Page 26 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Dove heard the teasing laughter beneath his words and knew the mention of weather was for her. Even surrounded by others, he’d managed a type of privacy for them alone. What a skill that was and how intoxicating even if she knew it shouldn’t be. She really must try harder to resist his charm. Nothing could come of this interlude except memories, which of course assumed the opposite—that she wanted something to come of it. What would that something be? She had the afternoon to ponder it, to watch him in action as he continued to dazzle effortlessly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Oh, he was smooth! She couldn’t help but admire the way he talked with her mother, the way he greeted everyone who passed by their table. He seemed to know everyone and their table became a social hub. Before she realised it, they were holding court, or rather the Prince was. People wanted to be with him, he was a magnet. And no wonder. Dove noted how he knew something personal about each passer-by. He’d ask after a favourite horse, or a beloved relative. No one was beneath his notice or attention; not the ageing aunts who’d been pressed into chaperon duty to earn their keep, not the spinsters whom society had overlooked, not the enterprising mothers who had dragged their daughters over to meet her and her mother, but in reality had come to the table to see him. He was generous with them all.

Extra chairs were brought over, the tiered tea tray was refilled twice and still the people came. Gentlemen with ladies on their arms strolled by to exchange a brief word, the women eyeing her with calculated speculation. Dove could see the question in their eyes: what was she doing with the Season’s most coveted bachelor? There was speculation in the gentlemen’s eyes as well. What was the Prince doing with the Season’s most anticipated debutante? She could almost hear their thoughts: hadn’t she been intended for someone more traditional? Someone more English? Had everyone known, then? Was she the only one who hadn’t truly understood what her debut had meant? Society had already decided her future when she had not even grasped it.

There was a certain tension beneath the gentlemen’s bonhomie. Dove slid her glance towards Illarion as recognition flared. The men were wary of him. He didn’t belong, not quite, despite the fact that he was like them in many ways. He had wealth, he had a title, dubious as it might be. Still, he wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider, not entirely accepted because he was different. Did Illarion understand that? It put his clothing at her ball into a new light. Had his choice of evening attire been a small rebellion on his part? A chance to thumb his nose at society with its rules?

If such things bothered Illarion, he didn’t show it. But the realisation gave her yet another lens through which to view him, this time as a man far from home. A man alone in a new world. Not unlike herself. Each day she was here, Cornwall seemed further away, taking her true self with it. Did he feel that way about Kuban? She had not believed him yesterday when he’d said he knew something of homesickness. Today, she thought she might have erred. She might have erred in other ways, too. His attraction was not just the physical impact of his looks—although some women would never look further—it was in how he made people feel. Despite their wariness, people couldn’t help but like him, at least for the moment. It was hard to dislike someone who showed an interest in you. It had worked with her, after all, hadn’t it?

The flow of guests past their table fell off, giving Dove a moment of quiet. Her fingers itched to pick up a pencil and draw him, to see beyond the planes and lines of the straight nose, the strong jaw, beyond the leonine lengths of his champagne-coloured hair. If she could draw him, she could know him.

A shadow fell across their table, the brief respite interrupted by Percivale himself. ‘Ah, I thought I’d find you here at the centre of attention,’ he effused, offering a short bow that encompassed all of them, although it was not clear if his words were meant as a compliment to her or a reprimand to Illarion. Of all the men who had come by the table, Percivale’s wariness towards Illarion was the most palpable. ‘You seem to be at the centre of everything these days, Kutejnikov.’ Ah, so he had meant to snub Illarion with his remark. It was a further snub to forgo any reference to Illarion’s title. ‘You must be enjoying your first Season in London.’ Another reference to Illarion’s status as an outsider to the elite circles of the ton where everyone had known everyone for generations. His gaze drifted over the crumbly remains of the oft-filled tea tray.

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