Page 60 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’ Nikolay was defensive. Illarion had not meant to insult him. It suited Nikolay. He might be a prince, but he’d also been a cavalry officer. He was used to living rough on the border campaigns. He was not a man who would survive long if limited to prowling ballrooms. He was not Dove. How long would places like Mikhail’s hold any allure for her?

‘You’re not Lady Dove, daughter of a duke,’ Illarion reminded him. ‘She knows nothing but luxury. She hasn’t the faintest idea how to do without it.’ That was what worried him the most. Lady Dove was a rebel in theory. She had no idea what it would cost her. Luxury was embedded in everything she did, in ways she probably wasn’t even aware of.

‘If luxury is so important to her, she can marry Percivale and be done with it,’ Nikolay offered matter of factly. ‘She would have accepted his offer days ago.’

He levelled Illarion with a long, dark stare. ‘You’re getting in pretty deep for a woman who was only supposed to be your muse. I hear Ruslan gave you the keys to a town house.’

‘My politics demand it,’ Illarion answered automatically. ‘You would do the same. You and I are opposed to women being forced to marry against their will for the sake of alliances. It’s what we risked everything for back in Kuban.’

Nikolay laughed and took a long drink. ‘Your politics? Is that what we’re calling it these days? Your sexual politics, perhaps. I’d buy that.’ He rotated his glass thoughtfully in his hand. ‘You have a fortune in the bank. You can see to her luxury.’ He finished off his drink and winked, ‘For political reasons, of course.’

Nikolay leaned in close. ‘You know you can’t take her to bed without marriage, Illarion? Not a girl like that.’ Something must have moved in his expression. Nikolay gripped his arm. ‘You already did. Damn. Humour me for a moment as I risk sounding like Stepan, but Percivale will kill you if her father doesn’t do it first, or you don’t get her to altar before it all comes out.’ Nikolay tightened his grip, his voice dropping. ‘Is that what you want, an excuse to face Percivale at twenty paces?’

‘Murder or matrimony? I doubt it will come to murder. I don’t seek out duels on purpose,’ Illarion replied with quiet iron. But the idea held some merit. Percivale was attempting to slander him.

Nikolay was grim. ‘If it comes to either, call me. I’ll be your second.’ Illarion smiled. That was the difference between Nikolay and Stepan. Stepan would rail at him until dawn for taking such a risk. But Nikolay would nod his acceptance and offer to be his witness, no questions asked.

The dance ended, the music swinging into another tune. Illarion brightened as he recognised it. ‘Hopak!’ he cried. ‘Shall we?’ There was nothing like a lively Hopak full of squats and bends and leg kicks to remind him of nights spent dancing in Kuban. He linked arms with Nikolay and dragged him to the centre of the floor with a laugh to join the other men.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Hopak, danced in its purest form, was a man’s dance. Dove stood beside Klara Baklanova, her cheeks flushed, her body sweating from the dancing, as she clapped along with the crowd surrounding the dancers. What had started as group of men dancing had become just two: Nikolay and Illarion. The two of them sprang into the air, legs spread, hands touching toes as they leapt, only to land and conduct a series of fast squats and leg kicks. Nikolay was impressive, but Dove had eyes only for Illarion. His hair had come loose from the black silk bow he’d worn earlier. In fact, much of what he’d worn earlier was gone; his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, all lying around the bistro somewhere, she supposed. It didn’t seem important at the moment. The gentleman who had collected her in Mayfair was gone, replaced by a man who was more primal, more natural than any man she’d ever met. The gentleman-Prince Illarion Kutejnikov played at being had slowly been replaced by this man over the course of the night, she realised. It had started slowly at the riding exhibition as he’d exchanged a few words in Russian with those sitting around them, until he’d spoken more Russian than English by the time they’d arrived at the bistro, and then the clothes had started coming off, the hair had started coming down.

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