Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Do you think it’s about the Countess of Somersby?’ Sally Rinehart whispered, eyes round. ‘I would be melting for him if he would look my way even once!’ That was all it took to open a floodgate all the girls could involve with. Sally’s comment was followed by a chorus of, ‘He’s so handsome.’

  ‘I love his hair. Those eyes!’

  ‘Those shoulders!’

  ‘My cousin danced with him once and she said he waltzes like a god. She felt so dainty in his arms, like a real pocket Venus.’ The girls oohed and aahed over the description, more than one pair of eyes going hazy with the image.

  ‘Lady Dove has danced with him.’ Eliza smiled coyly. ‘Maybe she’d tell us what it’s like.’

  Dove panicked. For a moment only the dance beneath the stars came to mind, a secret dance. Eliza couldn’t possibly know about that. She must mean the dance at the debut ball. Eliza had been there.

  ‘He’s arrogant,’ Dove said. ‘His conversation is...different.’ Even saying that much felt like telling a secret. She didn’t want to share Illarion with them. He was hers. It was a silly notion, nearly as silly as these moonstruck girls gasping about his shoulders as if a man’s shoulders defined him.

  ‘His accent is so attractive. The way he says his r’s makes me faint,’ a girl in lavender put in eagerly. Dove wanted to scream that it wasn’t his accent that made him attractive. It was his topics, his choice of words, the way he thought about the world, his way of framing the discussion to call out and expose one’s opinions, one’s self, that made conversation different. His conversations had meaning. These girls wouldn’t understand that.

  ‘I suppose his accent is indeed part of his appeal,’ Dove said neutrally, retreating from the field. Despite the excellent bignes, it was time to leave. The Venetian breakfast had lost its appeal.

  Dove wished she could leave Illarion’s poem behind as easily as she left the gathering. In the silence of the carriage the poem’s lines and Eliza’s comment kept niggling. Who was it about? It didn’t have to be about anyone, but Dove felt it was.

  Spring’s green dragon pits its fire against the strength of the surly bear, fresh from winter’s sleep, new-woken to life, hunger raging. The maid cannot belong to both. Perhaps the maid does not want to belong to either. It is not hers to choose her champion.

  Her mind fixed on the image of the bear. Polaris, the Plough, the bear... She was certain the bear was meant to represent Russia or a Russian in the poem. Perhaps Illarion himself? If so, Spring’s green dragon had to be someone. Green could symbolise someone untried but the poem’s title firmly suggested the colour represented envy. Perhaps both. Spring’s jealous, untried dragon, then. What did the dragon do? Breathe fire. Fire. She thought of Percivale’s dissertation on fire-making that first night. Her stomach clenched. Percivale! The dragon was Percivale. That left the maid. She was too easy. The maid was her.

  Perhaps the maid does not want to belong to either. It is not hers to choose her champion.

  In retrospect, it was so clearly her, the allusion to her situation—a maid torn between two suitors. Was that how he saw himself? A suitor? There was the message, too; a woman had a choice if she was brave enough to take it and that choice didn’t have to include a man.

  The carriage came to a halt in front of Redruth House as the fullness of revelation struck her. ‘Jealousy’ was about the three of them. The bignes churned in her stomach. How dare he? Did Illarion not understand the risk to her? To himself? The embarrassment for Percivale if anyone recognised the allegorical nature of the poem? For all his poor humour, Percivale was a powerful enemy. Not in a violent, dangerous sense, but socially. Where he led, the ton followed. If Percivale understood the poem, Illarion would have awakened a sleeping dragon in truth. If Percivale felt threatened, if he thought he could lose her, he would feel the need to hurry his suit. The bignes sat heavy in her stomach. Dear heavens, what had Illarion done? He’d called all three of them out. He’d pushed them all to the end game.

  The carriage door opened and she followed her mother out. Another carriage was parked at the kerb. ‘It looks like we have company, my dear.’ Lady Redruth smiled knowingly. ‘It’s a good thing your father was home this afternoon. I have a feeling today might be a very auspicious day.’

  Dove’s fists clenched in her skirts. Only one man in London drove a blue-painted high-perch phaeton drawn by two matched greys. The dragon was not only awake, he was here.

  There was always the hope the men would be closeted away in her father’s study and miss them coming in, but Dove wasn’t that lucky today. They were lying in wait in the small receiving room at the top of the stairs. At the first sound of heels on the stairs, her father was in the doorway, beckoning for them to join the men.

  ‘Lady Redruth, Lady Dove, it’s always a pleasure.’ Percivale rose, all effusive politeness. There was an exchange of greetings and small talk, but the air was pregnant with unspoken words.

  ‘Might we walk in the garden, Lady Dove? I’ve been wanting to see your father’s new roses,’ Percivale asked as soon as a decent interval of small talk had passed.

  There was no refusing, not with her parents both giving permission. She did her best to get it over quickly. She led him straight to the roses and gave the dissertation on the new rose. ‘Father and my godmother grafted it this winter. They’re calling it the Redruth. It’s white tinged with pink on the outer rims of the petals to give the petals texture and depth,’ she explained, trying to forestall any further non-rose-related conversation. But Percivale was in no hurry.

  ‘Yes, I remember the roses from your debut. They were all hers, weren’t they? Not these roses, however. Those were ivory. Very traditional, a classic beauty like the woman they honoured,’ Percivale complimented broadly.

  ‘Yes. The French White.’ She didn’t offer anything more. Her throat was tight, her stomach tighter. Percivale gestured to the bench. ‘Sit, Lady Dove. We must talk plainly.’ There was an edge of new steel in his voice. ‘I have something to discuss, something I hope you will be happy to hear. Once I was sure you would be, but these days I am not so certain.’

  Dove folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to go on. He was looking for reassurance and she had none to give him. ‘As you may know, I have long held your family in great esteem. As you may also know, my uncle is in failing health, which brings my responsibilities ever closer. I had thought to wait to marry, but circumstances have changed, although the target of my affections has not. I find it imperative that I marry immediately so that I may firmly take up the reins of the dukedom when my uncle passes.’

  He knelt before her on one bended knee, taking her hand in his. It was a pretty gesture, one that when viewed through the drawing-room windows would look gallant and handsome. Percivale, as always, was the picture of perfection with his well-tailored clothes, immaculate grooming and gold hair. But the gesture left her empty. She did not thrill to his touch, although she did panic. She knew what was coming. ‘What I am asking, Lady Dove, is would you be willing to do me the honour of being my Duchess?’ Not his wife, but his Duchess. What had Illarion said? I don’t let the title wear me. Was that what Percivale saw when he looked at her? A duchess? Not a wife, not an artist, but the embodiment of a lineage?

  He took her silence as a sign of surprise. ‘I understand it is short notice. I had hoped to wait until the end of July to give you a Season. I do not think my uncle has that long.’

  ‘How much time does he have?’ Dove tried to be delicate. But she needed to know. How much time did she have?

  ‘A month, perhaps, the doctors say.’ Percivale shook his head. ‘He could linger for the summer, of course. These things are not set in stone.’ Dove offered him a comforting smile. She could see that the news upset him. She recalled hearing that he and his uncle were close and she felt callous for having asked. But as dreaded as the interview was, it was not unexpected, nor ha
d such situations been unanticipated in her training. A young lady with a fortune must be prepared to refuse marriage proposals and she did have that skill in her arsenal. She ought to look demure, honoured, perhaps slightly sad. She should have practised in the mirror. But she’d never dreamed she’d need to refuse a future duke. There hadn’t been room in the fairy tale for that.

  Knowing what to do wasn’t the same as actually doing it. Knowing also did nothing to calm the panic that churned in her stomach. Did Percivale see it? She felt as if she might cast up her accounts on her father’s new roses. Did she look it? She managed a soft smile, managed to meet his blue eyes, ‘You do me a great honour, even if it comes as a surprise. But because it is a surprise, I would beg you for whatever time you have to spare. I need time to acclimate myself to the idea of marriage so soon after my debut, time to gather a trousseau.’ She tried for a smile of modest shyness. ‘Surely you can imagine the enormity of being a duchess at eighteen?’ She prayed he wouldn’t ask for more reasons. What would she say if he wanted details? If he made her defend her position? Or worse, what if he knew the real reason she hesitated and called her out on it? How much easier it would all be if she could muster up some liking for Percivale, some tolerance for what he stood for. But he was the gateway to a life she didn’t want. She could not accept him without accepting what he represented.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I certainly can. If it were up to me, I would give you all the time you needed.’

  ‘May I think it over and give you my response?’ She rose, forcing him to stand. It occurred to her that he would simply argue her into it until she had no objections left if she remained seated.

  Disappointment dashed across his features. ‘You may, Lady Dove.’ He paused. ‘May I ask you a question? Does your reticence have anything to do with another’s attentions?’ He stammered slightly, embarrassed by what he perceived as his own bluntness, but he courageously forged on. ‘Are you certain your affections are not engaged elsewhere?’ For a moment, Dove saw the potential of him, everything Strom Percivale could, but would not, be. Society had bred it out of him.

  Dove answered as best she could. ‘I assure you, my family’s affections hold you in the highest regard as always.’

  ‘And yours, Lady Dove?’ he pressed, not swayed by the pretty words. He’d seen the poem, then. Worse, he’d understood it. Perhaps the poem, more than his ailing uncle, had prompted the visit and his need for haste.

  ‘My affection for you has never wavered in its intensity.’ It was true, in so far as it went. The intensity of her affection towards him had never amounted to much previously and it amounted to just as little now. Her smiling reassurance mollified him.

  ‘I am honoured and relieved to hear it. I confess I had fears that a man of unseemly character had turned your head. I would not want to see you at the mercy of a fortune hunter.’

  The words made her bristle. Did he think she was so helpless? And yet, she felt guilty for such uncharitable thoughts. He was trying to be nice. ‘I assure you nothing of the sort has taken place. Even if it had, I am more than capable of taking care of myself.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have to, Lady Dove. That is what a husband is for. What, if I may be so bold, I am for.’ He bent over her hand. ‘I shall await your word, Lady Dove. Until then, I am always your champion.’ His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. She did not think Percivale had chosen those words by accident.

  Chapter Fourteen

  How did she get out of this? It was the one question that went around in Dove’s head as her maid, Mary, dressed her for the evening. How did she refuse Percivale and still remain loyal to herself and her family? His proposal this afternoon had moved that dilemma from hypothetical consideration to reality. ‘You’re quiet tonight, miss,’ her maid commented, finishing with her hair. ‘Thinking about your new dress?’ Mary smiled. ‘Or maybe you’re thinking about the handsome gentlemen you’ll dance with tonight?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Dove tried for a smile in the mirror, enough to convince Mary she was right. ‘Shall we try that gown now?’ Dove rose, eager to distract Mary. She stepped into her gown, letting Mary lace it up. This gown had a white-organza overskirt that floated over a silk underskirt, the collection of skirts slightly fuller than current fashion and tied with a wide bright blue sash at the waist, making it look impossibly tiny. Mary settled the usual pearls at her throat and turned her towards the mirror. ‘You look like a fairy-tale princess, miss.’

  A single thought came to Dove as she surveyed the reflection. She did look like an innocent princess straight from a fairy tale. But she didn’t feel like one. London had indeed stripped the scales from her eyes. Illarion’s bold remark about being deflowered by the city seemed years ago instead of days. The girl who had chided him for such audacity didn’t exist any more. Beneath the white gown lay a less innocent woman who understood the machinations of the Season, who understood she was a commodity to be bought and sold. To remain silent meant to be complicit in that game.

  The door opened, startling Dove out of her thoughts. Her mother entered, dressed for the evening and all smiles, a small blue-velvet box in her hand. ‘Darling, you look lovely!’ she exclaimed, taking in the effect of the new gown. ‘The fuller skirts are breathtaking and these will be perfect.’ Her mother opened the lid to reveal two perfect pearl earrings dangling from dainty diamonds.

  ‘Grandmother’s earrings,’ Dove said wistfully. How long had she yearned for this moment? Growing up, she’d coveted her grandmother’s earrings, hardly able to wait for the day she’d make her debut and be able to wear them.

  Her mother’s face glowed with pride. ‘I remember when you were little. You used to sit on my bed when I dressed for an evening and play in my jewel case.’

  Dove smiled at the memory. It was one of her favourites from childhood. The box had smelled like cedar and lavender when she lifted the lid. It had held a thousand treasures to a little girl’s eye. How many nights had she sat on her mother’s bed going through her jewel case, dreaming of the day when it would be her turn to dress in fine gowns and put on the earrings? Now that the moment had come, it was too late. That dream was dead. It would be easier if it wasn’t, easier if she could just accept what would happen.

  Her mother took the earrings out of the box and clipped them on Dove’s ears. ‘Beautiful. Grandmother would have been so proud.’ She took Dove’s hands, her smile softening. ‘Some day soon you may have your own daughter to pass them on to and you can tell her about the night you first wore them.’ She paused. ‘Your father tells me Percivale has made his official offer.’ They had not talked about what had happened in garden. Percivale had left and she’d gone up to her room to rest. Apparently, her mother and father had such confidence in her that they were not concerned Percivale had returned inside without securing an acceptance.

  When she said nothing, her mother continued with a gentle prompt. ‘Percivale told your father you asked for some time.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’ Dove began the arguments she’d carefully rehearsed in her room. ‘I’ve been out less than a month. I won’t have the experience I need to be a duchess at eighteen with not even one Season to my name.’

  ‘My dear girl, come sit.’ Her mother led Dove to the edge of the bed. ‘Is that what you’re worried about? Not enough experience? Percivale understands that. He will show you everything you need to know.’ She squeezed Dove’s hand in reassurance and for a moment Dove wanted to collapse in her mother’s arms and spill out everything; her hopes, her fears, her feelings for Illarion. She wanted to ask; Had her mother ever felt this way? Had her mother been this conflicted? But she didn’t dare. Her mother would be so disappointed.

  ‘What if I don’t want to be shown? What if I want to discover my life on my own? I wonder if Percivale would wait for a year? Let me have my Season? I don’t think waiting until after mourning is a bad idea if it comes to that.’ />
  Her mother gave her a serious look, choosing her words delicately. ‘There are other issues, too, Dove. He is too much of a gentleman to speak of it, but there are practicalities, too. He’s the only Ormond male. He does not have the luxury of a year, Dove. He has to look to his nursery, secure his succession. Is that what worries you? You will be a good mother. I’ve seen you with the village children.’

  Her? A good mother? At nineteen? After only a few months of marriage and even fewer weeks of a Season? ‘It’s not that I don’t want children.’ She could imagine sitting in a field surrounded by children at her lap with drawing tablets and pencils, laughing as they worked. But those children had champagne hair and blue eyes. ‘I just don’t want them now.’ Certainly not next summer, Dove thought.

  ‘Once you hold your child in your arms, Dove, you will be ready and glad, whenever it happens,’ her mother assured her. But her mother had been twenty-eight when she was born. She’d had years to settle into married life, to settle into a husband, a title. She’d had years to hold other babies that had come before her. Her mother had craved the child she’d been. ‘What would you do for a year, anyway?’

  Dove gathered her courage. If she didn’t say it now, it would be too late. ‘I’d like to travel and draw.’

  Her mother relaxed, some of the shrewdness leaving her gaze. ‘Oh, is that all? You and Percivale will travel for your wedding trip. We can arrange for you to go to Bath to see your aunts, maybe up to Scotland to visit your cousins. Percivale may have other ideas. Perhaps the Lake District. It’s lovely in the summer.’

  ‘No, not Bath. Not Scotland,’ Dove said slowly. ‘I’d like to go to France and Italy. I’d like to study in Florence with a drawing teacher.’ Saying the words made her feel powerful, made the prospect of doing such a thing seem real for the first time. A dream was born in that moment, a new dream to replace the one she’d lost weeks ago. She would study abroad. Despite her panic over Percivale, a burst of elation took her. She wanted to shout her new dream to the world. She wanted to throw open the doors to her little balcony and cry out to London, ‘I want to go to Florence and draw!’