Page 14 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Yes, an apology would be just the thing. She needed to prepare herself for that. Dove ran through the scenario in her mind. He would come down to the shoreline and make reparations for his boldness. In return, she would do her part and murmur regret over her own reaction. She’d better start thinking of the words she wanted to use.

* * *

But after five minutes, five very long minutes, he hadn’t come. After ten minutes, she began to fear he had left her. How would she explain that to her mother? How would she explain that the Prince had merely been exacting retribution for her having left him on the dance floor? Or that they’d quarrelled over her perceptions of him? Any one of those explanations would horrify her mother. For two more minutes, she fought the urge to look over her shoulder and see if he was still on the bench.

The curiosity was killing her. Dove bent down, feigning a check of her shoe for a non-existent pebble and shot a hasty glance at the bench. She felt some relief. He was still there and he was writing. Writing? A small travelling desk was open on his lap, a quill in hand, and he was utterly engrossed in whatever he was doing. At least that explained why he hadn’t come to her and what had been in his bag. But it was still odd. She’d been down here, worrying over an apology, expecting an apology, and he had so obviously moved past the quarrel. Blown right by it, in fact. It had not even been a ripple on his pond. Unless that was an apology he was penning?

* * *

She was watching him with those silver eyes that hid and revealed her by turn. He could feel the intensity of her gaze on him. That gaze would expose her if he looked up. But he didn’t need to. He knew what she wanted. ‘I will not give you a lie, Lady Dove.’ Illarion concentrated on the paper before him, on the words flowing out of his pen. He almost had it. He wouldn’t look up until he was done. ‘I cannot give you what I don’t possess.’

‘And what is that?’ She was cross with him anew, no doubt for giving her riddles when she wanted a very certain speech from him.

‘Remorse.’ He did look up then, setting aside his pen. ‘You want an apology from me. I cannot give it since I possess none over our last exchange. In short, I am not sorry for a single word I said.’ He watched her gaze move from him to the paper on the writing desk. He blew on the sheet once more to ensure the ink was dry and tucked the sheet inside the case. ‘Did you think I was writing you an apology?’ Lady Dove had confidence in spades to make such assumptions, to think that every man she met was dying of need to make himself presentable to her.

‘I did think it was a possibility given the nature of our conversation.’ The straightforward expectation of her due was fast becoming part of her appeal. Illarion studied her carefully, seeing beyond the outer shell of loveliness. There was a beautiful boldness to such naïve belief that she would never be denied. It was that which he had tried to capture on paper today, not an apology. That boldness could not last. It was like a bloom of spring, a bright splash of colour for a season, but ultimately destined to fade after heat and weather had its way. He had seen it happen to too many women. He didn’t want to see it happen to Dove.

He rose, tucking his writing case back into the canvas bag. ‘Since I cannot offer you an apology, I shall make a peace offering. Before we go, I would like to show you one of my favourite places, if you’ll permit?’ He placed a hand lightly at her back, guiding her towards the path, the gesture giving her permission to stay a while longer. He had decided for them. He guided her down the Lancaster Walk towards the Queen’s Temple, keeping up easy conversation as the building came into view through the trees. ‘It was built for Queen Caroline in 1734. It was meant to be a summer house.’ How odd to be the guide and not the tourist. Perhaps London truly was becoming his home now.

He paused long enough to let her study the classical parchment-coloured architecture of the last century before leading her inside where it was dim and cool and empty. Whatever treasures the Queen had once kept in here for her comfort had long been removed. Illarion let Dove wander through the three chambers ahead of him, taking in the grace of her movements, the way her hand trailed against a wall, tracing the etched initials irreverently marking the presence of guests before them. ‘That’s a shame,’ she murmured. ‘To deface a thing of beauty by marking it.’

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