Page 24 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘No one could,’ Ruslan offered. ‘The peace of the country depended on the match.’

‘But it was my poetry,’ Illarion began, ‘that encouraged her to think of rebelling.’ In the end, he’d feared it had been his poetry that had inspired her suicide. ‘If I had not written “Freedom”, she would still be alive.’ ‘The only freedom is death.’ The last line. The fatal line. The Tsar believed it. The Tsar had blamed him publicly for Katya’s death, had renounced him as the royal poet laureate, calling his poetry inciteful and dangerous.

Ruslan sat with him until dawn, until the fears of the night had passed and he could hear London waking up outside his window. Modern London didn’t believe in curses. But Illarion did. He’d failed Katya and he was cursed for it. His poetry had caused a woman to take her life—not just any woman, but his best friend. It didn’t matter that he’d not intended it. His need for a muse was urgent now. In a few hours, he had a date with destiny, a new destiny. He was more convinced than ever it was the only way to put the past behind him. To stop the nightmares.

* * *

Now this was the London Dove had dreamed of! A drive to Somerset House, an afternoon spent leisurely touring the Royal Academy’s art exhibition on the arm of a gentleman who wasn’t attempting to calculate her net worth or peek down her bodice. Although, to be honest, Illarion not calculating her net worth did make her a bit nervous. If he wasn’t doing that, what was he doing with her? Illarion—she’d given up not thinking about him by first name—could have the attention of any woman in any room and, for the moment, he’d chosen her.

Today, he was on his very best behaviour, which somehow managed to disappoint her. There were no pointed conversations or audacious comments—yet—as they strolled the galleries. The omission of his outrageous remarks was a very small shade on an otherwise perfect outing, a far different outing than the one yesterday. Dove smiled to herself and thought, apology accepted.

Beyond the windows of Somerset House, the Thames sparkled beneath blue skies as they toured the exhibit in the north wing. Around them, the crowd ebbed easily, making it possible to stop where they willed to take in art that appealed. At the Constable oil of Salisbury Cathedral, the crowd thickened and they had to wait for good viewing; a wait that was entirely justified in Dove’s opinion. ‘He’s mastered it again, so perfectly!’ Dove exclaimed as they moved closer to the painting and she could study the details. ‘Look at how he’s captured the weather.’ She pointed discreetly to the dark cloud peeking above and between the high leaves of the trees. ‘A storm is coming. The picnickers in the right corner are unaware, they still have the sun. But not for long.’ She smiled, enjoying her story. ‘They will have to hurry. One can almost see the clouds moving across the sky.’

Illarion nodded, his gaze thoughtfully on the canvas. ‘There is irony in attempting to capture transience. Your Constable seeks to trap change into some sort of permanence on canvas, I think.’

‘Don’t poets do the same thing?’ She tossed him a smile full of friendly challenge. ‘Except they capture a moment with words instead of oils.’

His blue gaze contemplated her, making her feel as if he were capturing her. They might have been alone in the crowded room in that moment. ‘Touché, Lady Dove. We do indeed. How insightful.’

‘You’re having a good time.’ It was a statement, not a question, but it wasn’t without a certain element of surprise on her part. He was enjoying this, Dove realised. He was enjoying her. And she was enjoying him.

‘I am, aren’t you? You seemed somewhat amazed that this should be the case.’ He grinned and they began to stroll once more past minor works that didn’t require their concentration or commentary.

‘Except for my father, I don’t know many gentlemen who enjoy art so thoroughly.’ Dove could not imagine discussing Constable with any of her court. Lord Fredericks would stare at her and say ‘quite so, quite so’ and she certainly couldn’t imagine strolling here with Percivale, who would only come to be seen. She cautioned herself to be fair. He wasn’t the only one who simply came to be seen. Most people came for strictly that reason. But not her. Not Illarion. They’d actually come to enjoy the art. She slanted a quiet look in Illarion’s direction, taking him in with a new view. They had something in common now.

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