Page 50 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘Italy?’ Her mother sounded dismayed. ‘I don’t think Percivale would let you go as far as that. Perhaps you could suggest a honeymoon in France, though? He would likely give you that. He is eager to please you, dear. Everything will come out right, you’ll see.’

‘How do you know that? How do you know you can spend the rest of your life with someone?’ If she had the answer to that, she might just have the direction she needed to make her decision.

Her mother’s brow knit. She shook her head. ‘You just know. You feel it, right here.’ Her mother’s hand went to her heart. ‘Society helps, your parents help, they know who will suit best. But ultimately, you know. You feel a certain way when they’re near like nothing can harm you, that you’re safe. More than that, you feel invincible, that nothing can stand against you as long as that person stands with you.’

It was at once the right answer and the wrong answer. Dove recognised the feeling her mother described. Now she knew for sure. It was not merely girlish infatuation she felt for Illarion. She was falling in love with him, the most unsuitable of men. And she had to see him at once.

* * *

A knock on his chamber door brought a growl from Illarion. He was in the middle of refining ‘Snegurochka’ and didn’t wish to be disturbed. To that extent he’d rejected every invitation in the salver downstairs and opted to stay in tonight. He was completely ‘in’, too—he hadn’t left his chambers nearly all day. A quick glance at the clock suggested it was nearing midnight, an odd time for a call especially when no one was expected. Or wanted.

‘Your Highness, you have a guest. Are you receiving?’ a footman enquired with all the bland aplomb an excellent English servant might exhibit in the middle of day; there was no blinking of sleep-blurred eyes although the ‘guest’ most likely had woken the fellow from a light doze in the foyer as he waited for Stepan and Ruslan to come home. Illarion had to give the footman credit for composure. It wasn’t every day a footman had to deliver midnight messages to a prince who worked in the nude. Even his work ‘attire’, or lack of it, had failed to knock the bland neutrality from the footman’s face.

‘No.’ Illarion waved an impatient hand. ‘I’m working. I am not to be disturbed.’

The footman bowed deferentially. ‘Very good, your Highness. I will just tell her…’

‘Her? There’s a woman here at midnight?’ Illarion rose, coming around the work table in a rush of surprise and concern. ‘Is it Klara?’ His first thought was for Nikolay, that his wife had come because Nikolay was in trouble or hurt.

‘No, your Highness, it is not Prince Baklanov’s wife.’

Illarion halted in relief and ran through the list of women who would be bold enough to come to his home at night. Who could it be? The Countess? The thought was met with dismay. If she was here, he knew what she’d come for. He was about to instruct the footman to send the woman away when the rapid clip of low-heeled slippers sounded on the stairs, the white fabric of ballgown skirts shimmered in the darkness of the corridor. Those skirts pushed past the footman into the room, revealing unmistakable platinum hair coiffed in pearls and flashing silver eyes. Not in a thousand chances would he have guessed the caller downstairs was Dove Sanford-Wallis.

‘Lady Dove, what are you doing here?’ Illarion’s words were beyond inadequate to express his shock. What could have possibly happened to bring her here of all places—the home of not one, but three unwed men? She knew the rules better than anyone. She had no excuse, which meant she had a reason.

A kaleidoscope of questions swirled through his mind. Why was she here? What had happened to bring her? Who knew she’d come? There were other thoughts, too; practical thoughts like how quickly he needed to get her out of here and how stealthily that needed to happen if she was to be protected. But beneath that instinctive reaction to protect her, to send her away, there was a part of him that wasn’t obsessed with the danger of her being here. That part of him was glad she was here. She looked beautiful in her signature white, and troubled; troubled enough to run to him in his lair. For all his poet’s vocabulary and intuition, Illarion could only manage the most basic of thoughts, the most basic of questions. ‘Do you know how scandalous this is?’

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