Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Then I’ve got to be respectable,’ Illarion answered. Respectable wasn’t something he knew much about. ‘How do I start?’

  Stepan glowered. But Ruslan smiled and took something from his pocket. ‘You can start with this.’

  ‘A key?’ Illarion took it and turned it over in his hand. ‘What is this to?’

  Ruslan laughed. ‘To your future, should you want it. I’ve been investing in prime real estate while you’ve been out wooing the ladies. Number Two Portland Square—you won’t find a better address in Mayfair.’

  Illarion nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you might also have a small manor in Cornwall in your pocket?’ Dove would like that—a place to draw, a place to be near her family.

  ‘Not today, but I could find something.’ Ruslan rose from the table, leaving Stepan and Illarion alone.

  ‘Do you really want to marry her?’ Stepan asked, his temper quieting. ‘I thought you were rankly against marriage. Or did you say that because I made you angry?’

  Stepan was giving him a chance to retract his statement, but Illarion would not back down. The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. ‘I want to marry her, but I want it to be her choice. She needs to understand what it means to be with me. There are things I cannot give her, that money will never buy her.’ Social status, the idea that she might no longer be accepted, incurring the disappointment of her family. His money could not change those things. Dove had no idea what it meant to lose them. He had to make her understand what exile looked like because that’s what she’d experience if she chose him, or even if she didn’t. Striking out for herself would have the same social consequences.

  Stepan nodded solemnly. ‘Nikolay is holding a riding demonstration tonight. Perhaps you should bring her and she can see what it means to live between worlds.’ It was the perfect place to start. She could see the ‘bad news’ of life with him up close. He pocketed Ruslan’s key. He would save that for later—the house would be the good news to the bad news, as it were.

  * * *

  The riding school was located on Leicester Square in Soho, a square that had seen better days, as evidenced by the big houses and large lots—something that didn’t exist in cramped London any more. At one time, Leicester Square had been a popular neighbourhood for the well-to-do, but as the caprices of landownership and city planning had them move west to Mayfair, the large mansions had been broken down into multiple residences, many becoming boarding houses until years of decline had created a neighbourhood of immigrants. French aristocracy who had fled with nothing more than their titles, their pride and their heads intact, Polish inventors, German composers, men with ideas if not money, men and families who hoped Leicester Square was a temporary resting place as their fortunes climbed. But until then, this was home. Small businesses had sprung up; bistros that cooked food from homelands across Europe; bookstores selling texts in the languages from home, a world within a world, a world Dove had not known existed.

  Dove found Soho intoxicating: the smells of cooking food, the sounds of different tongues and the sights of different clothing. It was as if she’d left London behind her. Here, Illarion’s tunic, the one he’d worn to the ball, would not be out of place. Here, she was the one out of place. Illarion had said to wear something plain. She’d chosen a round gown of celestial blue with only a bit of lace trimming the bodice and a cashmere shawl of blue flowers on a white field. The gown was simple, not plain. She saw the difference now as they passed crowds of the working and middle class on their way home from the day. The women wore plain wool dresses in dark colours, making her blue appear all the brighter. She was, without doubt, conspicuous. On her own, she might have been frightened as opposed to intoxicated by the newness of her surroundings, but with Illarion beside her, it did not cross her mind to be afraid.

  ‘Nikolay’s riding school is there on the left.’ Illarion directed her attention to a large home still entirely intact, turning his team towards the kerb where other carriages had begun to line up, some of them personal, but most of them were city hacks. Even more people came on foot. ‘It looks like he has a good turn-out for the exhibition tonight.’

  Illarion had been cryptic about the outing. His invitation had indicated that Prince Baklanov was hosting a riding event, chaperoned by Klara Baklanova. The credentials of the evening were as impeccably presented as those for the picnic.

  ‘Will you tell me what the exhibition is?’ Dove demanded playfully as he swung her down.

  ‘It’s a demonstration of Russian horseback riding, mostly military in nature. Nikolay stands on a horse’s back, rides two horses at once, things like that.’

  ‘You are teasing me! No one can do those things.’ Dove laughed. ‘I am not that gullible. What are we really seeing?’

  ‘You are seeing exactly what I told you.’ Illarion chuckled at her disbelief. He was at ease tonight and that put her at ease. Any awkwardness over last night’s intimacy vanished in the wake of his good humour. Perhaps there was no need for awkwardness, which would imply an embarrassment and regret she did not feel. She’d awakened pleasantly sore, but she was not sorry, even if she wasn’t sure what it meant. If she’d thought making love would settle the question, she’d been wrong. The question was still there.

  Inside, the viewing gallery was full of spectators, but Nikolay had set aside seats for them beside his wife in the front row. As they made their way down front, Illarion’s hand always at her back, Dove noted the audience. These were not the ton. These were horsemen, expatriates of varying occupations. Certainly, there were likely some gentry among them, country baronets with an interest in horses, in town for a few weeks for horse racing before returning to their farms. No wonder Illarion had been sparse with his details. A suspicion began to take bloom. Illarion had brought her here for a reason.

  The show was all Illarion had predicted and more. Never had she seen such skills performed on horseback. Nikolay and his riders had been incredible and Dove was loath to see the evening end. This was far more fun than a Mayfair ball. When she said as much to Illarion, he bent close to her ear. ‘There’s more to come. Do you want to go to a party?’ Ah, Dove thought. He was still testing her. Did he think she’d refuse? Did he think he could frighten her off with this glimpse into his ‘Russian life’? Or, came the wicked thought, did he think to entice her? Was this another layer of seduction?

  * * *

  The experiment was...enlightening and deuced enjoyable, as the English would say. When Illarion had come up with the idea of showing Dove what life would be like outside the ton, he’d not been sure of the reaction he’d get. Part of him feared it would frighten her away, even as much as he knew the necessity for it. Better for her to know now than to find out too late. But Dove had not scared. She’d embraced the evening from the moment he’d driven out of Mayfair. She was still embracing it as they joined Nikolay’s group at Mikhail’s, a bistro that served Russian food. She’d devoured the piroshki, much to Mikhail’s delight, and drank down vodka at a rather alarming rate. She’d joined the dancing without hesitation, letting him lead her through the steps of the country dances. She twirled now with a wide smile on her mouth, laughing with her partner, a young Russian officer attached to the embassy.

  Nikolay took a seat next to him and slid him a glass of vodka. ‘You’re generous.’ He nodded to where Dove danced.

  Illarion shrugged. ‘Being with me all night will not help her see the world I intend to show her.’

  Nikolay chuckled at that. ‘Did you really bring her here to talk her out of her decision or to talk her into it? Why would anyone want tonnish life when they could have this? I tried this with Klara and it didn’t work. It only encouraged her, thank goodness.’ He grinned happily.

  ‘A life in between, you mean?’ Illarion said seriously. Nikolay had opted for that: a life split between the upper-class living offered by Klara’s father, Alexei Grigoriev, and the str
eets of Soho where he could be his own man.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’ Nikolay was defensive. Illarion had not meant to insult him. It suited Nikolay. He might be a prince, but he’d also been a cavalry officer. He was used to living rough on the border campaigns. He was not a man who would survive long if limited to prowling ballrooms. He was not Dove. How long would places like Mikhail’s hold any allure for her?

  ‘You’re not Lady Dove, daughter of a duke,’ Illarion reminded him. ‘She knows nothing but luxury. She hasn’t the faintest idea how to do without it.’ That was what worried him the most. Lady Dove was a rebel in theory. She had no idea what it would cost her. Luxury was embedded in everything she did, in ways she probably wasn’t even aware of.

  ‘If luxury is so important to her, she can marry Percivale and be done with it,’ Nikolay offered matter of factly. ‘She would have accepted his offer days ago.’

  He levelled Illarion with a long, dark stare. ‘You’re getting in pretty deep for a woman who was only supposed to be your muse. I hear Ruslan gave you the keys to a town house.’

  ‘My politics demand it,’ Illarion answered automatically. ‘You would do the same. You and I are opposed to women being forced to marry against their will for the sake of alliances. It’s what we risked everything for back in Kuban.’

  Nikolay laughed and took a long drink. ‘Your politics? Is that what we’re calling it these days? Your sexual politics, perhaps. I’d buy that.’ He rotated his glass thoughtfully in his hand. ‘You have a fortune in the bank. You can see to her luxury.’ He finished off his drink and winked, ‘For political reasons, of course.’

  Nikolay leaned in close. ‘You know you can’t take her to bed without marriage, Illarion? Not a girl like that.’ Something must have moved in his expression. Nikolay gripped his arm. ‘You already did. Damn. Humour me for a moment as I risk sounding like Stepan, but Percivale will kill you if her father doesn’t do it first, or you don’t get her to altar before it all comes out.’ Nikolay tightened his grip, his voice dropping. ‘Is that what you want, an excuse to face Percivale at twenty paces?’

  ‘Murder or matrimony? I doubt it will come to murder. I don’t seek out duels on purpose,’ Illarion replied with quiet iron. But the idea held some merit. Percivale was attempting to slander him.

  Nikolay was grim. ‘If it comes to either, call me. I’ll be your second.’ Illarion smiled. That was the difference between Nikolay and Stepan. Stepan would rail at him until dawn for taking such a risk. But Nikolay would nod his acceptance and offer to be his witness, no questions asked.

  The dance ended, the music swinging into another tune. Illarion brightened as he recognised it. ‘Hopak!’ he cried. ‘Shall we?’ There was nothing like a lively Hopak full of squats and bends and leg kicks to remind him of nights spent dancing in Kuban. He linked arms with Nikolay and dragged him to the centre of the floor with a laugh to join the other men.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Hopak, danced in its purest form, was a man’s dance. Dove stood beside Klara Baklanova, her cheeks flushed, her body sweating from the dancing, as she clapped along with the crowd surrounding the dancers. What had started as group of men dancing had become just two: Nikolay and Illarion. The two of them sprang into the air, legs spread, hands touching toes as they leapt, only to land and conduct a series of fast squats and leg kicks. Nikolay was impressive, but Dove had eyes only for Illarion. His hair had come loose from the black silk bow he’d worn earlier. In fact, much of what he’d worn earlier was gone; his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, all lying around the bistro somewhere, she supposed. It didn’t seem important at the moment. The gentleman who had collected her in Mayfair was gone, replaced by a man who was more primal, more natural than any man she’d ever met. The gentleman-Prince Illarion Kutejnikov played at being had slowly been replaced by this man over the course of the night, she realised. It had started slowly at the riding exhibition as he’d exchanged a few words in Russian with those sitting around them, until he’d spoken more Russian than English by the time they’d arrived at the bistro, and then the clothes had started coming off, the hair had started coming down.

  She didn’t mind, not one bit. While the Mayfair Prince was captivating in his own right, this man was positively riveting. She loved the sound of the Russian language spoken around her, the spicy taste of the food, eaten with her hands, the smooth, cool vodka as it washed down the piroshki. Most of all, she loved watching him in his element.

  Illarion danced by her, flashing her a wide grin as he passed, arms flung wide. Tonight, she was seeing him for the first time. Oh, she didn’t doubt that she’d seen the real him prior to this, only she knew now that what she’d seen was a slice, a carefully doled-out slice—enough to make him interesting to the ton, but not nearly enough to reveal the sum of who he was. He passed by again, this time grabbing her hand and pulling her into the dance as the music shifted into a polka. Her heart whispered a warning even as it sped up in the excitement of being with him. This man was dangerous. This was a man she wanted for ever.

  Illarion whirled her about the floor and she laughed with reckless abandon as they wove in and out of couples. It was amazing no one crashed when everyone was dancing as fast as they were. ‘This is madness!’ Dove cried, delighting in the speed and trusting entirely in the competence of Illarion to lead them through the throng of dancers without mishap. Her own hair had fallen down, her pins finally giving up the battle.

  Illarion laughed with her, pulling her close. ‘The madness is the best part.’

  * * *

  The madness ended too soon. It was midnight and, while early for a ball, it was late to be out for a riding exhibition. They said their goodbyes to Nikolay and Klara and Dove reluctantly stepped up into the coach. ‘I feel like Cinderella leaving the ball,’ she said wistfully as the coach pulled away from the kerb. ‘I would have liked to have danced all night.’ The others would. They’d been the first to leave.

  Illarion grinned and stretched his legs out from the seat opposite her. His discarded clothing lay in a pile beside him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d like it.’

  ‘Did you want me to? I haven’t figured that part out yet.’ Dove voiced the suspicion she’d been harbouring all night. ‘You brought me tonight to teach me a lesson. But I don’t think I learned the one you intended.’ She felt Illarion’s thoughtful gaze study her.

  ‘Tell me, what did you learn?’

  ‘That I need to be free. That I was right in wanting to see the world. No matter what it costs.’

  ‘You don’t know what it costs.’ Illarion’s voice was stern, almost scolding. She was not going to take that from him, not tonight when he’d been the one to open her eyes. How dare he think he could give her such a gift and then snatch it away. Even after last night, he doubted she knew her own mind. She would show him, prove to him, that she was so much more than a pretty, rich girl.

  ‘My parents treat me as if I am a child and make all my decisions for me. I am not a babe in arms.’ She moved across the small distance between them, sliding next to him on the seat. She could feel the heat rolling off his body, a reminder of how vital, how alive he was. She reached for him, cupping his jaw with her hand, drawing his gaze to her, forcing him to see her and what she intended. ‘I am not a child, Illarion,’ she whispered. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. ‘I know my own mind and I know I want this. I want you. I want the man I saw tonight.’ She moved into him, taking his mouth with hers. She tasted the vodka on his tongue, smelled the mingled scents of exerted man and patchouli.

  She wanted, she wanted, she wanted. The words were a litany in her head, pushing her onwards towards more recklessness in a night that had been full of rashness. Her hands framed his face, pushing back the thick fall of his hair. She was kissing him again, but this time she was not alone. His mouth answered hers. The invitation had been accepted. He nipped at her lips with a fierce growl
. She nipped back, her mouth duelling with his. Tonight, she would be the one to give him something to growl about. Tonight she would give him pleasure.

  Dove kissed him on the mouth, her hand cupped his jaw, she deepened the kiss, her tongue exploring him until Illarion groaned. ‘Where does a duke’s daughter learn to kiss like that?’

  She gave a coy smile. ‘I had a very good teacher.’ She’d kissed him the way he kissed her, with everything he had, as if that kiss was the most important thing in the world. ‘Let’s see, what else do you like? How about this?’ Her mouth moved to his ear, her teeth sinking delicately into the tender piece of his lobe. She pressed him back against the carriage seat, straddling him, her hand moving between them to his trousers. She found him roused and ready, her hand slipping over the shape of his erection. She moulded him, shaped him. His hips slid down the seat to grant her better access. But it wasn’t enough for her, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to touch him, no holds barred.

  ‘Shall I put my mouth on you, Illarion?’ she whispered, already slipping down to kneel in front of him, watching his eyes go dark at her words. ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to put my mouth on you like do for me.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave her the word in a hoarse rasp.

  Her hands trembled as she worked the fastenings of his trousers, her pulse beating fast with vodka and arousal. She had him free, hot, hard and long in her hand, the heat of him astonishing to hold. With a last wicked glance upwards, she braced his legs apart and bent to him, taking him inch by hot inch and then retreating, her mouth approximating what he’d done with her, to her. She tasted him with her tongue. She licked him then, a long flickering caress across his tender head, gratified when his hips twitched, his body wriggling down in his seat as he let the sweet decadence of the moment take him, thrill him. His response emboldened her, it fed the excitement of what she could do to him. That excitement overrode any sense of decorum. Her mouth closed over him fully and a moan escaped him—a sound part pleasure, and part pain. Through lidded eyes, she saw his hands dig into the seat for balance. She licked him as he shuddered. Her hand found the flesh hidden behind his straining phallus and she squeezed gently, provocatively, until his moans became bays. She felt his body gather and clench, reaching its limits, driving itself towards release.