Page 70 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘Snegoruchka walks in the frost of her father’s forest, her hair the shade of ice, her lips winterberry-red, her eyes glacier-grey as she waits for spring, as she waits for love.’

She waits for love.

The reference was unmistakable. Beside her, Percivale stiffened. ‘By God, it’s you.’ He was horrified. ‘He’s making a spectacle of you. I will not have it.’

‘No, please, it is nothing,’ Dove begged quietly. But it was everything, in ways Percivale could not imagine or understand. She strained to hear the poem, each word an ode to her, an encouragement. Illarion was calling to her like a siren. Every bone in her body wanted to rise up out her chair and run to him, wanted to shout, ‘Yes! Yes!’ But she had made her decision.

‘I will call him out for insulting you, it is my right. He has gone too far this time.’ Dove sensed in those words that Percivale meant more that the poem, that Percivale suspected just how far Illarion had gone indeed. Illarion had seduced her. Illarion had flaunted London’s rules. For a man like Percivale, to whom the rules were the guides of his life, it was beyond the pale. Such dishonour must be put down for the security of them all. Their world depended on it.

Panic rose. Percivale would take such words seriously. The very last thing she wanted was a duel for Illarion’s sake and for Percivale’s.

‘Strom.’ It was the first time she’d ever called him by his first name. It felt odd and uncomfortable. ‘You must not. He is a prince,’ she argued softly. The performance was nearing its climax. Illarion’s words came fast, to create the illusion of running, of jumping, ‘Snegurochka dashes towards the bonfire with the other girls, skirts raised high, legs pumping.’ His voice slowed, his body slowed, simulating the action of the words, each word punctuated with meaning. ‘At the last moment, Snegoruchka leaps, she soars high above the flames.’ It sounded as if the performance had ended. It looked that way, too. Illarion stood frozen, his arm and his gaze raised heavenwards as if following Snegoruchka to the sky.

Dove leaned forward, waiting for the inevitable. She knew how this story was supposed to end—with Snegoruchka vanishing into the clouds, her ice no match for the heat of fire. But the end never came. Illarion broke from his pose, swept the spellbound audience a bow, cueing their applause, and the crowd erupted.

Around her there were grumbles, ‘What kind of poem is that?’ ‘There’s no ending.’ But Dove knew better. There was an ending. Illarion was waiting for her to write it. Would she choose to evaporate in the flame or would she choose to live immortal—with him? Her pulse raced, her heart pounding out the answer, Go to him. This time it didn’t matter that her decision was already made. It could be undone. She didn’t stop to think. She had wasted one chance, she would not waste another. Percivale would be devastated, but he’d recover. The Percivales of the world always did.

Dove pushed past Percivale. He caught her arm, his blue eyes searching hers with concern. ‘Lady Dove, what is it? Are you ill?’

These were not the blue eyes she wanted to look into every day for the rest of her life. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I thought I could, but I just can’t.’ She pulled her arm away. She pulled her arm away and pushed into the crowd.

Her heart was full to bursting. If she could reach Illarion, all would be well. What was it her mother had said: that when you were with the one you loved, you were invincible? The crowd surged towards Illarion, everyone wanting to be the first to shake his hand. She pushed onwards, aware that Percivale was behind her, giving chase in his confusion, in his misery. The crowd was her friend and her enemy. If it slowed her, it slowed Percivale, too. A tall man cut in front of her, blocking Illarion from view. Someone stepped on her toe. Someone else stepped on her hem. She heard her hem tear. She persevered. She twisted and slipped through a hole in the crowd. One more manoeuvre and she was there.

‘Illarion!’ she called, vying for his attention. His head turned. His eyes found her.

‘Dove!’ Then his eyes went past her. Silence fell almost instantly as the crowd parted, revealing Percivale. This was the moment London had been waiting for, for weeks—the perfect Strom Percivale facing off against the imperfect Prince who had managed to steal the hearts of the Season’s most eligible girls and now attempted to claim the most eligible of them all, Percivale’s own intended.

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