get through the evening. Perhaps tomorrow would be the right time. Perhaps tomorrow she would find the courage to speak her mind.

  ‘Remember, dear,’ her mother whispered last-minute instructions at her ear. ‘Draw the gentlemen out, let them talk about themselves. A man loves to show a woman he’s competent.’

  ‘And myself?’ Dove replied perversely. ‘Shall I talk about my drawing and my charity art school in Cornwall?’

  Her mother’s lips pursed in scolding reprimand. ‘Dove, don’t be shocking.’

  ‘Then how shall I be competent?’ She knew she was needling now.

  ‘By listening, by being an encourager. Male egos are fragile things, dear. You have to prop them up,’ her mother admonished as they mounted the steps.

  Dove wondered what Illarion would think of such advice. His ego had seemed very much intact in spite of her attempts to crack it. She doubted he needed to have it propped up. But it was a mistake to have thought of him. She should not have done it and certainly not by first name. Doing so created a poignant reminder that Illarion had stayed with her from this afternoon much as he’d stayed with her last night as assuredly as if he was physically present.

  He stayed with her through the first dances, looming in her mind as a point of comparison for the other gentlemen in her court. She found herself constantly thinking, ‘What would Illarion say to that?’ or ‘Illarion would never...’ Then she would chide herself. Did she know him so well after two meetings? This afternoon she’d argued that she did not. She needed to stop thinking of him by first name, proof that his invitation to informality had not gone entirely rejected. Proof, too, that she was not as indifferent to him as her words made her out to be. She had not slapped him solely because of his indiscretion, but hers as well. He’d been right. She had not minded that kiss nearly as much as she’d pretended.

  * * *

  By the middle of the evening, her court was wearing on her nerves. Not one of the gentlemen, including the coveted Strom Percivale, had made a single enquiry about her beyond soliciting her need for warm punch. It had been their accomplishments that had dominated the conversation, unlike Illarion, who might have been brash, but he at least had made several enquiries about her.

  Dove was making other comparisons, too, that strayed into the dangerous realm of the physical. Illarion was tall, broad shouldered, with strong hands that took command simply through touch. These men were medium in height and mediocre in all things. Their touch didn’t command, their gaze didn’t ignite, their conversation didn’t challenge. She couldn’t envision having a heated conversation with any of them, let alone one that led to stolen kisses in a public park. That was the most dangerous comparison of them all. She could not imagine any level of enjoyable physical intimacy with the men on her dance card. None of them sent a thrill through her with a single touch.

  Perhaps that was why debutantes weren’t supposed to sneak out into gardens and kiss young men. It created all sorts of expectations that had nothing to do with titles, land and wealth, and who one’s family was. In other words, none of the items parents considered valuable when steering their daughters towards ‘advantageous marriages’. A young girl’s idea of what constituted ‘advantageous’ might be quite different after a walk in the gardens. And yet, the practical side of her took her father’s words seriously. The Prince might excite her with kisses, but his behaviours were unpredictable in word and deed, his credentials unreliable, his antecedents questionable. He was from a place London knew little about despite the novelty London conferred on him.

  Even so, Dove found herself looking for him. By the eighth dance—a waltz with Percivale—she was wondering if he would come tonight. Would she look across the ballroom and see him striding through the crowd? Towards her? Her mind had to separate the two ideas. He could attend the ball without intending to see her. After all, he’d already spent considerable time with her today and he’d got a reddened cheek for his efforts. Why would he want to seek her out? She should hope that he didn’t. She had no business fostering her curiosity over an unsuitable man and yet part of her hungered for a glimpse, for another bout, for another shocking conversation. Was this how it started with the other women, the women she’d seen trailing after him at her godmother’s last night?

  Dove focused on Percivale’s conversation as he led her into supper—something about his grandmother’s estate in Hereford and its apple orchards—and promised herself she would not become like those other women. She would never be desperate for a man. But she could be disappointed by one. Tonight she was disappointed by two: by Illarion, who wasn’t coming, and by Percivale, because he had.

  She ought to be grateful for Percivale. He was the catch of the Season and every girl in the room would kill to be her. Miss Sarah Tomlinson, especially. The girl had looked daggers at her all night, blaming her for monopolising Percivale’s attentions. If Miss Tomlinson wanted Percivale, she was more than welcome to him. But Dove knew Miss Tomlinson would never step up to take him. There was a pecking order, after all. Miss Tomlinson was an earl’s granddaughter, nothing more. She would never impose on a duke’s daughter’s claim. A naughty thought came to Dove. Maybe she should affect an introduction? Then it would be up to Miss Tomlinson to dazzle Percivale.

  ‘Perhaps we might sit over there?’ She gestured to Miss Tomlinson’s table where two chairs were available. Percivale smiled obligingly. It was the first thing that had gone well tonight. And it was the last.

  * * *

  At the end of the evening, despite her best efforts, Percivale stayed glued to her side. There’d been moments of hope. He’d asked Miss Tomlinson to dance after supper, but had quickly returned to Dove’s side afterwards.

  ‘Percivale is suitably loyal to you,’ her mother summed up in the carriage on the way home. ‘He stayed with you as much as propriety allows.’ Clung was more apropos. He’d been a veritable barnacle. ‘You managed him beautifully, never seeming to dominate him,’ her mother complimented. ‘Sitting with Miss Tomlinson was brilliant. It allowed you to appear generous and yet there was no real risk of losing his attentions.’

  Dove gave her a mother a cool stare. She had not thought of her overture in terms of how it would appear to others. ‘I simply thought, since her family is political, that the two of them would enjoy conversation together.’

  ‘Percivale is a smart man,’ her father joined in, stretching his long legs. ‘He knows there’s nothing more than conversation down that road. He needs more than an earl’s granddaughter can provide to have the influence he wants.’ Her father’s tone was smug with confident satisfaction. ‘He won’t stray from the Redruth fold.’

  ‘I don’t like him.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could rethink the wisdom of them.

  Her mother didn’t even blink before she responded, a soothing smile on her lips. ‘How could you like him? You hardly know him. You have your entire life to know him and in the knowing, respect and affection will grow. Those are things that come with building a life together, sharing experiences together. That’s what will bind you together. You will make a family together, raise children together, weather life’s storms together.’

  Dove looked down at her
hands, two thoughts coming to her simultaneously. First: they had already decided, then. It was indeed to be Percivale as she’d suspected. That filled her with a dreaded sense of finality. Her life had been predetermined for her. The enormity of what that meant swept her. She was being ushered from the shelter of Cornwall to the shelter of a husband’s home without time to experience the world on her own, to test herself, to know herself, to find out who she was. Second: she was an ungrateful daughter for wanting to reject such care.

  Her mother’s arguments were not without merit. She’d been raised in privilege. She would marry into even greater privilege from which she could influence enormous good. How dare she find fault with that? And yet, Illarion’s words whispered the temptation to do just that. ‘I kissed you so you would know what you would be missing.’ There were other phrases, too, that rolled through her mind—‘the expense of your own happiness.’ How did she weigh her happiness against loyalty to her family?

  Her mother squeezed her hand, taking her silence for acceptance and understanding. ‘You may rely on us, Dove, to guide you safely.’ She should be grateful for such parents, for the wealth that permitted such a lavish Season, but the hopelessness swamped her again. Wasn’t there a way both could coexist without one harming the other? A way that didn’t involve marriage to a man she felt nothing for? A man she had not chosen? She was not entirely naïve. She knew that the purpose of coming to London was to find a husband. But she’d always imagined that search would involve her, that she’d have a voice.

  At the town house, the butler waited by the door despite the late hour, lamp in hand to light the dark hallway. ‘A note came for you, Lady Dove.’ He held out the silver letter salver with his other hand. She took it, studying the firm, dark handwriting in the light. Her pulse sped up as she opened the note and scanned the lines. Coolly, she handed the note to her mother. ‘Prince Kutejnikov would like me to accompany him to Somerset House to the view the paintings tomorrow afternoon.’

  Her mother exchanged a look with her father. Her father hesitated before giving the slightest of nods to her mother. ‘Olivia, you will go with her, of course, to chaperon.’

  Dove breathed a sigh of relief, not realising until then how much she equated Illarion’s invitation with escape. She’d be out of the house, away from Percivale and she’d be in her element, surrounded by art. She fingered Illarion’s note, a suspicion coming to her. Had the choice of Somerset House been intentional, perhaps a thoughtful apology for the shocking nature of their outing today, or had he chosen it arbitrarily because it was simply a popular public venue? After tonight, his reasons hardly mattered to her. She was grateful for the escape regardless of what form it took or what motives had prompted it. For a few hours tomorrow, she was going to be free.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Illarion...’

  The whisper echoed in his sleep. He was dreaming, of Katya and Kuban, of the caves of Maykop near his summer palace.

  She was calling to him. ‘Illarion, come...’ She materialised in the darkness of the caves, vibrant and alive, with violet eyes that flashed and laughter that could captivate a room.

  Illarion broke into a jog. ‘Katya!’ She’d been his muse once. Illarion had written wild, beautiful poetry dedicated to her. She’d been his friend, his confidante and inspiration. In many ways, he’d felt closer to her than he’d felt to anyone.

  He was close now. He could see her creamy skin, silky skeins of dark hair hanging forward over her shoulders, framing luminous eyes, a beauty in death as she’d been in life. For her extraordinary looks, she’d been forgiven much by her uncle, the Tsar, even her association with him, the poet-rebel.

  He reached for her, he could almost touch her.

  She turned and ran deeper into the caves, her laughter drifting behind her. ‘Catch me, Illarion!’

  He gave chase, calling out a warning, ‘Katya, wait, don’t!’

  They were at the heart of the cave now, a limestone pool in its centre...

  The old terror gripped him. He knew what would happen next. The dream always ended this way. Maybe this time it would be different...maybe this time he would find the words...

  He always said that. It never mattered. He always failed.

  Katya turned to him, this time with haunted eyes, the vibrancy gone from her. She looked as she had just two years into her marriage; she wore a tragic beauty now, her spirit a shadow of its former self. It was worn down by a marriage that had stifled her, imprisoned her—a marriage that had benefitted the crown of Kuban, but not her. She reached out a hand to him.

  ‘Katya, come to me. Step away from the water.’

  His voice was hoarse, his throat was tight. He edged close to her, not wanting to frighten her.

  ‘Will you take me away? We can run away, Illarion. We can go somewhere no one knows us, where he can’t find me.’

  She grabbed the fabric of her bodice in both hands and rent it down the centre, exposing white, perfect breasts. No, not perfect. Illarion froze.

  ‘See what he has done?’ There was an angry red brand at her right breast in the shape of a U.

  ‘He already suspects you and I are lovers. Why not make it real in truth? You were right, I should not have married Ustinov. I should have found a way to resist.’

  Illarion swallowed hard against his anger. He would kill that bastard of a husband who had done this to her, who had wrecked this woman.

  He nearly had her. ‘Step away, Katya. Come to me.’ He repeated his command, reached out his hand. ‘I will protect you.’

  He would promise her anything, no matter how wild. He’d never got this close before.

  ‘I will challenge Ustinov.’ He was a good duellist—too good, in some opinions, from too much practice.

  But the idea terrified her. It was the wrong answer.

  She stepped backwards, the milky water of the limestone pool with its sharp, protruding stalagmites lapping at her hem.

  ‘He will kill you. I cannot risk you, Illarion, you’re all I have left.’ Her eyes went dark, a shadow crossed her face. ‘It is hopeless. There’s no way out, Illarion, not for me. The only freedom is death.’

  Illarion went cold. He wished he’d never written those words. ‘No!’

  He was too late. She held out her arms and let herself fall...

  ‘Katya!’

  The sound of his own voice woke Illarion; his body sweating, his heart pounding. He had failed again. He sat up, hands trembling as he reached for the water beside his bed. He couldn’t pour it. The carafe crashed to the floor, shattering.

  There was pounding on the door, Ruslan calling, ‘Illarion, are you all right?’ Ruslan pushed his way in, his robe unbelted, his hair unruly from sleep. ‘What’s happened, another nightmare?’

  ‘Glass.’ Illarion managed an incoherent warning.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruslan soothed. ‘I heard the crash. I’ll be careful. Let’s get you something to drink, something stronger than water.’ He hunted around until he found the decanter of samogan on the desk and poured a glass. Illarion felt like a child as Ruslan brought him the drink, keeping his own hand around his to steady the tumbler. Ruslan sat beside him, letting him drink in silence.

  ‘Was it Katya again?’ he asked quietly after a while.

  ‘I couldn’t save her.’ The old recriminations flooded back, the early grief, the early guilt when he’d heard the news. She’d gone to the caves alone, his presence was a manifestation unique to the dream, and drowned in the limestone pool. ‘I should have found a way to help her, to prevent the marriage from happening in the first place.’ General Ustinov was known as a brute. But the Kubanian Tsar had needed the alliance with the military commander to put down the threat of a coup. He’d sold Katya, his niece, to make the alliance.

  ‘No one could,’ Ruslan offered. ‘The peace of the country depended on the match.’

 
‘But it was my poetry,’ Illarion began, ‘that encouraged her to think of rebelling.’ In the end, he’d feared it had been his poetry that had inspired her suicide. ‘If I had not written “Freedom”, she would still be alive.’ ‘The only freedom is death.’ The last line. The fatal line. The Tsar believed it. The Tsar had blamed him publicly for Katya’s death, had renounced him as the royal poet laureate, calling his poetry inciteful and dangerous.

  Ruslan sat with him until dawn, until the fears of the night had passed and he could hear London waking up outside his window. Modern London didn’t believe in curses. But Illarion did. He’d failed Katya and he was cursed for it. His poetry had caused a woman to take her life—not just any woman, but his best friend. It didn’t matter that he’d not intended it. His need for a muse was urgent now. In a few hours, he had a date with destiny, a new destiny. He was more convinced than ever it was the only way to put the past behind him. To stop the nightmares.

  * * *

  Now this was the London Dove had dreamed of! A drive to Somerset House, an afternoon spent leisurely touring the Royal Academy’s art exhibition on the arm of a gentleman who wasn’t attempting to calculate her net worth or peek down her bodice. Although, to be honest, Illarion not calculating her net worth did make her a bit nervous. If he wasn’t doing that, what was he doing with her? Illarion—she’d given up not thinking about him by first name—could have the attention of any woman in any room and, for the moment, he’d chosen her.

  Today, he was on his very best behaviour, which somehow managed to disappoint her. There were no pointed conversations or audacious comments—yet—as they strolled the galleries. The omission of his outrageous remarks was a very small shade on an otherwise perfect outing, a far different outing than the one yesterday. Dove smiled to herself and thought, apology accepted.

  Beyond the windows of Somerset House, the Thames sparkled beneath blue skies as they toured the exhibit in the north wing. Around them, the crowd ebbed easily, making it possible to stop where they willed to take in art that appealed. At the Constable oil of Salisbury Cathedral, the crowd thickened and they had to wait for good viewing; a wait that was entirely justified in Dove’s opinion. ‘He’s mastered it again, so perfectly!’ Dove exclaimed as they moved closer to the painting and she could study the details. ‘Look at how he’s captured the weather.’ She pointed discreetly to the dark cloud peeking above and between the high leaves of the trees. ‘A storm is coming. The picnickers in the right corner are unaware, they still have the sun. But not for long.’ She smiled, enjoying her story. ‘They will have to hurry. One can almost see the clouds moving across the sky.’