Page 8 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘I am sure it’s not as dire as all that. Something will come to you, it always does. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to clean up,’ Stepan offered the reassuring platitudes nonwriters gave their literary friends.

‘Time?’ Illarion said distractedly, hauling out two waistcoats, one blue, one a rich cream. ‘What time is it?’

‘Two o’clock. I’m afraid you slept away most of the day.’

‘Perfect.’ Illarion was undaunted by his friend’s scold. Stepan believed every day began at sunrise. He pulled out a dark blue coat and reached for the bell pull. He needed his valet and a shave. At-homes began at three. He had just enough time to make himself presentable and stop for flowers on the way.

‘What are you doing?’ Stepan asked, undoubtedly perplexed by the burst of energy.

‘I am going calling.’ Illarion rifled through a bureau drawer. ‘Where did I put my cards?’

Stepan rose, rescuing a chased silver case from being drowned in paper on the desk. ‘They’re here. Who may I ask are you calling upon?’

Illarion turned from the wardrobe with a grin. Stepan was like a dog with a bone, but Illarion would not give up her name. ‘My muse. Who else?’ This time he’d be prepared for her. He was already planning how he might separate her from the herd. He had no illusions about finding his muse alone. She’d been vastly popular last night. Gentlemen would be sure to flock to her at-home today to extend their interest. He’d have to charm her into a walk in the gardens, or a tour of the family portrait gallery. Thankfully, charm was his speciality. His haughty inspiration in white satin would not give him the slip again.

‘You are quite determined—’ Stepan began and Illarion sensed a lecture coming on. He cut in swiftly.

‘Don’t you see, Step, she might be the one, the one to break the curse.’

‘You’re not cursed.’ Stepan shook his head in tired disbelief. ‘I can’t belief you’re still carrying that nonsense around with you. It’s been a year and you’ve been able to write. You did an ode last week to the Countess of Somersby. The ladies were wild for it. The society pages even reprinted it.’ Stepan was as practical as they came. On the other hand, Illarion had a healthy respect for the supernatural.

‘That was drivel. It wasn’t a real poem. The Countess is easily impressed,’ Illarion argued. He’d produced nothing but soppy, superficial lines on tired themes for the past year. But that was hopefully about to change. With luck, he’d be able to write tonight.

CHAPTER THREE

Dove glanced at the clock on the mantel and double-checked her mathematics. With luck, no one else would arrive and these gentlemen would leave when their half-hour was up. Then, she’d have the rest of the afternoon to draw. Freedom was only a few minutes away. It was possible. It could happen. After all, so many of the expected gentlemen had arrived as soon as it was decent to do so at quarter past three and they’d kept arriving in wave after wave. The footmen had been kept running for vases under the onslaught of bouquets. Too bad the gentlemen hadn’t brought new personalities instead. If she’d hoped they might shine better by daylight than they had by the light of her godmother’s chandeliers, that notion had been quickly dispelled. The only bright spot was that Percivale hadn’t arrived yet.

Her mother beamed with pride each time a new gentleman had been announced, keeping up a quiet running commentary at her ear, ‘Lord Rupert has four estates and stands to inherit an earldom from his uncle. Lord Alfred-Ashby has a stable to rival Chatsworth in the north. Of course, all that pales compared to Percivale. He is the real catch. He’ll inherit his uncle’s dukedom.’ On the prattle went, each gentleman assessed and categorised as he entered, smiled and bowed, as if he were oblivious to what was really happening, as if he thought he might truly be valued for himself. Dove wondered: Did they know who had already been discarded? In counter to that, who was here simply for politeness’ sake? Who in this room had already discounted her?

Dove was not naïve enough to think her mother was the only one doing any assessing. Each of the gentlemen were appraising her in turn. It was why her hair had taken her maid an hour to style so that it softened the sharp jut of her chin. It was why she’d worn the pale ice-pink afternoon gown to bring out the platinum of her hair. Heaven forbid she be seen in any colour with yellow undertones that clashed with her skin. Even with that effort, there would be those who decided they would do better to marry elsewhere. The idea that she’d been dismissed carried a surprising sting. She wasn’t used to rejection, implied or otherwise.

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