Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  Shouldn’t she look different? It seemed strange that the world was the same: the same white dresses were laid out on her bed, the same pearls waiting for her neck, the same evening routine, with the same people. Alfred-Ashby would talk about his horses. Lord Fredericks would say ‘quite so’ a hundred times. Percivale would stand possessively at her right side. It was no wonder young girls were counselled against intimacy before marriage. Underneath the sameness there were complications she had not foreseen.

  Lovemaking distorted one’s perspective altogether. She’d not been prepared for that, to say nothing of spoiling her for other men in ways that went beyond the loss of virginity. How could she be expected to share such an act with someone else? She could not imagine being so free, so utterly abandoned in her sensibilities with another as she had been with Illarion. To think of another doing with her what Illarion had done... Well, that was another piece of the impossible choice facing her. She shivered and drew her shawl more tightly about her. The mare lifted her head and looked at her with soulful eyes.

  Dove smiled sadly at the horse. ‘What am I to do?’ She had to decide. Percivale had been more than patient. Illarion had been more than generous. Her heart wanted to run to Illarion, wanted to accept his offer. Could she live with the risk of alienating her family, alienating herself from all she knew, for a man she barely knew? Was it logical to risk eighteen years—the sum of her lifetime—on a man she’d known for such a short time? And yet, if she did not, nothing short of running away would stop a marriage to Percivale, who was growing more impatient by the day. She was running out of time as Percivale and her parents ran out of patience.

  Her head argued differently. Would Percivale be such a bad choice? There was nothing wrong with him, indeed there was much right about him except that she lacked a sense of connection to him, lacked the spark that ignited whenever she was with Illarion. Percivale would make her a duchess, the rest of her life would be secure, her place in society assured as would be the places of her children. Her son would be a duke.

  What did she dare? Some might say it was an issue of being a princess to a man without a home, or to be a duchess to a man who had everything. Dove knew it was far more than that. This was a decision about whether to marry with her heart or to marry with her head.

  Maybe this was why daughters ought to be guided by their parents, people who were older, wiser and removed from the immediate emotion of the situation. There was no wrong decision. Maybe that was why it was so difficult to choose. There were only two right decisions. But she’d made a fatal flaw in her reasoning.

  She’d assumed she had the power to make any decision at all. ‘Miss, I’m sorry to intrude.’ One of the maids from the house poked her head into the stable. ‘Your father needs to see you.’ There was a certain excited agitation to the maid’s announcement the girl was trying desperately to hide, as if she knew something, a secret.

  ‘What is it?’ Dove gathered up her drawing supplies. It sounded ominous. A cold fist gripped her stomach. Had Percivale’s uncle passed? Had the hour glass dropped its final grain of sand?

  ‘I couldn’t say, miss.’ But the maid knew. Dove could see it in her eyes. This was not a time she appreciated discretion in servants.

  * * *

  Both of her parents waited for her in her father’s office. The door shut behind her. ‘What has happened? Nothing bad, I hope?’ Dove asked.

  ‘No, darling,’ Her mother moved forward to take her hand, a soft shining smile on her face.

  Her father picked up the conversation. ‘Percivale was here. He has most prudently acquired a special licence. He would like your decision tonight.’ Her father’s eyes rested on her and Dove froze. ‘He needs your answer, Dove. Now. I do not know why you delay.’

  Dove drew a breath. The choice she had not quite made in the mews needed to be made now. Perhaps this was her chance. This was not only about standing up for Illarion, but standing up for herself. If she could not do this now, she never would. ‘I am honoured by his attentions,’ she began, rapidly assessing the best way to approach the subject. ‘However, I have been honoured by other attentions as well. Prince Kutejnikov has proposed and I feel his offer is worth consideration.’

  Her father’s dark brow went up. ‘Prince Kutejnikov has proposed? To you? Directly?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Dove stepped back, trying to assume a demure posture, hoping to avoid argument but she was not misled by the mild enquiry of his tone. Her father was angry.

  ‘He has not spoken to me, Dove.’ Her father began to pace. ‘He has dishonoured you with such behaviour and he shows me disrespect by not consulting me.’ He stopped and studied her. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I needed time, that I was surprised by the offer.’ Dove hated her words, true as they might be. They sounded weak, as if she were trying to blame Illarion for his proposal. She needed to be braver. Under other circumstances, the proposal would have thrilled her.

  ‘A girl should never be surprised by an offer of marriage. That’s why her father is consulted, so the offer might be laid out to her in a timely fashion,’ her father growled. ‘I knew he was trouble the first day he stepped in here.’

  ‘He is a prince, you needn’t sneer at his offer,’ Dove argued, coming to Illarion’s defence.

  Her father’s face darkened with protective anger. ‘He is not worthy of you. There are rumours, Dove, about the legitimacy of his title, about why he left Kuban. People are saying it wasn’t by choice, that he was expelled and can never return. He is a man without a country.’

  ‘Rumours spread by Heatherly and Percivale,’ she replied. ‘They have the most to gain in dishonouring him.’ It didn’t matter how true the rumours were or not. She could be angry, too. She would not stand there and allow Illarion to be maligned.

  ‘You would choose such a man?’ Her father’s voice was hard steel. ‘You may not think you care about such consequences, but there will be a time when you will, miss, when society cuts you and your children, when you are not accepted anywhere because your husband is a fraud. We have not devoted our lives to your success only to see you throw yourself away on a Russian upstart with no kingdom!’ Her father was terse, holding himself on a tight rein.

  ‘Have you thought of why such a man would want to marry you, want to tempt you without coming to me first? He knows I would turn him down. He knows I will see him for the charlatan he is. Don’t be naïve, Dove. He is using you!’ She’d seldom seen her father this angry. ‘The Prince sees a susceptible mark in you, Dove. He needs your wealth, your connections to live in the manner to which he is accustomed. Percivale is eager to protect you, to make sure the Prince does not embroil you in scandal.’

  She wanted to scream her father was wrong. The enemy wasn’t Illarion, it was Percivale and them, people who claimed to care for her but who would imprison her in their attempts to do their best by her. But she could not bring herself to it. There was too much heartache down that path; for them and for her. She looked appealingly at her mother, but her mother’s face was a polite mask.

  ‘I am sure that the Prince’s attentions were very flattering, Dove. He is a handsome man. Every girl should have a brief crush before she settles down.’ Were. A single word relegated Illarion to the past in the span of a heartbeat. ‘The Prince must be dissuaded. His attentions cannot be courted any further. If he calls again, your father can explain to him how it is.’ She smiled tremulously and held out her hand. ‘You and I will need to start shopping for your trousseau. It will be exciting. Just think, we have a wedding to plan, a household to set up.’ It was the same strategy that had led up to her debut—distract and entertain, dazzle her with the fairy tale so that she would forget the reality.

  Her father was stern. ‘You will make a fine match with Percivale. He is the finest husband of the year, perhaps even the best catch of the decade.’ He softened. ‘You’re simply too young to a
ppreciate what he offers. But your mother and I know best in this. You must trust us. You will thank us for it later when you are the toast of London. You can accept Percivale tonight.’

  Tonight. The night of Illarion’s much-anticipated poetry reading. Everyone would be there. Dove looked at her parents, each in turn, these people who had treasured her, nurtured her, loved her. She could not bear the idea of disappointing them. They had suffered so many other disappointments. She was the one dream left to them. Her heart was breaking, but her decision was made. She knew what she had to do. Somehow, she’d find the strength to do it.

  * * *

  Not in the recent history of the Season had a single person captured the imagination and attention of the ton the way Illarion Kutejnikov had. He’d always been a romantic figure with his long hair and handsome looks. But now, with the rumours of his questionable heritage surfacing, that romanticism took on an edge of danger.

  Illarion was well aware that it was his notoriety that accounted for the enormous crush at Hathaway House. People wanted to hear the poems that had been the cause of his exile, giving fuel to the rumours that he’d been expelled from Kuban. That particular rumour was true. But others were not and those others had begun to run wild, all of them lies. He had not murdered anyone, he had not been stripped of his title and he most certainly had not left a woman in disgrace. Perhaps he should thank Heatherly and Percivale for the boost in popularity—it would sell poems—but he didn’t deal in lies. They—Heatherly because he had started the rumours, Percivale because he had stood by and allowed the rumours to help his cause—had slandered him with their half-baked truths, creating a misleading image that was ultimately more damaging than good. For a man who had nothing but his honour, his good name was everything. He understood full well that making a scandal of him made it all that more difficult for Dove to come to him.

  Illarion searched the crowd for her. Tonight was his chance to persuade London to accept him. Tonight, he could put the rumours to rest. More than that, he could persuade Dove to accept him. Tonight, on the stage, he could show her his heart, and hers.

  ‘Your Highness, it’s time.’ Lord Hathaway had a hand at his elbow, ushering him up on the stage and calling the audience to attention. Illarion scanned the crowded grand salon of Hathaway House for her face one last time. He only partially listened to the introduction being given by Lord Hathaway, his host and the organiser of his reading. Surely Dove had come. Everyone who was anyone was here. This was the event of the early half of the Season. Redruth wouldn’t miss it. Besides, he couldn’t afford to. Absenting himself and his family would give credence to the rumours that there was tension between him and Redruth—yet one more set of rumours started by Percivale in the last week.

  Of course, these particular rumours had a bit of truth to them. There was tension between him and Redruth. He’d gone to the town house that afternoon and attempted to see Dove after hearing the news on the club circuit about Percivale’s special licence. Upon arrival, he’d been dismissed by the butler. When he made it clear he wouldn’t leave, he’d been shown in to see his Grace the Duke of Redruth in the estate office. What had transpired next could only be politely termed as an ‘unpleasant interview’ where Redruth had accused him of fortune hunting.

  His gaze quartered the crowd, passing over girls in pastels, gentlemen in black and white, brunettes and blondes until it found her: Dove with her platinum hair and her exquisite white dresses. Only Dove could turn de rigueur white into a signature colour. Illarion smiled and for a moment their eyes met, as if she’d been looking for him, too. Then Percivale claimed her attention, whispering something at her ear. Jealousy surged in Illarion. She was his. Was he hers? Would she dare? She did not glance his way again. Her eyes remained downcast. Illarion wondered if decisions had already been made. Had he already lost? The irony did not escape him. He’d travelled across the Continent to get away from such a system of tyranny, only to encounter it on a very personal level. He would not lose Dove over this. He would not. He could not.

  Please, he thought, let my words speak to her tonight. Let her be brave. Never had he felt as if so much was riding on so little—a few words, a few images.

  The audience broke into applause as Lord Hathaway ended his speech. Illarion stepped forward, finding his strength. Tonight was for Dove. Would she hear the message in his words? Would she be encouraged by it? Encouraged enough to come to him against all odds? He began, setting the scene about the situation in Kuban, and launched into the first poem, one that had incurred the wrath of his king. He let the anger come, as he performed ‘Freedom,’ the one that had got him exiled, Katya killed. Stepan had counselled him against it, saying it was too graphic. For some it was. Some mamas ushered their daughters out of the room. They didn’t come back. Illarion didn’t care. This was his chance to reach Dove. He began to sweat. His hair came loose, his coat came off and he performed in his shirt sleeves, using his body, his voice, to transport the audience, to bind them in his spell. Would it be enough to convince her? To compel her?

  * * *

  Illarion was mesmerising like this. Dove was on the edge of her seat, riveted. She had told herself all she had to do was get through tonight. Easier said than done. She had not been prepared for his effect on her. She’d expected him to recite poetry, an exercise in declamation, nothing more. But this was nearly drama, his body a tool of fluid motion and expansive gestures, his voice conveying emotion: anger and tears, dreams and dashed hopes. By the second poem, she was sure the poetry spoke directly to her, about her. These were her dashed dreams and hopes. Illarion was calling her to action, reaching out to her in the only way he could—calling to her heart, while she sat beside the choice of her head.

  Percivale had been all graciousness tonight. He’d bowed over her hand, kissed her knuckles and smiled at her with fondness, if not heart-pounding love. ‘I will look forward to speaking with you alone later tonight,’ he’d said, a gentle reminder that he had waited for her. He praised her gown, told her she looked stunning. He himself was turned out sharply in crisp white linen, immaculate cravat, a subtle celery-green waistcoat and diamond stickpin. Any woman would be proud to be on his arm. As always, he was a prime representation of what good breeding and honour stood for. He knew the rules, he followed the rules. He was confident the rules would give him what he wanted. Dove wished she was as confident the rules would give her what she wanted. She was doing her best to follow them.

  Illarion moved into his finale, introducing it, ‘This last poem is dedicated to my muse, a woman who has brought me back to life. May my words inspire her as she has inspired me. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly present Snegoruchka.’

  Dove stifled a gasp. It was her! Tears sprang to her eyes. She could not cry, could not give away what she knew to be true. But she could watch him, she could drink in every minute of this to let him know how much it meant even if that was all she could do. She had made her choice.

  ‘Snegoruchka walks in the frost of her father’s forest, her hair the shade of ice, her lips winterberry-red, her eyes glacier-grey as she waits for spring, as she waits for love.’

  She waits for love.

  The reference was unmistakable. Beside her, Percivale stiffened. ‘By God, it’s you.’ He was horrified. ‘He’s making a spectacle of you. I will not have it.’

  ‘No, please, it is nothing,’ Dove begged quietly. But it was everything, in ways Percivale could not imagine or understand. She strained to hear the poem, each word an ode to her, an encouragement. Illarion was calling to her like a siren. Every bone in her body wanted to rise up out her chair and run to him, wanted to shout, ‘Yes! Yes!’ But she had made her decision.

  ‘I will call him out for insulting you, it is my right. He has gone too far this time.’ Dove sensed in those words that Percivale meant more that the poem, that Percivale suspected just how far Illarion had gone indeed. Illarion had seduced her. Illarion had fla
unted London’s rules. For a man like Percivale, to whom the rules were the guides of his life, it was beyond the pale. Such dishonour must be put down for the security of them all. Their world depended on it.

  Panic rose. Percivale would take such words seriously. The very last thing she wanted was a duel for Illarion’s sake and for Percivale’s.

  ‘Strom.’ It was the first time she’d ever called him by his first name. It felt odd and uncomfortable. ‘You must not. He is a prince,’ she argued softly. The performance was nearing its climax. Illarion’s words came fast, to create the illusion of running, of jumping, ‘Snegurochka dashes towards the bonfire with the other girls, skirts raised high, legs pumping.’ His voice slowed, his body slowed, simulating the action of the words, each word punctuated with meaning. ‘At the last moment, Snegoruchka leaps, she soars high above the flames.’ It sounded as if the performance had ended. It looked that way, too. Illarion stood frozen, his arm and his gaze raised heavenwards as if following Snegoruchka to the sky.

  Dove leaned forward, waiting for the inevitable. She knew how this story was supposed to end—with Snegoruchka vanishing into the clouds, her ice no match for the heat of fire. But the end never came. Illarion broke from his pose, swept the spellbound audience a bow, cueing their applause, and the crowd erupted.

  Around her there were grumbles, ‘What kind of poem is that?’ ‘There’s no ending.’ But Dove knew better. There was an ending. Illarion was waiting for her to write it. Would she choose to evaporate in the flame or would she choose to live immortal—with him? Her pulse raced, her heart pounding out the answer, Go to him. This time it didn’t matter that her decision was already made. It could be undone. She didn’t stop to think. She had wasted one chance, she would not waste another. Percivale would be devastated, but he’d recover. The Percivales of the world always did.

  Dove pushed past Percivale. He caught her arm, his blue eyes searching hers with concern. ‘Lady Dove, what is it? Are you ill?’