Page 73 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Her mother patted her hand, ignoring the remark for lack of response. ‘Men will not bother you again. Percivale has withdrawn his suit, of course.’ Her mother paused, seeming to debate something with herself. ‘It’s for the best. You are in no condition for a wedding and the doctor fears the rigors of being a duchess will prove too debilitating for you.’

‘What happened after I fainted?’ Dove probed, careful not to show undue interest. But she craved news. She had no idea what had happened after she’d intervened and been struck with Percivale’s fist.

‘A common fisticuffs. He brawled with the Prince, leapt for him actually, and then there was the issue with the duel.’ Her mother patted her hand again and took a deep breath that ended in a smile. She would say nothing more on the subject. ‘That’s all in the past. What matters now is that you’re home and safe.’ Safe meant out of earshot of the gossip. London must be burning with gossip these days. Dove could imagine the cutting remarks veiled in false pity and shock: the Duke’s daughter who had everything, the most popular debutante, the girl who had the pick of the Season’s eligible bachelors, ruined, toted off to Cornwall to live in reclusive disgrace.

Her mother rose. ‘I’ll have Jeannie leave your medicine just in case. We can try today without it and see how you do. I’ll check on you later.’

The moment her mother was gone, Dove dumped the drink in the chamberpot. She’d eat the beef broth and toast. She needed her strength, but she wasn’t going to get it on broth and toast. She’d have to ask for something more substantial for lunch. Dove looked out into the garden. The weather was gorgeous today and the roses were in bloom. She would go down and draw. That would be harmless enough. Dove brushed out her hair and plaited it into a loose braid. She couldn’t manage anything more difficult without her maid and she did not trust Jeannie or any of the servants. The servants would answer to the Duchess, they would believe as her mother did that she was fragile and needed to be cosseted. They would report every request, every move, to her mother. She did not want her mother to be the arbiter of what she could and could not do. If her mother had her way, Dove would stay in her room permanently.

Dove gathered her drawing supplies and went down to the garden, fighting the urge to slink furtively around the house. She needed to walk as if she had every right to go where she pleased—which she did, she reminded herself. No one would believe nothing had changed if she didn’t believe it first.

Well, that was painting it a bit too rosy. Everything had changed. She had changed, but it had not damaged her. Dove settled in the garden on a bench, balancing her sketch pad on her knee. She brushed idly at a bee buzzing too close, and breathed in the scent of flowers in summer. It felt good to be out of doors.

If anything, her experience had opened her eyes. She’d been shocked to hear of the marriage situation facing well-born girls in Kuban, blind at first to how much the situation paralleled her own. London merely dressed it up a bit better. Her eyes had not been fully opened until she’d heard Illarion’s poetry. Fragments of lines came back to her. Her hand started to move on her paper. Trapped, imprisoned, forced. Powerful words translating into powerful images. Figures took shape on her sketch pad. Disturbing images to some, perhaps, but cathartic to her. Drawing had always been a way to explore her feelings, to express her reaction to something. But never had the reaction been so thorough or so dark.

The ideas behind the images were haunting: women locked up for protesting a violent husband, for seeking a divorce, for crying out against a desperate situation. She had never questioned those places before, but she questioned them now. How many women were there like herself, who had dared to speak their minds, to strike out for themselves? All she had done was fall in love with a handsome prince and she was to be condemned for it for the rest of her life. That was the price of her freedom.

Illarion’s gift to her. Her hand stilled and she flipped the page to a clean sheet, stroking furiously. Illarion had set her free. He’d shown her the possibility of freedom, opened her eyes to it and then he’d made it possible. She looked down at the paper, studying the face that emerged there: Illarion’s strong bones, the strong chin, the nose, the fullness of his mouth, always on the brink of laughter. He had given her everything. Perhaps he had even given his life. Tears threatened, but she couldn’t let them fall, couldn’t let anyone see her cry for fear they would bundle her back to bed and dose her with medicine. She had to be strong, stronger than she’d ever been.

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