He would have done so on principle alone. He would never back down to a man like Percivale. His reputation as a bold lover demanded it. But he had practical reasons, too. He’d found his muse. He was writing again, meaningful poems that went beyond the drivel he’d managed to pen since he’d arrived. There were other reasons, too. He was not in the habit of abandoning a damsel in distress and tonight Dove looked as if she could use a champion. Something had happened. Something was wrong.
His gaze slid to Dove standing between him and Percivale. The average onlooker would notice nothing. She was poised as always and had obviously been well schooled in hiding any upset she might feel. She looked stunning, turned out in a white-satin gown with hints of ice-blue undertones that played to the platinum depths of her hair. While the other girls looked like a spring bouquet in their pastel yellow and pinks, Dove looked calm and collected. Where the other girls looked like flowers on the verge of wilting as the night wore on, Dove remained fresh and cool, untouched by the heat of the evening. But Illarion knew differently. It was there behind her eyes, in the faint furrow in her brow that deepened the longer Percivale spoke.
Since the Academy he’d been playing with the metaphor of an iceberg and the idea that an iceberg hid so much of itself below the surface. His haughty debutante was like that iceberg. There was more to her than first impressions implied. Dove Sanford-Wallis loved art; she ran an art school for village children; she understood what art—any art—offered to the human soul; she missed her home. Because of his own experience, he understood why leaving home had been difficult for her. Like him, she’d not only left the familiar geography of home, she’d left people. Homes could be replaced, the way his friend, Nikolay, was rebuilding his through his Russian riding school. But one could not replace people.
Percivale was still going on. Illarion allowed a small glance of empathy in Dove’s direction. The fringes of a smile played on her lips. Didn’t Percivale know one did not offer details on such things at an evening out? The man had taken up the entire intermission with his prosing. The men in Dove’s court only stayed for her. Was Percivale aware of that? She had drawn them. They stayed for her. The men tolerated him because of Dove. Across the circle, young Alfred-Ashby idly shifted from foot to foot, as did several of the others. Did Dove see it? Illarion wondered. Did she understand this was what life would be like married to Strom Percivale, future Duke of Ormond, commander of ten seats in the House? Political powerhouse he might be, but he needed a strong hostess beside him. Perhaps she did understand and that was the source of her discontent.
He needed to get her alone. Illarion was damned if he’d spend the evening listening to an attractive but mediocre Italian soprano with a dubious accent for nothing. He’d come tonight to challenge Percivale, certainly, but he’d also come to see Dove. A muse wasn’t a muse if he couldn’t spend time with her, to be inspired by her and, if the truth be told, to protect her. Dove not only inspired him with her sharp wit, but the more he knew of her, the more he liked her, this heiress who taught children to draw. He did not want to see her sacrificed into a loveless marriage. He wanted to show her she didn’t have to settle for such a decision. That was the problem with innocence, it was like being blind. So many girls did not fully understand what they were getting into. How could they? Dove stirred him and, in return, he felt an obligation to protect her.
Protect her? For what purpose? He knew what he was protecting Dove from, but that prompted the question of ‘for’. What was he saving her for? What happened to her if she didn’t marry the likes of Percivale and take up her place in society? It meant she could be his muse a bit longer. But that wasn’t protection, was it? It was selfish to keep her from Percivale when he had nothing to offer her as an alternative, yet Illarion couldn’t resist. The twin temptations of challenging and championing were too much.
Lady Hampton begin ushering guests back to their seats in the music room; Intermission was over. Rule number one of any ballroom battle: don’t leave the room until you get what you came for. It was time to separate Dove from the crowd. This would be the tricky part with Percivale nearby likely hoping for the same thing. He’d extricated more difficult women than one debutante from a crowd before. There’d been the excellent Italian soprano in Vienna, the French ambassador’s wife, the Hapsburg Princess—needless to say, he was something of an expert. Although this would be the first time he’d attempted to extricate a woman of Dove’s calibre.