Page 19 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Illarion smiled, appreciative of his friend’s praise, but the praise was tempered by Stepan’s hard gaze, studying, assessing. ‘It’s not about us, Ruslan,’ Stepan growled. ‘Don’t be a dimwit. It’s about a woman.’

Ruslan gave Stepan a considering glance, taking the recommendation seriously and prepared his rebuttal. ‘No, Stepan, look at this line here, I am pretty sure it’s about us.’

Stepan was surlier than usual. ‘No, it’s about a woman,’ he said with finality. ‘Who is she, Illarion?’

‘My secret muse and that’s all I’m going to say,’ Illarion answered staunchly. Whatever was needling Stepan was doing a good job of it. He was quite the bear this evening. Illarion grinned, much to Stepan’s obvious consternation. ‘A gentleman never tells.’ But a gentleman did say thank you and Illarion knew just how to do it. Lady Dove had brought him to life today at the expense of exposing herself: her beliefs, her hopes, her disappointments, many of which she was just starting to recognise. It had left her confused, uncertain and sad. He knew first-hand how hard it was to let dreams go, even when they proved no longer viable or useful. He’d left a life behind, a country behind.

He would bring his Sneguruchka’s dream to life for just a day. He would show her that if fairy tales weren’t possible in whole, they were at least possible in part. He chuckled as Stepan and Ruslan stepped out for the night. He was already imagining the look on her face when she opened the note he hadn’t written yet. She would think it was an apology. But he knew better. He wasn’t sorry for today in the least, he was thankful for it. He had a new poem, worthy of Pushkin himself once he tidied it up, and who knew what tomorrow might bring? For the first time in over a year, the possibilities were endless.

CHAPTER SIX

The family carriage crawled through the evening traffic of Mayfair, bringing Dove ever closer to another supper, another ball, another evening with gentlemen she couldn’t respect, gentlemen who didn’t trust themselves to be liked for who they really were, gentlemen, she doubted, who even knew who they were any more. A ballroom full of liars. It was a rather cynical thought to start the evening on. It did not go beyond Dove’s notice that it was also a rather hypocritical thought. Hadn’t she scolded the Prince for being just the opposite, for being too honest? He would laugh at her if he were here now. Hours ago, she’d been scandalised by his outrageous thoughts and actions and now she was missing them. She wished she weren’t. She wished she was in better control of herself and her thoughts. The truth was, she was still reeling from the afternoon.

Beside her, her mother squeezed her hand. ‘Are you excited for tonight? Lady Tolliver’s will be a crush.’ She began reciting the guest list, offering her usual commentary on the guests. ‘Percivale will be there, of course.’ Her mother smiled knowingly. ‘It seems he’s already managed to align his schedule with yours. He arrived after the Prince had taken you out. He was sorry to miss you this afternoon, but he made it clear he was looking forward to this evening.’ This announcement was followed by another squeeze of her hand. ‘You’re off to a fabulous start, my dear. Your father and I could not be prouder. Everything is coming off just as we hoped.’

Across the carriage her father offered a rare smile. ‘Percivale is the one we’re angling for. He’s the whole package: wealth, title, family connections, government influence. Once he’s duke, he’ll have ten boroughs under his control for appointments. It was good you were gone today when he called. We don’t want to make it too easy on him. A man will cherish all the more what he has to fight for.’ He cast a brief, warm glance her mother’s direction. They were both busy people. They were hardly ever in the same place together, but when they were, there were always secret glances, quiet smiles, as if something unseen moved between them. Dove could not imagine it ever being that way with Percivale.

Her father’s focus returned to her. ‘The Prince’s attentions are certain to help your popularity in the short term, my dear, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think we’d take him seriously. He has nothing to offer us—no real lineage, no land and, from the talk at White’s about him, the merit of what his title means is suspect. I think we need to be careful there. Do not encourage him unduly or single him out for special attentions. We need to make sure London understands he is just one of your peloton—another to add to the mix of the viscount from Northumberland who has already inherited, the handsome Lord Fredericks, young Alfred-Ashby, and your mother tells me there’s an earl in the chase as well. A prince will add to your cache. It should be satisfactory enough to make Percivale sweat.’

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