Page 31 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Dove slanted him a coy smile that was misleadingly worldly as the Italian soprano took the stage. ‘If it’s my art school you want to hear about, be prepared. I might feel faint right before the second aria.’

* * *

Good heavens, what was she doing? Accepting an invitation to walk alone with a man? Her response shocked Dove. She knew better. She should not be encouraging this radical Prince who whispered rebellion in her ear. But here she was, agreeing to go out into the gardens with him for reasons she didn’t entirely understand except that they seemed a preferable alternative to sitting here listening to the soprano. The problem with her reasoning was that Illarion had become a preferable alternative to so many things and to so many people: to Alfred-Ashby, to Fredericks, most of all, to Percivale. He was the real threat these days.

Several rows in front, Percivale’s blond head took his seat. Not for the first time, Dove wondered why she couldn’t like him. Everything would be easier if she did. What wasn’t there to like? He was good looking, titled, wealthy, all the things she was raised to respect and expect in a proper husband, yet she could not fathom herself married to him. Why? What was wrong with her that she wanted to avoid that fate? That she was willing to risk her parents’ disappointment by sneaking out with Illarion? Her parents would not approve of her going into the gardens when they heard of it. And they would hear of it. Her godmother, her chaperon tonight, although Lady Burton was sitting only rows away with old friends, would tell them.

The dark-haired soprano began the first aria. She still had time to back out, but Dove knew she wouldn’t. The clock on her freedom was ticking. Percivale had called today to speak with her father about his uncle’s feeble health. Time was running out. If she couldn’t turn back time, she had to focus on making each remaining minute count.

Getting to the gardens was far too easy. Sitting in the back of the room had its merits and she gave herself credit for doing a passable job of waving her fan and leaning on Illarion’s arm should anyone have been watching. ‘You might have a career in theatre if this debutante thing doesn’t work out.’ Illarion laughed as they reached the freedom of the gardens.

Dove laughed, too. ‘The soprano, she was terrible. Do you really think she was from Italy? I can’t imagine her appeal.’

‘I think she appeals mostly to men. I heard Lord Hampton was the one who arranged for her to sing,’ he offered.

Dove slid him a look, ignoring the other implication. ‘Lord Hampton is tone deaf, then.’

‘And his wife is blind,’ Illarion alluded cryptically as they walked the cobbled paths. ‘A perfect pair.’ He gestured to the sky and Dove followed his arm up to the stars. ‘There’s another perfect pair; Polaris and the Plough, as you say in England.’

Dove looked but didn’t find it immediately. Illarion leaned close with more instruction. He smelled of patchouli, exotic and exciting. ‘To the left a bit, there! Do you see it, Polaris, the brightest star in the sky.’

‘I have it now.’ She lifted her finger to trace the lines of the constellation. ‘Do you not call it the Plough in Kuban?’

‘No, we call it the Great Bear. Bears are important symbols in Russian folk culture. To have one in the sky looking down on us makes sense.’

‘You’re a poet and an astronomer?’ she teased, part of her thrilling to learn another piece of him.

Illarion shook his head. ‘A poet is a little bit of everything. I think he has to be in order to write about the world and its emotions. A poet has to see connections between the external world and the internal soul.’

She was quiet before she spoke again, pondering the depths of the remark. ‘I think a good artist must see that connection, too, in order to capture a face or a scene. I do not have that, I think. My life has been sheltered.’ By extension, her art had been limited, too. She tilted her face to the sky, her eyes searching. ‘What else is up there, I wonder?’

‘Everything. Secrets, planets, maybe even worlds we haven’t found yet. The sky is eternity,’ Illarion murmured. She was aware of him close behind her, of the slight movement it had taken to draw her close, his arms wrapped about her waist. His back was conveniently to the conservatory, blocking any view of her. No one could see his hands about her. He began to talk, a quiet murmur for her alone. ‘Our skies are clear in Kuban. At night, the sky is covered in stars, like brilliants on dark blue velvet, twinkling and teasing with their mysteries.’

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