Page 16 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

He teased her lips apart, his mouth patient in its instruction as she opened to him, her body answering him along with her lips and he knew then he was her first kiss, her first taste of desire, first taste of a little wickedness, too. He deepened the kiss, slowly, expertly, so as not to rush her or pressure her, but to answer her, to lead her at her pace where he wanted her to go. She was delicious in her inexperience, eager and hesitant by turns. He would ensure she didn’t regret this…until she did. Without warning, she was out of his arms and thwack!

Her palm struck his cheek, her eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell was that for?’ He was too stunned to correct his language. It wasn’t the first time curiosity over a kiss had sparked a rebellion, but it was the first time he’d been slapped for it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sweet heavens, her hand hurt! She hadn’t bargained on that. And, oh, dear Lord, she’d marked him! Dove stared at Prince Kutejnikov in stunned disbelief. She’d never struck anyone, or anything, in her life and now the palm of her hand was a glaring red mark on the Prince’s cheek. This was insanity! She’d only wanted to scold him for his impertinent boldness and now they were both smarting. The Prince rubbed his jaw, glaring his surprise and his disapproval. He probably wasn’t used to being slapped. Women probably liked his kisses. She certainly had, although she wouldn’t dare admit it to him, not now that she’d put her handprint on his face. What she hadn’t liked was the indiscretion of the act. In no way did it embody any aspect of her mother’s rules.

‘Have you no thought for our reputations?’ Dove gathered her thoughts long enough to answer his question. ‘We are in a public place where anyone could come strolling through and my maid is just in the other room. She could have walked in at any time! Do you know what could have happened if we’d been caught?’ That lesson had been drummed into her quite thoroughly: kisses of any nature were compromising. They led straight to the altar, the very thing the Prince seemed intent on counselling her against. ‘Perhaps the better question is not what was I thinking, but what were you thinking?’

The Prince’s blue eyes were hot flames fixed on her, his voice low. He might have been stunned for a moment by her act, but he was not angry. He was…amused? But his words were serious. ‘I thought you should know what you’re sacrificing, what your parents and society are asking you to give up in order to make their alliance.’

Something inside Dove shrivelled and she realised she’d been hoping for a different answer, something along the lines that she’d been irresistible, or that he’d been overcome. The Prince gave a wry smile. ‘You are disappointed. Still clinging to the fairy tale, are we?’

Dove flushed. Perhaps she was. Perhaps it took more than two hours to kill a dream after all. ‘Prince Kutejnikov, I think we should return home.’ There was no reparation that could call back the peace of the day now.

‘I think after this afternoon you should call me Illarion.’ He offered her his arm, negotiating again: the use of his name in exchange for escorting her home. ‘And I shall call you Dove.’

‘First names are shockingly informal. It is impossible. It cannot be done.’ If she allowed such a liberty, she’d be admitting to their intimacy. Admittance meant acceptance. Acknowledgement. At the moment, she would rather not acknowledge what had passed between them, the press of his mouth on hers, the way her body had responded. She’d been all too aware of the need to lean into him, the shocking thrill to feel the hard, muscled planes of a man’s body up close for the first time. Even through layers of clothes, there’d been an intoxicating intimacy in that physical connection. Her reaction had surprised her, confused her.

Illarion gave a wicked chuckle. He was laughing at her again. This time at her expense. He thought her a prude. ‘We’ll use those names only in private then.’ He winked, assuming her consent.

They stepped out into the lingering sunshine. Late afternoon shadows had begun to fall, hinting at the onset of a spring evening. Illarion leaned close to her ear as they walked. ‘A piece of advice for you, my dear. I don’t let the title wear me.’ He fell silent, letting her absorb the words as they walked to the curricle. He handed her up as if there’d been no break in the conversation. ‘Of course, it’s dangerous. They want you to wear the title. It’s easier for them if you’re not a person. It’s easier for you, too; you forget to think about what you want, until you realise it’s too late.’

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