Page 6 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Stepan waved a crumpled sheet. ‘When I said half-sheets, I was being generous. There’s five words on this page. “A bird in my hand…” That’s not even a complete sentence.’ Or a terribly original one when it came down to it.

Illarion grimaced and lurched forward, grabbing for the paper despite the pounding in his head. ‘Give me that! Of course it’s not complete, it’s not done.’ He hated people reading what he wrote before he was ready, especially people who didn’t understand the artistic process, people like Stepan who understood numbers and balance sheets. Protectively, he smoothed the sheet and set it down beside him. ‘You should know better than to disturb a writer at work.’ In Kuban, he’d been a royal poet, the Tsar’s own laureate. But his latest efforts were an embarrassment.

Stepan gave a harsh laugh. ‘At work? I would hardly call the state I found you in work, or the schedule you’ve been keeping, up all hours of the night, asleep all hours of the day.’ Stepan made an up and down gesture indicating the length of him. ‘Look at you. You’re as dishevelled as the room. Your hair’s a wreck, your clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them, I might add, and they’re starting to hang. You’re losing weight, you need a shave and this place is a shambles: half-empty decanters, dirty glasses and not a plate in sight. When’s the last time you ate something?’ Sometimes having a friend like Stepan was a pain in the backside. He saw too much.

Illarion stumbled to the basin and poured water. Cold. Good. It would wake him up faster. ‘You know how it is when I’m trying to write.’ He braced his hands on either side of the bowl and caught sight of himself in the little mirror above it. Good lord, Stepan was right. He did look a bit rough, but nothing a razor and a hot meal couldn’t fix. He just wished his stomach didn’t rebel at the thought of the latter.

A knock at the door brought the servants and the threat of Stepan’s hot meal materialised. Illarion gave a tentative sniff: sausage, toast, coffee. Ah, coffee. That would help immensely. He took his time washing while a space was cleared and food laid out, giving his stomach a chance to ready itself. Breakfast was starting to smell delicious, a good sign he’d get through the meal and pacify Stepan, whose residence in a newly excavated chair made it clear he wasn’t leaving until he was satisfied his friend had eaten.

It was time to get a place of his own, Illarion thought, like Nikolay had done. Stepan was worse than having a father sometimes. Of course, Nikolay had married first. One couldn’t very well be living with three bachelors when one had a new wife. Illarion had no such intentions of marrying. There were far too many women in the world for sampling to limit himself to just one. Besides, the institution of marriage Kubanian style hadn’t exactly recommended itself to him, with all its rules and expectations. Love was not one of those expectations. He’d seen too many people—close friends—forced into marriages not of their choosing. And then he’d seen them wither away; strong people, vibrant people like Katya, becoming husks of their former selves.

Illarion dried his face and took a chair across from Stepan, letting Stepan pour him a cup of coffee. ‘How’s the writing going?’ Stepan passed him the cup, his tone less surly.

‘Better.’ If one called five cliché words strung together in a phrase ‘better’. He’d hurried home from the Burton ball last night, scribbling madly in the carriage, racing to his room to pull out paper and pen in an attempt to capture the emotions brought on by the haughty Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis. The flurry of images, however, had flown, his pen unable to capture the feelings in words, his mind unable to focus, preferring instead to follow the questions she’d prompted. Why hadn’t she liked him? He’d done everything right; he’d allowed the hostess to introduce him, he’d made the guest of honour the centre of his immediate attentions. He’d waltzed with her, made conversation with her. He’d been the ideal gentleman. No woman in Kuban could have faulted his manners or his deportment. But she’d found fault aplenty and, truly, he didn’t understand why.

---