Page 5 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Illarion Kutejnikov had just become forbidden fruit. Dove had heard her mother’s lectures about expectations often enough to know the words by heart. But she had not fully understood their import until now. Some people mattered. Some people didn’t. Couldn’t. Because they’d not been born to the right family, at the right time, in the right place, or the right country even. Such a judgement seemed uncharacteristically harsh.

Dove quietly studied her parents as they talked about art, the one appreciation all three of them shared. She’d always seen her parents as kind, conscientious people, who took their roles as community providers responsibly. Her father didn’t drink or gamble excessively, like other men of the ton. Her mother was always dressed in the height of fashion, but not extravagantly so; she did charity work, she took care of the sick and infirm in their village. They’d raised her in love. Dove had never doubted their affection for her. And yet, those same people who loved her and whom she loved in return had just set aside an individual as if he was no more than an ant on the floor to be crushed beneath an arbitrary boot heel.

Something rebellious stirred inside Dove, perhaps flickering to life for the first time, stoked by the questions blooming in her mind, or perhaps it had already existed, ignited by her dissatisfaction with London and her first brush with the reality of the Season and all that entailed. She was meant for the likes of Percivale or someone of his calibre. Even Alfred-Ashby and Lord Fredericks had been relegated to the hangers-on, those who were merely window dressing for the main pursuit of catching a duke. But knowing that didn’t make her like Percivale any better.

What would happen if she didn’t comply? Would she, too, lose her value? This was new ground. It had never occurred to her to not comply. Her parents had always wanted what was best for her and she’d been raised to obey those decisions. She’d never thought to question those decisions. She’d never had a reason to. Until now. These were heady thoughts, indeed, as if she’d seen light for the first time.

* * *

A blazing glare of white light attacked Illarion’s eyelids in one sweeping, orchestrated assault. He groaned and flung an arm over his face in a belated attempt to ward off the morning. Who the hell had let the sun in? To answer that question he’d have to open an eye, or wait until the intruder spoke. He didn’t have to wait long.

There was a growl of disgust from the window, which meant the intruder was Stepan, his friend and occasional adhop. When the four princes had fled Kuban, they’d needed a leader and Stepan had effortlessly stepped into the role, giving them direction and making decisions. Now that they’d arrived in London, they seemed to need him even more as they adjusted to their new lives, whatever those might be. ‘What happened in here? The place looks like a storm passed through.’

‘Inspiration struck,’ Illarion ground out. His tongue felt thick. It was hard to find the motivation to make the words.

‘Looks more like lightning.’

Illarion could hear Stepan moving about the room, clearing a path as he came. There was the sound of books being stacked, papers being shuffled in to order. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ he managed a hoarse warning.

‘I don’t know how you can find anything in here. I should send a maid up to clean.’ That galvanised Illarion into action. He pushed himself up, remembering just in time how narrow the sofa was that he’d fallen asleep on, and how uncomfortable. His neck hurt, his back was stiff, his legs cramped. Inspiration was deuced difficult on a body.

‘I don’t want a maid, Step. I have everything just the way I like it.’ Illarion pushed his hands through his hair and tied the tangles back with last night’s ribbon.

‘Half-empty sheets with words scrawled on them randomly strewn across any available space? You like it that way? It’s impossible to find anything.’

Illarion gave an exasperated sigh. Stepan didn’t always grasp the nuances that went with having an artistic temperament. That Stepan tolerated such nuances was a sign of the tenacity of his friendship. ‘I write poetry, not novels. I don’t need to fill up pages.’

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