Page 30 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

He was not in the habit of stealing off with virginal debutantes. Too risky. If one was caught with the notorious wife of an ambassador, so be it. One weathered the scandal, which lasted maybe three days until it was superseded by something else, and moved on. There was no moving on from being caught with a duke’s daughter. The only move was to the altar, which seemed to be the one place neither he nor Dove were interested in going.

Illarion set his gambit in play. ‘Lady Dove, I have seats where the acoustics are excellent. It would be an honour if you would join me for the second half of the performance.’ Illarion boldly put a hand to her back, ready to escort her, hoping she’d take the hint and start moving. One way to settle any question was to walk away while still waiting for an answer, especially if that answer might not be the one you want. It was exactly what he’d done in Kuban. He’d walked away and kept going until he hit London. Tonight, he just had to walk to the next room.

Fortunately, Dove was an eager study. ‘Thank you, your Highness, I am enjoying the music very much. Are you?’ She might have been overly bright in her response, but it was another successful trick to extricating oneself; using conversation to define the size of your circle. With her question, the circle had just shrunk to two, much to Percivale’s glaring dismay. Gentlemen muttered disappointment behind them as Illarion moved Dove into the conservatory, leading her to two seats in the back by the garden doors. They were ignoble seats, to be sure. Hardly the finest in the house. Lady Hampton had seated him back here, out of the way, where one would not be noticed. Illarion suspected Percivale, who was fast friends with Lady Hampton, had something to do with that. But Percivale had overlooked the charms of these seats, located so close to the French doors.

‘Are the acoustics truly any better back here?’ Dove whispered, settling her ice-blue skirts.

‘Depends on whether or not you like the music.’ Illarion lowered his voice. ‘When I said the acoustics were better, I meant it was quieter.’ He gestured with a nod towards the French doors. ‘If you felt faint during the performance, we could manage to take the air unobtrusively.’ Then he added, ‘It’s been difficult to get you alone these past few days.’

His admission caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Have you wanted to? I heard…’ She paused, rethinking her word choice, no doubt to avoid coming across as jealous or gossipy. ‘I mean, you’ve been busy.’ She sounded cooler, more in control like the woman he’d encountered on the dance floor that first night. ‘You had a reading at the Countess of Somersby’s. You’ve had quite a few there, I hear.’

Ah, so she knew. He’d done a reading of a new, highly erotic piece that he considered not half bad at the intellectual all-male salon held by the Dowager Countess of Somersby. Most of London knew, the poem wasn’t a secret any more than the Countess’s licentiousness was. But somehow, Dove knowing he’d done such a thing took the shine off it. The poem was called ‘Primavera’, the culmination of one of the poems he’d drafted that first day by the Long Water, the product of the heated images he’d conjured in the gardens of Kuban House. He wondered how Dove would feel if he told her she had inspired it? Exposed? Embarrassed? Empowered? Perhaps a little of all three. Maybe someday he’d tell her. Tonight he’d stay with more mundane topics. ‘I wanted to talk with you about your art school. There was so little time to speak of it at Somerset House.’

‘My art school?’ Her question was rife with wary cynicism. ‘Most men don’t want to talk about my art school.’ Unless they wanted something badly, was the implied message.

‘Most gentlemen are not artists themselves.’ It was true, he did want to hear about the school, although Illarion suspected he’d talk to her about any number of things if it meant getting her alone in the moonlight, having a chance to watch her come alive, to set aside the cool mask she wore night after night in the ballrooms. That was the woman who inspired him, the woman the rest of the ton didn’t get to see. But he also wanted to make sure she was all right. Perhaps it was nothing after all. She seemed better now that they were alone.

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