Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘It’s not the Duchess, it’s the daughter,’ Nikolay interrupted, trying to smooth things over, but only making them worse. Illarion cringed and Nikolay stepped back, making excuses about needing to rejoin the vodka group.

  No one ever accused Stepan of being slow. He crossed his arms. ‘Dove Sanford-Wallis? Let me guess, she is your new muse?’ He grabbed Illarion by the arm and dragged him to a quiet corner. ‘Good God, Illarion, what are you thinking? Tell me you haven’t seduced her yet? You can’t seduce her, you know that? You shouldn’t even look at her. The betting book lays odds she’s promised to...’ Stepan stopped his worried tirade, the rest of the pieces falling into place for him. ‘Percivale.’ He pushed a hand through his dark hair. ‘Is that what this afternoon was really about? What did you do to warrant Heatherly all but calling Nikolay out?’

  ‘Lady Dove doesn’t want to marry Percivale. She’s being forced to it by her parents. She doesn’t want any of this,’ Illarion tried to explain, but Stepan was too fast.

  ‘You have to stop seeing her, immediately. This is not Kuban, Illarion. You can’t go about protesting and breaking up marriage matches, or writing reckless poetry.’

  ‘It’s not reckless,’ Illarion said. He hated it when Stepan dismissed his work as frivolous.

  Stepan leaned forwards, his voice hushed. ‘A woman in Kuban killed herself over one of your poems. Do you want that to happen here?’

  ‘I didn’t mean for Katya...’ Illarion’s voice broke with anger and emotion. ‘How dare you of all people, my friend, suggest the Tsar in all his corruption was correct that I prompted Katya to suicide? I had no idea what she intended.’ That was the fear that drove his nightmares, the fear that had driven him from home—that he had killed Katya. She had become a casualty of his war against the marital injustices of Kuban. ‘If you were not my friend, I would call you out for that.’

  Stepan lifted a brow. ‘Like you did the others?’ Illarion had fought a series of duels before he fled Kuban, duels for his honour, for Katya’s posthumous name. He’d won them all, but he hadn’t really won. Winning had not changed the accusations, it had only made people more circumspect as to where they voiced their opinions. ‘Illarion, this is not how we make friends. London is supposed to be a new start for all of us. But you are intent on repeating the past. Let this girl go. She is not your problem.’

  ‘She inspires me.’ What if he lost Dove and he couldn’t write again? What if he stepped away and she married Percivale?

  ‘You can find another muse, one that isn’t so much trouble.’ Stepan blew out a breath. ‘What happens when you tell she has a choice and she actually believes you? What can you offer her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Illarion admitted.

  Stepan was quiet. ‘You need to know before you take things any further. It’s not fair to her. “With great power comes great responsibility,”’ he quoted. ‘She has to know what her choices really are and what they really mean. Life outside the ton isn’t for everyone, especially a duke’s daughter who’s been raised to it.’

  To which Illarion answered with equal determination, ‘“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”’ That was the albatross of Kuban, the millstone that hung about his neck and threatened to drag him down. He’d stood aside and done nothing for Katya. As a result, Ustinov had driven her to her death. It would not happen again, not on his watch.

  Stepan sighed. ‘What do you mean to do since you don’t mean to follow my direction?’

  Illarion grinned. ‘I mean to take Lady Dove on a picnic.’ In the interim, he’d deal Percivale some indirectness of his own, a little poem, perhaps, with a few references only Percivale would understand.

  Chapter Eleven

  The invitation arrived the next day, sent most properly by Princess Klara Grigorieva Baklanova, requesting the attendance of Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis at a Russian-style picnic to celebrate the beginning of summer as it would be done in St Petersburg. It was all very decorously arranged. The Princess and her husband called for Dove the following afternoon in a black lacquered open-air landau, the Princess dressed in a summery carriage ensemble of robin’s egg blue embroidered with yellow flowers, the Prince turned out in English driving clothes, his dark hair pulled back neatly, respectably. That was indeed the word for it: respectable. There were no grounds on which the Duchess of Redruth could find fault with the invitation without insulting the Princess. And yet, Dove knew the occasion had Illarion’s stamp all over it. He had planned this, he had put the newly wed Russian Princess up to it—all for her, which prompted numerous questions, most of which began with why.

  The drive out to Hampstead Heath was pleasant, the weather good and the Baklanovs made excellent company. ‘The others will meet us there,’ Princess Klara explained, her gaze sliding warmly to her husband. They were a couple obviously in love. They made no secret of holding hands and Dove did not miss the Prince’s thumb rolling gently over his wife’s knuckles as she spoke. The simple affection of the gesture made Dove’s heart clench. She wanted to be cherished the way Prince Nikolay cherished his wife. Such love was possible. The Baklanovs proved it.

  Was that why Illarion was doing this? Was this another way of showing her the possibilities of life beyond Percivale and her parents’ choices? His kiss, their dance, his arms about her and his words in her ear were still warm in her memory. A reminder of how she felt when she was with him and a reminder of how she did not feel with Percivale.

  She studied the Baklanovs. There was more between them than kisses. It was more than kisses she craved from Illarion. He wanted to know her and she wanted to be known by him. She wanted to know him in return, and perhaps, she hoped, he would want to share himself with her. She’d never felt that intensely drawn to another person in her entire life. Certainly not with Percivale. Then came the most wicked thought of them all: perhaps she never would feel like that with anyone except Illarion.

  Illarion. Percivale. The situation had changed drastically since it had begun. In the beginning, it had been about ideas: the loss of her freedom, the thought of marriage to a man she didn’t love, leaving her home, the craving of adventure. It had not been about choosing between Illarion and Percivale. It had been about choosing freedom over entrapment. But at some point, it had become about choosing one man over another. Illarion was her freedom. Percivale was her jailer. Those were dangerous thoughts indeed, especially when she had no claim to Illarion. There was no guarantee he would choose her. And yet, here he was arranging for a picnic, a chance for them to be alone. Together.

  ‘Lady Dove, you’re a thousand miles from here, is everything all right?’ Klara asked.

  ‘I was wondering why Prince Kutejnikov is doing this,’ Dove admitted. She had ideas, some of which left her warmer than others. Was he merely showing her life beyond Percivale or was he showing her himself? If Klara knew the answer, she was of no help. She only smiled and pointed in the nearing distance as a white canopy came into view. ‘Look, they have everything set up!’

  ‘Everything’ was an understatement. An entire camp had been laid out. Dove noticed the details as the carriage came to a halt. Chaise longues, rugs and tables had been set up beneath the wide canopy and servants bustled about with hampers of food. ‘We’ll never eat that much!’ Dove exclaimed.

  ‘You’ve never seen these boys eat.’ Klara laughed, letting Nikolay help her down. ‘Besides, it’s a point of Russian pride to have lots of food at a picnic.’

  Nikolay kissed his bride’s cheek. ‘All of my favourites, I hope.’ Then Illarion was there and Dove forgot all about the affectionate Baklanovs. His hair was pulled back in his usual black bow and he was dressed for the warm spring outdoors in buff breeches, tall boots and a loose white shirt open at the neck. His jacket and waistcoat had already been discarded. He swept her a gallant bow. ‘Lady Dove, welcome to our camp. We’ve been busy.’

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bsp; ‘I can see that.’ She laughed, relaxing in the festive atmosphere.

  ‘Whenever Nikolay and Klara undertake something it’s like a military operation—enormous but well organised.’ Illarion kept her hand in his as he led her about the encampment. ‘We’ll have games.’ He gestured towards the archery butts and shooting targets. ‘Klara’s outrageously good with a pistol. Do you do any weaponry?’ He cocked a curious brow her way.

  Of course the perfect Klara with the perfect husband did guns. One might be intimidated by that. Dove merely laughed. She was in too good of a mood to care. ‘What do you think? No, I don’t “do” any weaponry.’

  Illarion smiled back. ‘Then I’ll teach you.’ Something in those words warmed her and set butterflies fluttering in her stomach, as if he meant to teach her more than archery or shooting. He continued the tour. ‘We’ll eat. Afterwards I can write and you can draw.’

  Just as he’d promised. An artists’ picnic. There was only one problem. ‘I didn’t bring anything.’

  His eyes danced. ‘I did. But you’ll have to wait until after lunch for your surprise,’ he teased. ‘Then we’ll walk. Perhaps we’ll find early strawberries. Now, let me introduce you to everyone.’ They’d come full circle and ‘everyone’ turned out to be two men: ‘Stepan and Ruslan, two of my best friends.’ Stepan was tall, with short dark hair, sharp eyes and a stern demeanour. Ruslan was slender, not quite as tall as the others. He sported a thick gold wave of hair and kind, intelligent eyes with a hint of sadness where Stepan’s had been sharp.

  It was clear the four men were devoted to each other, like brothers, Dove imagined, watching them ready their pistols and good-naturedly bantering with each other. If her brothers had lived, they would have been of an age with these men. She shoved the image of four little crosses, four little boys who had come before her, aside. This afternoon was not made for sadness.

  The princes let Klara shoot first. Dove was impressed. She’d never seen a woman use firearms before and Klara was indeed skilled, hitting the centre of the target. Illarion shot last. He offered his pistol to Dove. ‘Would you like to try?’

  Dove shook her head. ‘Too loud. I’ll save myself for archery. It’s quieter.’ Illarion nodded and stepped up to the line. She couldn’t help but notice the manly grace of him. Shooting was far more of an art than she’d thought. She noted the steady strength of Illarion’s arm as he extended it, the unimpeachable stillness of his body as he sighted the target. He breathed in, exhaled and fired. His shot was perfect, piercing Klara’s with deadly accuracy.

  Nikolay whistled. ‘That’s why you’re the best.’ He slapped Illarion on the back.

  ‘You’re still better shooting off horseback.’ Illarion was modest in his victory, but Dove didn’t miss the warning glance he shot at Nikolay as if he feared Nikolay would say too much. He held out a hand to Dove. ‘Let’s try your luck with a bow.’ He selected a weapon from the table and led her to the butts, standing behind her as he arranged the bow in her hands, offering instructions.

  ‘Relax,’ Illarion spoke softly in her ear. Did he have any idea how impossible it was to do that with him so close? With his body pressed to hers, his hands over hers as they nocked the arrow? This wasn’t archery, it was seduction. ‘Easy now.’ Together, they drew back the arrow. ‘And, let fly.’ The arrow released, flew and hit the outer ring of the target. Respectable for a first shot. Dove found she liked archery, even when Illarion stepped away and let her shoot on her own. There was a freedom in letting the arrow loose and watching it soar.

  Knives were next. She and Klara stood on the sidelines, watching the men throw and argue, neither of them having a taste for blades, although Illarion had offered to teach her to throw. ‘They’re like boys.’ Klara laughed as Nikolay and Stepan debated a throw. ‘I like to see them like this, happy and playing.’ There was a yelp from the group and Stepan went down, Nikolay tackling him, followed by a cry from Nikolay. ‘Illarion, grab his legs!’

  Dove gasped at the roughness, but Klara assured her, ‘It’s always like this, Nikolay and Illarion against Ruslan and Stepan. The two hotheads against the two cooler minds.’

  Dove shaded her eyes. ‘They do this often?’ She’d never seen men behave like that before.

  ‘More often than you think. They’ve been friends since childhood, inseparable, Nikolay tells me.’ Klara grew serious. ‘They’re all each other has, you know. They left everything behind in Kuban except each other. They couldn’t bear to be parted. I think leaving was hardest on Nik and Illarion. They had no choice.’ Klara paused, perhaps waiting for her to understand that what was being shared was important. ‘Nik had done things in Kuban, things that could not be forgiven.’

  Dove waited for Klara to say more, but Klara Baklanova was no gossip. She guarded her husband’s back in all ways. ‘And Illarion?’ Was Klara implying that Illarion, too, had done things that could not be forgiven? By whom? What?

  Klara would not tell. ‘They can’t go back, Lady Dove. You should know that.’

  Questions swarmed through Dove’s mind. Why? Why couldn’t they go back? Why did Klara think she needed to know? There was no time for questions. The wrestling had ended as suddenly as it had begun. The four men tramped over, arms draped across each other’s shoulders.

  Illarion’s hair had come loose and he was smiling, looking at ease and terribly handsome. ‘I’m starved. Let’s eat.’

  They sat on the rugs beneath the shade of the canopy. Dove helped Klara unload the baskets, Illarion narrating each of the treats brought forth: tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, cold salmon, cheese... ‘And my favourite, mushroom piroshki.’ Illarion took a pastry and unwrapped it, handing it to her. ‘Take a bite.’

  Dove bit in to the flaky pastry, letting the rich insides fill her mouth. Her eyes went wide as she savoured it. ‘I’ve never tasted anything so good.’ She could see her response pleased him and she was touched. Illarion had wanted her to like it.

  ‘Now try these.’ Illarion assembled her a plate with two delicate crêpes. ‘Blinchiki.’

  Her plate was never empty. Illarion kept it full, selecting a little of everything, serving her tiny bites. ‘So you can taste it all without getting too full,’ he explained, casting a mock scold in Nikolay’s direction. Nikolay had piled his plate high and was plowing through quantities of food at record speed. ‘There’s an art to picnicking, one must slowly graze and discuss.’ Everyone laughed. It was the most pleasant afternoon Dove had ever spent, sitting under the canopy, eating and talking as Illarion and his friends regaled her with tales of Kuban and sometimes St Petersburg, where Klara had grown up.

  ‘So this is a real holiday?’ Dove asked, finishing her third blinchiki. She’d suspected Illarion had made it up as an excuse to have a picnic with her.

  ‘We only have eighty days of summer up north.’ Klara settled against Nikolay, getting comfortable. The look on her husband’s face suggested he was growing tired of lunch and had other things on his mind. ‘We celebrate every one of them. White Nights, we call them, because the sun doesn’t set until after midnight. The celebrations go back to Peter the Great, he’s the one who started the tradition. One year, I was allowed to stay up for a midnight river cruise to watch the sunset.’

  ‘Sunset at midnight? I don’t believe it.’ Dove was incredulous. Under the circumstances she might have felt like an outsider. They all had Russia in common. She’d never left Cornwall. But they weren’t telling the stories to leave her out. They were telling her the stories to draw her in, to give her a piece of them. A yearning started to blossom. This was what life could be like, not merely a life of freedom, but a life with Illarion, among his friends.

  Nikolay shifted and got to his feet, helping Klara rise. ‘I think we’ll take a walk.’ Stepan and Ruslan rose, too, making noises about a walk of their own. Dove noticed they went in a different direction. Nikolay was not in the mood for company.


  ‘Your friends are nice,’ Dove said once they were alone. After a day spent surrounded by others, there was a slight awkwardness to the aloneness.

  ‘They are everything to me.’ Illarion reached for his canvas bag, the one that carried his travelling desk.

  ‘Are they why you left Kuban? Klara said the four of you couldn’t stand to be separated.’ Dove ventured tentatively. So many of their conversations had focused on her. They’d spent very little time talking about him. Perhaps today that would change.

  ‘In a way, yes.’ Illarion seemed ill at ease with the subject as if it made him nervous. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ He pulled a small travelling case of art supplies from his bag and gave it to her. ‘I thought you might want to draw some memories of today.’

  He was changing the subject. For now, Dove let him. She took the case and ran a hand over the smooth surface, aware of his eyes on hers, aware of the closeness of him, his body folded cross-legged across from her on the rug, mere inches between them. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Her voice was bit choked. Even if she didn’t draw anything today, she would remember this outing every time she looked at this. ‘It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Truly.’ So much more thoughtful than flowers or bonbons. This gift was about her, it had been picked out especially for her. The realisation brought her full circle back to the question that had started the day.

  Dove set the box aside. ‘Why are you doing this? This picnic, this box, meeting your friends.’ Giving me a glimpse of your soul. What he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell her about Kuban, he was showing her the best way he could.

  ‘What am I doing, Dove?’ The back of his hand skimmed the curve of her cheek. His voice was low and private for her alone.