Page 63 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘It may matter to you some day.’ Illarion looked out the window and sighed. ‘We are nearly home. Thank you for a lovely evening. I am glad you enjoyed it.’

‘I do not think you finished saying what you meant to say.’ Dove was not eager to get out of the cab with their conversation incomplete. There was a mystery lurking here. Why had tonight mattered so much to him?

Illarion gave a half-smile. ‘We will finish this conversation tomorrow. Klara will call for you at noon to do some shopping.’

‘Shopping?’ The last thing she wanted to do was shop.

Illarion laughed. ‘Not really. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out, golubushka.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Portland Square, Number Two.

Noon.

I have something to discuss.

Dove fingered the folded note Klara had given her, feeling the form of the key hidden within its folds. For a man known for his poetry, the note was terse and short. But for all its brevity it still had the power to make her pulse quicken.

She was coming to suspect it would always be that way with him. Even when he left her, the sound of his name in a conversation or the slightest whiff of patchouli would recall him to her. She would never be free of him, one more unintended consequence of her rash gambit. And this visit to Portland Square another.

Dove wrapped her pink shawl about her shoulders, thankful for the company of Klara in the open-air landau. Klara’s presence had saved her the need to lie to her parents. Number Two was easily located, the whitewash and the black shutters made it stand out from its brick and sandstone counterparts. Dove looked up from beneath the brim of her hat at the four storeys of paned and shuttered windows. The home was impressive, fit for a duke, or, Dove thought with a shiver of anticipation, a prince. Although, why this particular Prince needed a town house was beyond her. Actually, she could imagine a few reasons, all of which left a knot of butterflies fluttering around her stomach. Men needed homes for one reason: to set up housekeeping and nurseries. Was that what he meant to discuss last night?

Dove climbed the front stairs slowly, behind Klara, smoothing her hand over her belly in the hopes of settling the butterflies. Had Illarion meant to propose? How odd when he’d made it clear to her that he thought marriage was a prison. She had, too, for that matter, only, she wasn’t sure she believed that any more. Marriage to a man like Illarion would be different than marriage to Percivale. And yet, she felt as if marriage would be an imposition. Illarion didn’t want to marry.

The shiny, black-lacquer door opened before she could knock. Illarion ushered her inside with a sweep of his hand. ‘Come in. Welcome…home.’ He glanced at Klara. ‘Thank you for bringing her.’ It was a polite dismissal. He meant for them to be here alone. A trill of anticipation went through her.

She gave him an odd look. There was something different about him today. He’d dressed carefully in a dark blue jacket and buff breeches, his hair immaculate in its black bow, his cravat crisply tied in an Osbaldeston knot. A heavy ring set with a sapphire adorned his hand. But that was nothing new. He was always well turned-out. What was new was the tension about him. The ease he usually exhibited, as if nothing mattered, was missing. Today, Illarion was nervous. How curious. But it did nothing to ease the nerves in her own stomach. His nerves became her nerves.

‘We need to talk, Dove, but first, let me give you a tour.’ Inside, the town house did not disappoint from the black and white marble tiles of the floor to the high ceilings and the majestic sweep of the staircase leading upstairs.

‘This is spectacular,’ Dove commented, and meant it. The entrance rivalled her father’s own home.

Illarion smiled, pleased. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet. Allow me to show you around.’ He ushered her up the staircase, a guiding hand at her back. The first stop was the main drawing room, done in exquisite wallpaper of hand-painted Chinese silk. Doors opened to a music room that carried out the oriental theme with peacocks, adorning the space in lush teals and blues. The dining room with its long table could seat twenty, easily. There was a library, a lady’s writing room in soft rose. Chintz would look lovely in there; soft and feminine. She could already picture a vase of white roses on the small white hearth. The light was excellent here, it was a place where she could draw. At that thought, she had to take herself firmly in hand. She was not to mentally decorate the space. It was akin to naming strays. It made the space too personal.

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