Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  She gathered her courage. In her gut, she knew what he was doing. But to say it out loud would take bravery. If she was wrong, she would feel foolish. Would he laugh at her? No, Illarion was not like that. She let her eyes meet his. ‘You are seducing me.’

  He did not laugh. His gaze did not waver. His hand drifted to the column of her throat. ‘And if I am?’ He didn’t deny it.

  Her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat to speak. ‘I would have to ask myself what you want.’ His mouth brushed hers in the gentlest of kisses.

  ‘That should be obvious, Dove.’ His hands worked the pins free in her hair, his voice at her ear. ‘I want you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Wanted, yearned, desired her in so many ways and on so many levels—levels that had been ratcheted to a delicious tension throughout the afternoon, until desire had become nothing short of craving. Illarion nipped at her ear, his teeth sinking a tiny bite into the tender skin. ‘I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped down from the landau.’ She’d taken his breath away, the sun in her platinum hair, the cool beauty of her in the white-linen carriage ensemble, blue forget-me-nots embroidered delicately, brightly at the hem, a reminder that she was his Snegurochka come to life, the winter Princess walking amongst spring. When she’d slipped her hand into his, the possessive thrill of ‘mine’ had coursed through him. That had merely been the start of the wanting. Teaching her archery had done nothing to ease his growing need. Watching her with his friends; listening to their stories, eating their food, her eyes bright with interest, had been intoxicating. Mere wanting had become craving.

  ‘Why me, Illarion?’ She framed his face between her hands, her eyes questioning, yet full of that quicksilver desire he loved—loved knowing he put it there, that it was there for him, because of him, and it was there for the first time. He was the only one who’d conjured it for her. Dove wanted him, she was hungry, too, but she resisted, part of her uncertain why he would want her.

  ‘Because you have brought me to life.’ Illarion kissed her mouth, bearing her back to the cushions. What he wanted to do required more than kneeling allowed. ‘I would do the same for you, if you would allow it.’ God, he hoped she’d allow it. He was ravening for her, for her little gasps of delight when he touched her, for the quicksilver desire in her eyes when he kissed her. And yet, he must curb his desire, must not scare her away with the force of his want. He wanted to show her the possibilities of pleasure. More than that, the wolf in him cried out, he wanted her for himself. He wanted to drown himself in her so that his guilt might be washed away, his nightmares might be cast out, so that he might write again, fully and without fear, as he used to. If he could bury himself in her, he could be free from his plagues.

  And that wasn’t fair, his better self called from the depths of his conscience. This was supposed to be about her. He was supposed to save her. Perhaps he could save them both. He dropped a kiss in the feminine hollow at the base of her neck, his eyes lingering intently on hers, willing her to give permission. ‘May I, Dove? May I bring you to life?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed, ‘you may. Bring me to life, Illarion.’ She would not be sorry, he would make sure of it. He bent her knees, letting her skirts fall back, revealing bare thighs above the silk of her stockings. He kissed the soft skin, small, teasing kisses that made her sigh; each touch, each kiss drawing ever closer to the core of her. He could hear her breathy gasps change to long sighs of anticipation; he could smell the intoxicating musk of her arousal, his body tight with an arousal of its own, desire driving him hard. To bring pleasure was a pleasure of its own. He sought her core first with his thumb, rolling it over the tiny nub hidden in her folds, letting the first waves of pleasure lap at her senses, letting her body accustom itself.

  ‘Do you like it, Dove? Do you want more?’ How erotic it was to look up at a woman, to see the rise of her breasts, to gauge the rapidity of her breathing, her enjoyment. The length of a woman’s body was a sensuous map of curves and hills.

  ‘Yes, more, please.’ The long sighs had become moans. Her body beginning to seek its own ‘more’, hips lifting against his hand. Illarion braced her then, his hands on either side of her hips, his mouth blowing against her core, tasting her in licks and nips, her desire driving her; her breath catching in broken gasps now, her words no more than exclamations. Gone were the slow waves of pleasure. She bucked against him, looking for release, once, twice, and then he felt her shatter, gone to pieces against his mouth, against his hands in a final cry.

  She was stunning in her pleasure, her hair falling about her shoulders, her eyes glistening with wonderment and discovery, bewilderment, too, that this pleasure existed and it could be hers. In those moments, he felt it, too—the wonderment that came with claiming climax and in providing it. He could not recall the last time giving such pleasure had been so profound for him. Perhaps that was the magic of Dove; she made the profane beautiful again, the dead alive again.

  Illarion stretched out beside her, propped up on an elbow; all the better to see her, his inner wolf prompted. There was satiation in her gaze, that dreamy, drowsy quality a woman wears after she’s been well pleasured. A rivulet of pride went through him. He’d done that. He’d put that look there. Him and no one else.

  ‘Does that happen every time?’ Dove asked candidly and some of his satisfaction faltered.

  ‘No,’ he answered her with equal candour. ‘Sometimes never. A man needs a certain knowledge, a certain skill.’ Already he could feel the shade of Percivale intruding on their pleasure. A stab of jealous arrogance went through him. He did not want her thinking she could have this with any man, yet what did it mean that he wanted her to have this only with him?

  ‘A poem of the body.’ Dove smiled sleepily at him.

  ‘Yes, something like that.’ Illarion pushed a strand of hair out her face, letting his hand skim her cheek. ‘You’re beautiful.’ And trusting and innocent despite what they’d done. She was full of ideals, her convictions untried. He had to be so very careful not to ruin her.

  ‘Thank you for today.’ Dove captured his hand and laced her fingers through it where it lay against her cheek. Her touch was warm and the simple gesture spoke of intimacy. ‘I enjoyed seeing your world, at least a slice of it. You’re a lucky man in your friends.’

  ‘We would die for each other,’ Illarion said. ‘Stepan risked much to get Nikolay out of the country. We could not let him go alone.’

  ‘And you, too, I think?’ Dove’s eyes searched his face, studying him. ‘Nikolay was not the only one who had to leave if I understand correctly.’

  He had to tell her. This was the piece his conscience grappled with. He could not expect her to give all and not to give some of himself in return. Only he feared, if she really knew him and what he’d done, that she would leave him. She would know he was the sum of her parents’ fears for good reason. He was dangerous. ‘I encouraged the people of Kuban to stand up against unjust marriage laws. Our Tsar didn’t care for it.’ They were mild words for what he’d done and for what the Tsar had thought, but they weren’t untrue.

  ‘What kind of laws?’ They were talking softly now, just the two of them lying close on the pillows, the afternoon lazy around them.

  It was easier to talk about the laws in general than to talk about his exile. ‘Laws that require nobles to marry for the good the kingdom. Our Tsar must sanction each marriage. It started merely as coming forward and asking for approval, a formality. But it has become much more than that. The Tsar and the great families arrange every marriage now. No one comes forward any more, each match is presented to the family. The choice to refuse is an illusion. Refusal can result in a family being stripped of royal favour, of their worldly possessions. The more pristine the daughter is, the better the marriage alliance for the family can be. Families have gone to great lengths to ensure a daughter’s purity.’ That was as far he’d go with what he’d
witnessed.

  ‘It is different than here in intensity, then, but not in intent.’ Dove was thoughtful. ‘I think it was right that you stood up to that. People should be able to choose their own futures, their own mates.’ Her grey eyes held his, revealing the depths of her emotions. ‘Perhaps that time will come if people like you are willing to fight for it.’

  ‘Will you fight for it, Dove?’

  She dropped her gaze. ‘I don’t know how. It’s more complicated than saying no. Refusing hurts my parents, shames them. How can I do that to them?’

  Debate welled up in Illarion. He wanted to argue. ‘Your life is no small consideration.’ Could she not see that her freedom had value? ‘You do not have to give your life for them.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Dove’s answer was quick and selfless, showing a maturity beyond her innocent years. ‘They’ve given their lives for me. Should I not reciprocate?’ She puckered her brow here, deep in thought. ‘Do you know why I don’t have close friends? Because I was sheltered. I lived in isolation. My parents were my friends, the only people I associated with, except when we went to church on Sundays. There were visits from cousins during the summers, but I never returned those visits, I never went to their estates. I was the last of five children, Illarion.’

  A suspicion began to take cold hold in his stomach. ‘Five? I thought you were an only child.’ Hadn’t the gossip about her debut suggested she was Redruth’s only offspring? But she had not said youngest, only last.

  ‘I had four older brothers.’ Sadness tinged her sleepy gaze. ‘I never knew any of them. They were all dead before I was born; two from random fevers, one at birth, one stopped breathing in his cradle after two perfectly fine months of life.’ Her voice caught.

  Illarion drew her to him. He wanted her to stop, wanted to spare her the pain. ‘You don’t have to say any more.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she murmured against his shoulder. ‘I need you to understand that it can’t be yes or no for me. It is so much more complicated than that. I owe my parents. I am the one who survived. I am the one who must make good on their hopes, on their legacy. I am the only one who can do it.’ He heard the anger in her words—for her parents, for him because he wanted her to reconsider, and for herself, because she could find no legitimate grounds on which to reconsider her choice.

  She pulled back from him. ‘What becomes of me if I refuse Percivale? Refusing him costs me everything.’ Except her freedom.

  ‘What becomes of you if you accept him?’ Illarion challenged softly but carefully.

  ‘Illarion, don’t. Do you think I haven’t thought of that?’ she whispered. He let the argument go because he had no answer either. She smiled, perhaps in apology, and stood up, her hands starting to work her hair back into some order, a sure signal that the interlude was over. ‘Perhaps we might draw and write a little before the others come back?’ she suggested.

  It was as good a solution as any. They settled in on their respective pillows, Dove with her new art case open on her lap, a private smile on her lips as she took out a pencil, he with a fresh tablet, his head full of ideas. At least the ideas came more easily these days, even if the poetry to express them still struggled.

  They weren’t going to resolve the Percivale situation today. Or ever. The thought brought an uneasiness to Illarion’s gut. He would not lose her. The refrain had taken up residence in his mind after his declaration to Stepan. Only now, he wondered if it meant something different. Once, it had meant encouraging her to stand up for herself so that another woman did not suffer Katya’s fate. Percivale would not hurt her the way Ustinov had hurt Katya. Was it possible he wanted her to reject Percivale for more personal reasons, selfish reasons? Was it possible he wanted her for himself?

  He studied her from his paper. The goodness in Dove would be her undoing. She would sacrifice herself for her family. Is that what her family expected of her? Had her parents been an arranged match as well? Did they know nothing of love and its importance? That conclusion didn’t ring true. Dove had been well loved, well raised, most definitely cherished. She had not learned the art of agape on her own. How ironic that parents who had loved her would force her to make a loveless marriage. It might do to learn a bit more about the Duke of Redruth’s own marriage. Perhaps there was a clue in that to help Dove with her decisions. Or, a clue to help him with his. He would have to ask Ruslan to assist.

  ‘You’re staring at me,’ Dove caught him out.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ he answered easily. ‘You’re my muse.’

  She blushed at that, thinking he was teasing her. ‘I think you say that to all the girls.’

  Illarion grinned. ‘No, Dove, just to you. You’re the only one.’ And for the first time ever, Illarion realised he meant it. Now what the hell did he do about it?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The best aspect of Venetian breakfasts were the sweets. Dove bit into a delicious bigne cioccolato and let the chocolate crème fill her mouth. Other than that, however, Lady Camden’s Venetian breakfast was hard pressed to compete with yesterday’s Russian picnic. For one, Illarion wasn’t here, at least not physically. That he was on her mind constantly, however, was a sign of how thoroughly yesterday’s experience had shaken her. Even a day later, it took only the slightest effort to call forth the echoes of passion—her heart racing, her body throbbing in remembrance of how it had felt to shatter, to feel herself come apart and then slowly come back together again. She would remember that feeling, those moments, always. She loved him for the memory and she hated him for it. He’d given her very intimate pleasure quite deliberately so that she would remember. Remember it or remember him?

  This was where the confusion began. He’d called her his muse. He’d given her intimacy. He’d urged her to speak up for herself, to refuse a marriage not of her own making. Why? Because he wanted to pursue her? Or because he simply wanted her to recognise the possibilities? The costs? Originally, she’d assumed the latter, but after the picnic and the Hamptons’ gardens and all that he’d shared about himself, she felt there was something more. Or was it just her? Was she imposing more on the situation because of how she felt? Did she think he felt something more simply because she did?

  That confusion spawned more confusion. How did she feel about Illarion? Did her growing affections stem from how she felt about him personally or from what he represented to her? This was to say nothing of how she perceived his feelings for her. Dove reached for a second bigne. If one couldn’t resolve one’s confusion with logic and clear thinking, perhaps it was possible to confound the confusion with chocolate instead. In the end, did answers to those questions even matter? What if she decided she was falling for the Prince? What if he decided he was falling for her? It had already been established by her parents that he was not an eligible suitor. A future between them wasn’t possible.

  He wasn’t Percivale. In society’s eyes he was only a handsome man with a reputation that bordered on rakishness. He would be popular for a while, a novelty. Those sorts of men weren’t entitled to dukes’ daughters, especially if they were outsiders, no matter how much money they had. Never mind that he made her laugh, made her think, made her feel valued, made her aware of herself, made her feel, all of which were very dangerous reactions. She wasn’t supposed to feel, wasn’t supposed to question the order of her life. But Illarion had made her do both.

  The girls around her made small talk, chatting about dresses and fabrics and their favourite gentlemen. Dove wished she felt that carefree. The girls chatted as if they didn’t know what waited for them: marriage to the highest bidder. Or perhaps they did know. If so, how could they be so glib about being treated like prettily dressed cattle? Worse, how could they celebrate that? Was she the only one who saw the injustice of it? The limitation?

  ‘Did anyone read the society pages this morning?’ Eliza Brantley, a debutante out for her second Season, leaned forward, catching the
girls’ attention with a sly look. She pulled a folded sheet of newsprint from her bodice and spread it out, mischief in her eye. ‘He’s published a new poem.’

  ‘Who?’ A girl dressed in pink leaned forward, breathless at the anticipation of gossip.

  ‘The Prince of Poems, who else? Don’t you know anything, Sally?’ Eliza scolded with a laugh.

  The Prince of Poems? Is that what they were calling him these days? Dove set aside the second bigne.

  ‘This one is called “Jealousy”,’ Eliza said in hushed tones not meant to be overheard by the mamas gathered at the other table. ‘It’s so romantic. It’s about men competing for a woman’s affection,’ Eliza prefaced with a wicked smile and began to read. ‘“She can belong to only one...”’

  Eliza finished reading to an applause of sighs. ‘I wish Mr Adamson and Mr Gilbert felt that way about me,’ Sally said wistfully. ‘Sometimes I think they do and other times, I think they’re more concerned about pleasing my father.’

  ‘How lovely to think the gentlemen feel the same way as we do, after all,’ another girl gushed. ‘We feel we have to compete for their attentions, while all the time they are competing for ours.’

  ‘Why do we have to compete at all?’ Dove broke in, unable to stand it any longer.

  Sally stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, why force a marriage?’ Dove explained. ‘Why not marry someone of our choosing instead of our parents’? For that matter, why marry now? Why not demand a Grand Tour like your brothers? Why not see the world before settling down?’ She was warming to the subject, but her audience was all horrified confusion. The girls looked back at her with blank expressions.

  Eliza Brantley’s shrewd gaze knew precisely what she meant, though, but there was no help from that quarter. She wanted to talk about the Prince. ‘I wonder who the Prince wrote this about? Does anyone care to speculate, ladies?’