Page 69 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Of course, these particular rumours had a bit of truth to them. There was tension between him and Redruth. He’d gone to the town house that afternoon and attempted to see Dove after hearing the news on the club circuit about Percivale’s special licence. Upon arrival, he’d been dismissed by the butler. When he made it clear he wouldn’t leave, he’d been shown in to see his Grace the Duke of Redruth in the estate office. What had transpired next could only be politely termed as an ‘unpleasant interview’ where Redruth had accused him of fortune hunting.

His gaze quartered the crowd, passing over girls in pastels, gentlemen in black and white, brunettes and blondes until it found her: Dove with her platinum hair and her exquisite white dresses. Only Dove could turn de rigueur white into a signature colour. Illarion smiled and for a moment their eyes met, as if she’d been looking for him, too. Then Percivale claimed her attention, whispering something at her ear. Jealousy surged in Illarion. She was his. Was he hers? Would she dare? She did not glance his way again. Her eyes remained downcast. Illarion wondered if decisions had already been made. Had he already lost? The irony did not escape him. He’d travelled across the Continent to get away from such a system of tyranny, only to encounter it on a very personal level. He would not lose Dove over this. He would not. He could not.

Please, he thought, let my words speak to her tonight. Let her be brave. Never had he felt as if so much was riding on so little—a few words, a few images.

The audience broke into applause as Lord Hathaway ended his speech. Illarion stepped forward, finding his strength. Tonight was for Dove. Would she hear the message in his words? Would she be encouraged by it? Encouraged enough to come to him against all odds? He began, setting the scene about the situation in Kuban, and launched into the first poem, one that had incurred the wrath of his king. He let the anger come, as he performed ‘Freedom,’ the one that had got him exiled, Katya killed. Stepan had counselled him against it, saying it was too graphic. For some it was. Some mamas ushered their daughters out of the room. They didn’t come back. Illarion didn’t care. This was his chance to reach Dove. He began to sweat. His hair came loose, his coat came off and he performed in his shirt sleeves, using his body, his voice, to transport the audience, to bind them in his spell. Would it be enough to convince her? To compel her?

* * *

Illarion was mesmerising like this. Dove was on the edge of her seat, riveted. She had told herself all she had to do was get through tonight. Easier said than done. She had not been prepared for his effect on her. She’d expected him to recite poetry, an exercise in declamation, nothing more. But this was nearly drama, his body a tool of fluid motion and expansive gestures, his voice conveying emotion: anger and tears, dreams and dashed hopes. By the second poem, she was sure the poetry spoke directly to her, about her. These were her dashed dreams and hopes. Illarion was calling her to action, reaching out to her in the only way he could—calling to her heart, while she sat beside the choice of her head.

Percivale had been all graciousness tonight. He’d bowed over her hand, kissed her knuckles and smiled at her with fondness, if not heart-pounding love. ‘I will look forward to speaking with you alone later tonight,’ he’d said, a gentle reminder that he had waited for her. He praised her gown, told her she looked stunning. He himself was turned out sharply in crisp white linen, immaculate cravat, a subtle celery-green waistcoat and diamond stickpin. Any woman would be proud to be on his arm. As always, he was a prime representation of what good breeding and honour stood for. He knew the rules, he followed the rules. He was confident the rules would give him what he wanted. Dove wished she was as confident the rules would give her what she wanted. She was doing her best to follow them.

Illarion moved into his finale, introducing it, ‘This last poem is dedicated to my muse, a woman who has brought me back to life. May my words inspire her as she has inspired me. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly present Snegoruchka.’

Dove stifled a gasp. It was her! Tears sprang to her eyes. She could not cry, could not give away what she knew to be true. But she could watch him, she could drink in every minute of this to let him know how much it meant even if that was all she could do. She had made her choice.

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