Page 71 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Dove’s breath caught. Surely Percivale’s own good breeding would prevent a scene. She was counting on it. But it was Percivale’s own good breeding that had led to this; his sense of honour demanded he stand up to the rebel Prince. It was hard to tell who the villain was here.

‘You!’ Percivale called out to Illarion. ‘How dare you slander an innocent Englishwoman with your heathen poetry? How dare you implicate a good, virtuous woman as your muse? She is to be my wife, a future duchess.’ Percivale was shaking with fury. She’d never seen him angry, had not thought he had it in him to express intense emotion.

Illarion turned to her. ‘Is this true, Lady Dove? Are felicitations in order?’ I will take you away from all this if you but say the word. That word being no. It was now or never. Her mother was standing behind Percivale, her face white. For a moment it was enough to stall her. Her mother would be hurt, her father would be livid. But she could not give her life for them. She could not doom herself to a life with Percivale to secure their happiness. She made to speak, but Percivale was faster.

‘You are too forward, sir, to question a lady like that in public!’ Percivale challenged.

Illarion crossed his arms. ‘Are you afraid to let the lady answer for herself?’

Percivale’s face contorted with rage. ‘You make a scandal of her. A lady is to be seen but not heard.’

‘I thought that was children who were supposed to be seen but not heard.’ Illarion was playing with him now. The conversation was growing dangerous. ‘Perhaps to you there is no difference? After all, you don’t hesitate to slander a man with false rumours.’ Dove tensed. They had the room’s entire attention now.

‘Are you calling me liar?’ Percivale’s words were a blatant prelude to a challenge. Dove moved into action. She would not allow them to duel over her.

She stepped between the two men, a hand on Illarion’s chest, pushing him back. But it was too late to stop the ominous words. ‘Why, I do believe I am,’ Illarion drawled. ‘Liar.’

Percivale’s fist balled and swung. Dove was too slow. His fist caught her jaw, sending her head snapping backwards. She was falling, Illarion’s arms were there as she sank, cushioning her fall, cradling her as blackness swam before her eyes. The world had come undone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dove stretched in the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window, savouring these precious few moments of freedom when her thoughts were clear, her body and her mind entirely her own. Her parents had taken her back to Cornwall. It was one of the three things she knew with any certainty in the days following the debacle in the Hathaway salon. All else was a drug-induced haze of ambiguity. She barely remembered the drive, only that it had been made with all the speed her father’s ducal carriage could manage, covering the distance of four days in three. She remembered the drive. She’d been ill on the journey. Before that, she remembered awaking in her bed at Redruth House to a flurry of packing, a bout of nausea and a fever, her body finally succumbing to the stress of the Season, of the situation. She remembered asking for Illarion, but it was her mother who’d arrived and delivered the news: she was never to see Prince Illarion Kutejnikov again. They were taking her home.

She hadn’t wanted to go. She did recall fighting, physically trying to get out of bed until she’d had to be restrained. That was when the drugs had started. She’d been given something to drink laced heavily with laudanum, to help the fever, to calm her nerves, her mother said. But it had made her sleepy. When she’d next awakened, she’d been in the carriage and it had been too late to fight. They were taking her away from Illarion. Away from the duel.

That was the second thing she knew. Percivale and Illarion were going to duel over her. Or had it already happened? The days had become a blur of sleeping and waking and not much else. The drink they’d been dosing her with had to go. She needed the clarity that came with the first moments of the day before her maid discovered she was awake. She wanted to think clearly, wanted her days to herself, not spent in bed, not spent asleep. She wanted news of the duel. She had to know if Illarion was alive. She had no doubt Percivale would shoot to kill if given the chance. Was Illarion, even now, dead or lying wounded at Kuban House? It was too much to think about, dwell on. He could not help her now, miles and days away in London. Would he come for her, assuming that he could? Or would he decide that she wasn’t worth the journey? The trouble? He’d faced death because of her.

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