Page 38 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The invitation arrived the next day, sent most properly by Princess Klara Grigorieva Baklanova, requesting the attendance of Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis at a Russian-style picnic to celebrate the beginning of summer as it would be done in St Petersburg. It was all very decorously arranged. The Princess and her husband called for Dove the following afternoon in a black lacquered open-air landau, the Princess dressed in a summery carriage ensemble of robin’s egg blue embroidered with yellow flowers, the Prince turned out in English driving clothes, his dark hair pulled back neatly, respectably. That was indeed the word for it: respectable. There were no grounds on which the Duchess of Redruth could find fault with the invitation without insulting the Princess. And yet, Dove knew the occasion had Illarion’s stamp all over it. He had planned this, he had put the newly wed Russian Princess up to it—all for her, which prompted numerous questions, most of which began with why.

The drive out to Hampstead Heath was pleasant, the weather good and the Baklanovs made excellent company. ‘The others will meet us there,’ Princess Klara explained, her gaze sliding warmly to her husband. They were a couple obviously in love. They made no secret of holding hands and Dove did not miss the Prince’s thumb rolling gently over his wife’s knuckles as she spoke. The simple affection of the gesture made Dove’s heart clench. She wanted to be cherished the way Prince Nikolay cherished his wife. Such love was possible. The Baklanovs proved it.

Was that why Illarion was doing this? Was this another way of showing her the possibilities of life beyond Percivale and her parents’ choices? His kiss, their dance, his arms about her and his words in her ear were still warm in her memory. A reminder of how she felt when she was with him and a reminder of how she did not feel with Percivale.

She studied the Baklanovs. There was more between them than kisses. It was more than kisses she craved from Illarion. He wanted to know her and she wanted to be known by him. She wanted to know him in return, and perhaps, she hoped, he would want to share himself with her. She’d never felt that intensely drawn to another person in her entire life. Certainly not with Percivale. Then came the most wicked thought of them all: perhaps she never would feel like that with anyone except Illarion.

Illarion. Percivale. The situation had changed drastically since it had begun. In the beginning, it had been about ideas: the loss of her freedom, the thought of marriage to a man she didn’t love, leaving her home, the craving of adventure. It had not been about choosing between Illarion and Percivale. It had been about choosing freedom over entrapment. But at some point, it had become about choosing one man over another. Illarion was her freedom. Percivale was her jailer. Those were dangerous thoughts indeed, especially when she had no claim to Illarion. There was no guarantee he would choose her. And yet, here he was arranging for a picnic, a chance for them to be alone. Together.

‘Lady Dove, you’re a thousand miles from here, is everything all right?’ Klara asked.

‘I was wondering why Prince Kutejnikov is doing this,’ Dove admitted. She had ideas, some of which left her warmer than others. Was he merely showing her life beyond Percivale or was he showing her himself? If Klara knew the answer, she was of no help. She only smiled and pointed in the nearing distance as a white canopy came into view. ‘Look, they have everything set up!’

‘Everything’ was an understatement. An entire camp had been laid out. Dove noticed the details as the carriage came to a halt. Chaise longues, rugs and tables had been set up beneath the wide canopy and servants bustled about with hampers of food. ‘We’ll never eat that much!’ Dove exclaimed.

‘You’ve never seen these boys eat.’ Klara laughed, letting Nikolay help her down. ‘Besides, it’s a point of Russian pride to have lots of food at a picnic.’

Nikolay kissed his bride’s cheek. ‘All of my favourites, I hope.’ Then Illarion was there and Dove forgot all about the affectionate Baklanovs. His hair was pulled back in his usual black bow and he was dressed for the warm spring outdoors in buff breeches, tall boots and a loose white shirt open at the neck. His jacket and waistcoat had already been discarded. He swept her a gallant bow. ‘Lady Dove, welcome to our camp. We’ve been busy.’

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