Page 64 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Illarion gestured towards the stairs leading to the third floor. ‘There are six bedrooms, but there’s only one I want to show you.’

‘I can’t imagine anything rivalling what we’ve already seen. The house is so…exotic.’ Each room was a story representing a different place in the world: the Far East in the drawing room and conservatory, the grand French style in the dining room, the English garden in the lady’s sitting room. One need never leave the house to see the world if one decorated just right.

Illarion just grinned smugly, pushing open the door to the suite. ‘Tell me what you think now.’ He stood back and let her enter, let her stare. With the exception of the dining room, the house was empty, but here an enormous, carved four-poster bed dominated the centre of the room. It was lodged against the far wall between two long windows and draped in the most sumptuous collection of silks she’d ever seen: burnished golds, teals, deep plums, dark blues, a splash of red. Silken pillows were piled high at the head, a lush purple throw draped haphazardly at the foot. It was a sultan’s bed.

‘I had it brought in last night,’ Illarion supplied. ‘I wanted you to see the room with a bed in it.’

The comment was the most curious remark of all. As intrigued as she was by the splendour of the house, her patience was stretching thin. ‘What is the meaning of all this, Illarion?’

‘I’ve been thinking it’s time to have a place of my own.’ He let her look one last time before leading her out of the magical room. ‘I can’t live at Kuban House for ever. Dimitri and Evie will be wanting it back some time and it’s time for me to start my London life in truth.’ The butterflies in her stomach were replaced by a sense of disappointment. He wanted the house for him, that was all. She should have been relieved. He wanted her opinion on a house, nothing more. Of course he’d been wanting a home of his own.

‘There’s one last room to show you.’ He took her back to the first floor where a set of over-wide double doors remained unopened. ‘It’s not as grand as your godmother’s.’ He winked as he threw them open and Dove gasped. Ballrooms by nature didn’t have the intimate ambiance of a bedroom, but what this one lacked in intimacy, it made up for in elegance.

‘It’s as grand, it’s grander,’ Dove gasped. Beneath her feet, the polished floor gleamed, but it was what hung overhead that claimed her attention. Four chandeliers suspended from a ceiling of painted clouds and cherubs done in the style of Raphael.

‘They were hand-blown in Venice, I’m told,’ Illarion offered. ‘They’re not from Metternich himself, but perhaps they’ll do?’ He gave her a wink, seeming more relaxed than he had been since her arrival. ‘I take it you approve of the house?’

‘More than approve,’ Dove said breathlessly, moving about the room to study the chandeliers from various angles.

‘I see you are already planning balls.’ Illarion chuckled, sweeping up behind her and turning her in his arms. ‘Perhaps we should try out the dance floor first.’

‘What are you doing?’ She gave a startled laugh as he moved her into the steps of a tuneless waltz.

‘Avoiding buyer’s remorse.’ His mouth was close at her ear. ‘Can’t be buying a ballroom that doesn’t work now, can we?’

We. What a lovely word. For a moment she gave herself over to the fantasy of it—of them dancing in their own ballroom, of life being a waltz, every day full of laughter and smiles.

At the end of the ballroom, he brought them to a halt in front of the doors leading out to the wide veranda and a view of the gardens beyond. ‘Do you like it, truly, Dove?’ He was a little breathless. ‘Can you see yourself here? With me?’

The words took her by dangerous surprise. The butterflies were back. ‘What do you mean, Illarion?’

Illarion dropped to a knee before her, taking her hands in his, his blue eyes serious and earnest. ‘I am asking you to marry me, Dove, to live here with me, for ever.’

The fierceness of his grip on her hands was testimony to how serious he was. This was no joke. Illarion Kutejnikov, Prince of Kuban, was asking her to marry him. And Dove didn’t know what to say.

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