Page 46 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘I suppose his accent is indeed part of his appeal,’ Dove said neutrally, retreating from the field. Despite the excellent bignes, it was time to leave. The Venetian breakfast had lost its appeal.

Dove wished she could leave Illarion’s poem behind as easily as she left the gathering. In the silence of the carriage the poem’s lines and Eliza’s comment kept niggling. Who was it about? It didn’t have to be about anyone, but Dove felt it was.

Spring’s green dragon pits its fire against the strength of the surly bear, fresh from winter’s sleep, new-woken to life, hunger raging. The maid cannot belong to both. Perhaps the maid does not want to belong to either. It is not hers to choose her champion.

Her mind fixed on the image of the bear. Polaris, the Plough, the bear… She was certain the bear was meant to represent Russia or a Russian in the poem. Perhaps Illarion himself? If so, Spring’s green dragon had to be someone. Green could symbolise someone untried but the poem’s title firmly suggested the colour represented envy. Perhaps both. Spring’s jealous, untried dragon, then. What did the dragon do? Breathe fire. Fire. She thought of Percivale’s dissertation on fire-making that first night. Her stomach clenched. Percivale! The dragon was Percivale. That left the maid. She was too easy. The maid was her.

Perhaps the maid does not want to belong to either. It is not hers to choose her champion.

In retrospect, it was so clearly her, the allusion to her situation—a maid torn between two suitors. Was that how he saw himself? A suitor? There was the message, too; a woman had a choice if she was brave enough to take it and that choice didn’t have to include a man.

The carriage came to a halt in front of Redruth House as the fullness of revelation struck her. ‘Jealousy’ was about the three of them. The bignes churned in her stomach. How dare he? Did Illarion not understand the risk to her? To himself? The embarrassment for Percivale if anyone recognised the allegorical nature of the poem? For all his poor humour, Percivale was a powerful enemy. Not in a violent, dangerous sense, but socially. Where he led, the ton followed. If Percivale understood the poem, Illarion would have awakened a sleeping dragon in truth. If Percivale felt threatened, if he thought he could lose her, he would feel the need to hurry his suit. The bignes sat heavy in her stomach. Dear heavens, what had Illarion done? He’d called all three of them out. He’d pushed them all to the end game.

The carriage door opened and she followed her mother out. Another carriage was parked at the kerb. ‘It looks like we have company, my dear.’ Lady Redruth smiled knowingly. ‘It’s a good thing your father was home this afternoon. I have a feeling today might be a very auspicious day.’

Dove’s fists clenched in her skirts. Only one man in London drove a blue-painted high-perch phaeton drawn by two matched greys. The dragon was not only awake, he was here.

There was always the hope the men would be closeted away in her father’s study and miss them coming in, but Dove wasn’t that lucky today. They were lying in wait in the small receiving room at the top of the stairs. At the first sound of heels on the stairs, her father was in the doorway, beckoning for them to join the men.

‘Lady Redruth, Lady Dove, it’s always a pleasure.’ Percivale rose, all effusive politeness. There was an exchange of greetings and small talk, but the air was pregnant with unspoken words.

‘Might we walk in the garden, Lady Dove? I’ve been wanting to see your father’s new roses,’ Percivale asked as soon as a decent interval of small talk had passed.

There was no refusing, not with her parents both giving permission. She did her best to get it over quickly. She led him straight to the roses and gave the dissertation on the new rose. ‘Father and my godmother grafted it this winter. They’re calling it the Redruth. It’s white tinged with pink on the outer rims of the petals to give the petals texture and depth,’ she explained, trying to forestall any further non-rose-related conversation. But Percivale was in no hurry.

‘Yes, I remember the roses from your debut. They were all hers, weren’t they? Not these roses, however. Those were ivory. Very traditional, a classic beauty like the woman they honoured,’ Percivale complimented broadly.

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