Page 47 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘Yes. The French White.’ She didn’t offer anything more. Her throat was tight, her stomach tighter. Percivale gestured to the bench. ‘Sit, Lady Dove. We must talk plainly.’ There was an edge of new steel in his voice. ‘I have something to discuss, something I hope you will be happy to hear. Once I was sure you would be, but these days I am not so certain.’

Dove folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to go on. He was looking for reassurance and she had none to give him. ‘As you may know, I have long held your family in great esteem. As you may also know, my uncle is in failing health, which brings my responsibilities ever closer. I had thought to wait to marry, but circumstances have changed, although the target of my affections has not. I find it imperative that I marry immediately so that I may firmly take up the reins of the dukedom when my uncle passes.’

He knelt before her on one bended knee, taking her hand in his. It was a pretty gesture, one that when viewed through the drawing-room windows would look gallant and handsome. Percivale, as always, was the picture of perfection with his well-tailored clothes, immaculate grooming and gold hair. But the gesture left her empty. She did not thrill to his touch, although she did panic. She knew what was coming. ‘What I am asking, Lady Dove, is would you be willing to do me the honour of being my Duchess?’ Not his wife, but his Duchess. What had Illarion said? I don’t let the title wear me. Was that what Percivale saw when he looked at her? A duchess? Not a wife, not an artist, but the embodiment of a lineage?

He took her silence as a sign of surprise. ‘I understand it is short notice. I had hoped to wait until the end of July to give you a Season. I do not think my uncle has that long.’

‘How much time does he have?’ Dove tried to be delicate. But she needed to know. How much time did she have?

‘A month, perhaps, the doctors say.’ Percivale shook his head. ‘He could linger for the summer, of course. These things are not set in stone.’ Dove offered him a comforting smile. She could see that the news upset him. She recalled hearing that he and his uncle were close and she felt callous for having asked. But as dreaded as the interview was, it was not unexpected, nor had such situations been unanticipated in her training. A young lady with a fortune must be prepared to refuse marriage proposals and she did have that skill in her arsenal. She ought to look demure, honoured, perhaps slightly sad. She should have practised in the mirror. But she’d never dreamed she’d need to refuse a future duke. There hadn’t been room in the fairy tale for that.

Knowing what to do wasn’t the same as actually doing it. Knowing also did nothing to calm the panic that churned in her stomach. Did Percivale see it? She felt as if she might cast up her accounts on her father’s new roses. Did she look it? She managed a soft smile, managed to meet his blue eyes, ‘You do me a great honour, even if it comes as a surprise. But because it is a surprise, I would beg you for whatever time you have to spare. I need time to acclimate myself to the idea of marriage so soon after my debut, time to gather a trousseau.’ She tried for a smile of modest shyness. ‘Surely you can imagine the enormity of being a duchess at eighteen?’ She prayed he wouldn’t ask for more reasons. What would she say if he wanted details? If he made her defend her position? Or worse, what if he knew the real reason she hesitated and called her out on it? How much easier it would all be if she could muster up some liking for Percivale, some tolerance for what he stood for. But he was the gateway to a life she didn’t want. She could not accept him without accepting what he represented.

He squeezed her hand. ‘I certainly can. If it were up to me, I would give you all the time you needed.’

‘May I think it over and give you my response?’ She rose, forcing him to stand. It occurred to her that he would simply argue her into it until she had no objections left if she remained seated.

Disappointment dashed across his features. ‘You may, Lady Dove.’ He paused. ‘May I ask you a question? Does your reticence have anything to do with another’s attentions?’ He stammered slightly, embarrassed by what he perceived as his own bluntness, but he courageously forged on. ‘Are you certain your affections are not engaged elsewhere?’ For a moment, Dove saw the potential of him, everything Strom Percivale could, but would not, be. Society had bred it out of him.

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