Page 20 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Enough to make her sweat. Dove prickled at her father’s choice of vocabulary. Chase? He made the pursuit of marriage sound like a fox hunt and she was the fox, the men all hounds in hot pursuit. She knew how fox hunts ended, with the fox’s tail captured for a prize. She’d rather not picture her tail as the prize for these gentlemen. The image was disconcerting to say the least. But no less disconcerting was the disparaging way her father spoke of Illarion, as if he were of questionable character, a charlatan of the ton. This was a deeper disregard than what had been shown at the breakfast table.

Part of her wanted to defend Illarion and part of her knew better. What she did know made him unsuitable. He spoke his mind and that mind was full of rebellious ideas her parents would not approve of. If they knew the things he’d said today they would not tolerate him even among her peloton.

But most disconcerting was Percivale and what sounded like a foregone conclusion that he was the chosen one. Percivale and his prosing! How would she ever manage a lifetime of that? She glanced at her parents. What would they say if she told them she found Percivale and his ten boroughs boring? It was an entirely hypothetical question. If she told them now they’d say she hadn’t given him a proper chance, that it had only been one meeting at a ball. She needed a better moment to voice her disapproval of the match and better evidence.

Her fists clenched inside the folds of her pristine skirts. The prospect of waiting caused a sense of helplessness to rise in her. If she didn’t tell them how she felt now, when? In a week? In two weeks? In three? When Percivale asked for her hand? If it was au fait accompli, how long would he even wait? At what point would it be too late for her to speak up? The line between too soon and too late was a very grey one indeed; one more thing none of her lessons had ever covered. Perhaps that was because there was no need. Dutiful daughters never rebelled, never spoke out, they did what they were told.

The carriage rolled to a stop at Tolliver House. She could hear the footman outside setting the steps. Nothing more could be said on the subject tonight. Now there was only time to endure, to get through the evening. Perhaps tomorrow would be the right time. Perhaps tomorrow she would find the courage to speak her mind.

‘Remember, dear,’ her mother whispered last-minute instructions at her ear. ‘Draw the gentlemen out, let them talk about themselves. A man loves to show a woman he’s competent.’

‘And myself?’ Dove replied perversely. ‘Shall I talk about my drawing and my charity art school in Cornwall?’

Her mother’s lips pursed in scolding reprimand. ‘Dove, don’t be shocking.’

‘Then how shall I be competent?’ She knew she was needling now.

‘By listening, by being an encourager. Male egos are fragile things, dear. You have to prop them up,’ her mother admonished as they mounted the steps.

Dove wondered what Illarion would think of such advice. His ego had seemed very much intact in spite of her attempts to crack it. She doubted he needed to have it propped up. But it was a mistake to have thought of him. She should not have done it and certainly not by first name. Doing so created a poignant reminder that Illarion had stayed with her from this afternoon much as he’d stayed with her last night as assuredly as if he was physically present.

He stayed with her through the first dances, looming in her mind as a point of comparison for the other gentlemen in her court. She found herself constantly thinking, ‘What would Illarion say to that?’ or ‘Illarion would never…’ Then she would chide herself. Did she know him so well after two meetings? This afternoon she’d argued that she did not. She needed to stop thinking of him by first name, proof that his invitation to informality had not gone entirely rejected. Proof, too, that she was not as indifferent to him as her words made her out to be. She had not slapped him solely because of his indiscretion, but hers as well. He’d been right. She had not minded that kiss nearly as much as she’d pretended.

* * *

By the middle of the evening, her court was wearing on her nerves. Not one of the gentlemen, including the coveted Strom Percivale, had made a single enquiry about her beyond soliciting her need for warm punch. It had been their accomplishments that had dominated the conversation, unlike Illarion, who might have been brash, but he at least had made several enquiries about her.

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