Page 32 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘There’s too much smoke in the city for clear skies very often,’ Dove admitted. ‘There are clear skies in Cornwall, too. One night, I took the children out to a meadow for an evening picnic and we painted the stars.’ She’d never been touched like this, never held like this. It was both natural and exciting. On the one hand, it felt right to be here in his arms looking at the sky. On the other hand, it conjured up hopes—would he try to kiss her again? Would she allow it this time?

‘You miss Cornwall. I would never have guessed the sophisticated miss I’d waltzed with at Lady Burton’s was a country girl at heart,’ he teased.

She nodded. ‘I do. As do you, I think. You miss Kuban. Whenever you talk of it, you say “we” as if you still belong there, as if London isn’t your home yet.’ They had more in common than she first realised. London wasn’t her home yet either. They both clung desperately to the homes of their childhood, the only homes they’d known. Perhaps, like her, he had not given up his home entirely at will either.

‘Kuban is the only home I’ve known.’ Illarion sighed and she enjoyed the feel of him against her, the smell of him as she listened. He spun tales for her straight from his memories, painting word pictures for her of summers spent at the summer palace with its fountains and parks. And she fell in love with the beauty of Kuban: boating on the lakes, fishing in the rivers; autumns spent hiking the mountains until snow fell; winters spent indoors near elaborately tiled kachelofen staying warm and listening to stories while wolves howled outside. He told her of Maslenitsa, the holiday that signalled the end of winter and the coming of spring, and always the food; the honey cakes and the piroshkis.

‘Piroshkis are peasant food, some say.’ Illarion described the hot, spicy meat wrapped in a pastry. ‘But in Kuban we are hardy folk, not everyone is so lofty. My friend Nikolay Baklanov’s family are Cossacks from the Steppes, what some would call not true royalty in the sense that they are not from the great families of St Petersburg.’ He gave her a history then, explaining how Kuban was a new province, only recently settled by Russia to protect territorial claims and to push Russia’s interest in Turkey. ‘We are three generations old.’

‘And your family? Are they Cossacks, too?’ Dove asked, breathless from his tales. Did he understand what a gift he’d given her tonight? The sharing had been honest and heartfelt, so different than the drawing room tittle-tattle that ruled her days. It was yet another surprise in an evening full of them. When she’d anticipated the evening, it had been with dread and fear of boredom. It might have started that way, but it was not ending that way.

‘No, we are from St Petersburg originally. I’m too blond to be a Cossack.’ Illarion laughed. My family sought to win the Tsar’s favour by being the first to settle in Kuban. It worked. My grandfather was made a prince and his family was given a position of status in the new royal court with all the riches and estates that went with such a title. It was an addictive lifestyle. But to keep that status, to sustain that addiction, one has to stay co-operative. That is easier said than done at times.’ There was a mystery behind those last words, but tonight was not the night to probe it.

‘I envy you.’ Dove sighed. ‘You’ve seen so much, you’ve had so many experiences. I have seen little and that is not likely to change. I did not understand that until I came here and saw what it was really like—a handing off of sorts, a changing of the guard. I know it’s meant to keep me safe, to keep the world out. But that’s not how I see it. It’s meant to keep me in.’ Her voice broke and she stopped for fear she’d break down entirely.

‘Dove, what has happened? I could tell tonight that something was not right,’ Illarion whispered and the temptation to tell him was too great. When had he become her friend? Her confidante? The one she wanted to run to?

‘Percivale met with my father to share that his uncle is ill, perhaps for the last time. Percivale will become Ormond soon.’ She waited for him to see the implications of that. He did not disappoint. Of course, a prince like himself would understand the intricacies of inheriting and mourning.

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