A debutante destined for another...

...tempted by the forbidden prince!

Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis once dreamed of a fairy-tale romance—until her first Season quashed her hopes of a love match. Sinfully attractive royal poet Prince Illarion isn’t anything like the man she’s expected to marry. But when he sweeps her onto the dance floor, Dove is struck by an illicit longing she knows should only be satisfied in the marriage bed!

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Also by Bronwyn Scott

Wallflowers to Wives miniseries

Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss

Awakening the Shy Miss

Claiming His Defiant Miss

Marrying the Rebellious Miss

Russian Royals of Kuban miniseries

Compromised by the Prince’s Touch

Innocent in the Prince’s Bed

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Innocent in the Prince’s Bed

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07340-0

INNOCENT IN THE PRINCE’S BED

© 2018 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For Sophie W.

Congrats on graduation, best of luck in college.

You’ve always been a girl who’s been true to herself. Continue to find your true north.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Chapter One

London—May 1823

So this was how dreams died—ignobly. Expeditiously dispatched to the hereafter in a mere two hours after eighteen years in the making, bludgeoned to death in Lady Burton’s ballroom by what passed for Strom Percivale’s, the very eligible future Duke of Ormond, wit. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis watched her court of gentlemen nod sagely as Percivale expounded on fire-building techniques he’d seen demonstrated on his latest diplomatic excursion: ‘It takes two sticks and a beastly amount of rubbing to get a spark.’ The group laughed, a poignant reminder that it was unfair to place all the blame on Percivale. Like Brutus stabbing Caesar, he had help.

Dove leaned forward, one white-gloved hand gently resting on Percivale’s dark sleeve to forestall any further comment. She smiled at the circle of gentlemen. ‘It’s probably easier when one of the sticks is a match.’

On her right, young Lord Fredericks’s fair brow knit in confusion, not grasping her remark, and her long-nurtured dream of a London debut breathed its last.

‘A match would allow you to light the other one,’ she explained patiently.

‘Oh, I do see! A match.’ He chortled, overloud and over-exuberant. ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Lord Fredericks’s brow relaxed. ‘You’re a wit, you are, Lady Dove.’

She was also quite disgusted and it was only her first formal outing of the Season. Disgusted. Disappointed. Devastated even. Her dream had betrayed her. Neither her debut nor London were remotely like she thought they would be and yet the source of that betrayal was hard to pinpoint.

Dove surveyed her godmother’s famed ballroom, searching for the cause of her antipathy amid the surreal swirl of pale silks and dark evening clothes, finding it everywhere and nowhere. She was surrounded by bland perfection on all sides, which made it that much harder to fault the evening, and to explain her sense of dissatisfaction.

The ballroom itself was architectural excellence with its twin colonnades parading down the left and right sides of the dance floor, columns draped in expensive but simple swathes of oyster satin bunting and ivory roses bred in her godmother’s private Richmond hothouses, brought to town especially for the ball. Pairs of imported chandeliers crafted from Austrian crystal glittered overhead, a gift from Metternich himself to her godfather. Every inch of the room was decorated to emphasise the three essential ‘E’s’ of tonnish entertainment: elegance, excellence and expense.

There was no doubting the elegance of the decoration, just the creativity of it. Beneath it there was a strong note of uniformity—or was that conformity? Minus the Metternich chandeliers, Dove suspected other ballrooms in London looked exactly the same as this one—virginal and uninspired, a setting worthy, unfortunately, of the guest list. Where was the colour she’d dreamed of? Where was the life? How could the ‘happy ever after’ she’d spent her girlhood imagining occur in such a sterile environment?

Several girls had made their official curtsy at the royal drawing room today, but only the crème de la crème was present with her at her debut, and none of them was as highly anticipated as she. It was not arrogance that drove her to that conclusion. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis knew her own worth. She was the pampered, well-loved only child of the Duke of Redruth. She came with a dowry valued at fifteen thousand pounds annually, plus an initial bridal portion of twenty thousand and three coal-producing properties in the West Country. She would have been the most anticipated debutante of the Season even if she’d had the face of a horse. That she didn’t was a pleasant bonus for this year’s crop of marrying gentlemen.

And yet, knowing this had not made her a cynic; not before tonight anyway. She’d approached the year leading up to her Season with excitement. Excitement over leaving the isolated West—she’d never left the environs of Cornwall in eighteen years—excitement over the prospect of planning her wardrobe in London with the finest drapers in the business—up until now she had worn only proper muslins and gabardines in the spring, dark wools in the winter, as befitted a young girl—and excitement over visiting London with its entertainments.

She could hardly wait to ride in the park, to see Astley’s, to tour the Tower, to eat Gunter’s sweet ices, to receive flowers and chocolates from well-heeled gentlemen, to shop and to dance late into the night and drive home sleepy in her father’s carriage. All of which would lead to the discovery of her very own Prince Charming. He would sweep her off her feet and happy ever after would begin, if not this Season, then most certainly the next. Not even her mother’s endless admonitions during the journey from Cornwall about the expectations for a good match had dimmed her enthusiasm for fabled London.

It was the fairy tale she’d been raised on. Her mother, her maid, her aunts, all had exclaimed over the magic of a Season in London. Not once had they mentioned that somewhere between the journey from Cornwall to the altar of happy ever after there was this: listening to men like Strom Percivale prose on about primitive fire-making techniques, spending her evenings explaining simple jokes to the handsome, empty-headed Lord Fredericks of the ton and dancing with men who were trying to peek down her bodice while calculating the prospect of what they could do with her fifteen thousand a year. This was definitely not the dream, not her idea of happy ever after. Was this the best London could do? She’d been raised to expect better. Therein lay her disgust. What did one do when a dream died? Find another one, she supposed. But at this late date, what would that be? A most disquieting thought indeed, one that left her feeling empty, hollow.

A loud burst of energy at the ballroom’s entrance snared her attention and her gaze went past Percivale’s shoulder to where people gathered about the doors in excitement. Perhaps it might be someone interesting? Hope surged as a broad pair of shoulders parted the crowd. She caught sight of champagne-blond hair, a square-jawed face sporting a broad smile and penetrating blue eyes. Excited whispers ran through the ballroom, announcing that this wonder of a man was the royal poet laureate of Kuban, Illarion Kutejnikov, not just a real-life prince, but a larger-than-life one who was nothing like the fairy-tale charmer of her childhood stories.

Unlike every other man in the room, this Prince made no attempt to fit in. From head to toe, he was different. His champagne-blond hair was worn long and thick, caught back with a black silk bow. Instead of dark evening attire, he wore a thigh-length tunic of brilliant royal-blue silk with a heavily embroidered placket of dark blues and teals at the collar, sashed at the waist with a swathe of black silk, emphasising the trimness of his physique and the long legs that supported it. Long legs that were no more traditionally clothed than the rest of him. He wore tight dark trousers that left no room for discreet padding or doubt that his legs were all muscle.

He was without question the most attractive man she’d ever seen, the most exotic, the most sensual, the most vibrant. He was simply more than any man in the room, a peacock in a ballroom full of black wools and white silks. His presence excited her and discomfited her. She wanted him to look in her direction and yet there was a flutter of panic, too, at such a notion. What would she do if he did glance her way? A Russian Byron, the women called him, only much more hale, the audacious would titter behind their fans; a man with a poet’s soul and a warrior’s body. The gossips had got the warrior’s body part right. Already, within moments of him entering the ballroom, women flocked to him, forming an entourage of fawning females as if he were the pied piper. He stopped his progression to bow over Lady Burton’s hand, who was all smiles. Even her redoubtable godmother, it seemed, wasn’t immune to the man’s notorious charm.

Her godmother lifted a hand and gestured towards her, directing the Prince’s gaze. Dove froze, a hasty litany forming in her mind. No, no, do not bring him over here. She knew instinctively she should not want his attention. She was not meant for a man like the poet-Prince. She was meant for a man like Percivale, perhaps even Percivale himself. The realisation blossomed heavy and dark in her chest. That was the source of her dissatisfaction. She didn’t want the Strom Percivales of the ton. She wanted more and more was looking right at her.

The Prince’s champagne head followed her godmother’s gesture, his eyes locking on her, his smile acknowledging her. To the great regret of every other woman in the ballroom, he and her godmother began to move towards her, his intentions clear to her and to everyone else present. Good manners required there could be no escape now, not with her godmother doing the introductions. ‘My darling, here’s someone I want you to meet,’ her godmother began. At her words, part of Dove wanted to run. There was nothing but trouble here if she tempted herself with a sweet she couldn’t have. She should settle for Strom Percivale’s dukedom and be done with it. But the girl from Cornwall who wanted more stood her ground and let more bend over her hand with a kiss. Heaven help her, she would need all her wits now.

* * *

London in Season did not disappoint. This was heaven on earth: twelve weeks of exquisite entertainments, a never-ending flow of champagne, of dancing, of beautiful women, Lady Burton’s goddaughter included. Twelve weeks of drinking from life’s cup, a most heady elixir, heady enough to forget what he’d left behind in Kuban, heady enough to bring him to life once more, if only for a short while. Illarion Kutejnikov took a deep breath and bowed confidently towards the pretty chit in an exquisitely made white creation with her hair done up in seed pearls. Not a bad way to start the night—his favourite time of day.

The night meant freedom, each glittering ballroom offering release from the restlessness that plagued his mornings. He did his best work at night these days, when the scent of a woman still hovered on his skin, lingered in his sheets, the feel of her touch still fresh on his body, the champagne still thrilling through his blood, freeing his mind to wander the paths where emotion and philosophy conjoined into words and phrases.

Illarion let his eyes rest meaningfully on the girl as if she was the only woman in the ballroom. In truth, he didn’t have to try too hard to convey that sense. It was difficult to look away from the silver-grey depths of her eyes. A man could lose himself there. If the eyes didn’t do a man in, there was the perfection of her skin, all pearly translucence, the heart-shaped face with its pert, snub nose and delicately pointed chin resting atop the slim column of her neck in sculpted perfection. And that hair; that glorious hair! A crown to her beauty. He would write an ode to it; it was the colour of snow, a veritable avalanche of platinum silver waiting to be set free from its pins. To be the man to do so would be a pleasure indeed, and, he was quite sure, a privilege that came only through marriage. She had all the hallmarks of a girl who’d been raised swaddled in the cotton wool of her parents’ protection. He took her hand and bent over it with a kiss at her knuckles. ‘Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, at your service.’

Those quicksilver eyes looked him over with a hint of challenge, an air of arrogance as if his adoration was her due. Perhaps it was. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She was not the sort just any man could entertain thoughts of loosening hair about, yet Illarion could not look away. The orchestra struck up a waltz and he slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we?’ He meant the question rhetorically. Women didn’t protest the opportunity to waltz with Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, dance cards be damned.

For a moment, he thought she might break with that precedent. He wasn’t used to being refused. That would be theoretically interesting up to a point, a point he had no intention of testing tonight. Illarion showed her no quarter. He swept her out on to the floor, his hand at her waist, matching his body to hers as he moved them into the waltz.

She danced exquisitely, her body never closer than the proper distance required between them, her eyes never lingering too long on his to imply undue interest, but remaining correctly fixed on a spot just over his shoulder. Her smile never wavered. Her conversation was neutrally polite; Yes, the weather was fine for May, was it not? Yes, she was enjoying the evening. He’d wager that was a lie. She didn’t act like someone enjoying the ball. There was no spark in her eyes as they turned at the top of the floor. By the time he asked her if she’d been to London before, he was heartily tired of the bland neutrality that came with her unwavering smile—a pasted-on smile, a doll’s smile, not a real one. So when she said, no, she’d never been to town, this was her first time, Illarion could not resist.

He seized her attention on one of the rare moments she wasn’t looking over his shoulder, his gaze becoming a smoulder as he drawled, ‘It’s my first time, too. We’re no longer virgins, you and I.’ He’d meant to shock her out of her neutrality. Women were never ambivalent about him and yet she was. He was ready for one of two reactions: a laugh because he’d finally melted her cold resistance with an audacious remark, or a stunned silence because she was far too innocent to marshal an adequate response. He got neither.

Dove Sanford-Wallis gave him a steady gaze. ‘I am neither shocked nor impressed by what passes as your attempt at wit. I am sure there are some women who find your bon mots appealing, but I am not one of them.’ She nodded her head to the corner of the ballroom where his coterie of pretty women sat eyeing them and waiting for his return. ‘I am sure they’ll forgive your momentary desertion,’ she hinted broadly. Good lord, Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis was pure as the driven snow and as frigid, too. Or was it something more? For a horrible moment, an idea flickered. Was it possible she didn’t like him?

Illarion bent close to her ear. ‘Do you know why you can’t tell a joke while standing on ice?’ he murmured. ‘Because it might crack. But I see there’s no risk of that here.’

‘Am I supposed to be the ice in your juvenile metaphor?’ The music was winding down. This had turned out to be a most intriguing waltz. He’d not anticipated such an outcome. He had anticipated something very different; taking his hostess’s goddaughter out to the garden, for politeness’s sake, spending a little time with her, giving her a few moments of his attentions and then politely disengaging her. But not this.

‘If the shoe fits, Princess.’ He bowed as the dance ended.

‘Thank you for the dance, Prince Kutejnikov.’ She dipped a small curtsy, turned her back on him and did the unthinkable. She fled the floor. It took him a moment to realise what had happened. He’d been glass-slippered. It was not only intriguing, but inspiring. Word pictures rose in his mind, his hand itched to write and a spark of hope sputtered to life; perhaps she was the one to break the curse that had plagued him since he’d left Kuban. She had only disappeared a moment ago and he already wanted her back.

Chapter Two

She wanted to see the Prince again. It was probably not a unique thought. Dove supposed that was how most women felt after meeting him. It was, however, an exceedingly incongruous thought to entertain over breakfast, especially when she’d made every effort last night to not see him again. She’d all but left him on the dance floor and her conversation had been designed to be off-putting. Apparently, her behaviour had been to no avail. He’d managed to spend the night in her mind and he was still there this morning. Not even her mother’s marital-expectations lecture had managed to drive him out of her head.

At the moment, those expectations were being drilled into her yet again over shirred eggs and kippers. ‘Drilled’ might be too harsh. ‘Politely laid out’ would be more apt. Her mother did not shout or raise her voice. Ever. Her mother did, however, tend to elucidate in the extreme. This must be the twentieth time since leaving Cornwall those expectations had been gone over.

Redruth’s daughter must comport herself with the utmost dignity, polite to all but never falsely encouraging those who are beneath her. Only marriage to another duke will do, that is how grand families are perpetuated. You, my dear, are from a grand family...

Dove was starting to feel less charitable towards those discussions. Fortunately, she had them down by memory so she could let her thoughts wander.

‘It will be interesting to see who comes to the at-home this afternoon.’ Her mother moved on to her second-favourite topic with a knowing smile. ‘Percivale will come, certainly, although I dare say if he’s smart, he’ll come late. I imagine Alfred-Ashby and Lord Fredericks will be here early. Lord Fredericks is a handsome fellow. It’s always nice to have a handsome man in one’s court even if he’s not a duke.’

Fredericks? Handsome? Perhaps if one liked a blank mind along with the golden hair. The combination wasn’t particularly to her taste. Dove’s own thoughts went straight to a man with a head less golden than Fredericks’, but with rather more going on inside. ‘What do we make of Prince Kutejnikov?’ Dove ventured with assumed nonchalance.

Her mother hesitated. ‘Well, now there’s a handsome man, to be sure.’ She cast an enquiring look at Dove’s father, who had managed to glance up from his newspapers. ‘He’s popular and on everyone’s guest list this Season. He’s the new novelty.’

‘No one knows much about his antecedents,’ her father said calmly, reaching for another slice of toast. ‘Olivia dear, I hear the Constable picture at the Academy art show this year is most impressive.’

Her mother smiled at her father, the Prince forgotten between them. ‘I am looking forward to it. I am told he’s made remarkable use of the light in how he depicts the weather.’ The Duke and Duchess of Redruth dismissed the Prince somewhere between the newspaper and the marmalade. It was so subtly done, one could not truly be offended. Indeed, Dove thought, if one didn’t know her parents well, one would hardly notice what had happened. But she did. The brevity of her father’s comment said it all. The Prince was not to be considered. By any of them. He was beneath them, an outsider and certainly not a contender for her hand.

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.’

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.

‘I met a woman who inspired me last night,’ Illarion began, sipping at the hot coffee. ‘The first in a long while, to tell the truth. She was like...sin in satin.’ He had been stirred not just by her beauty, but also her spirit, buried deep behind those eyes, a rebel in white, the outer purity of a debutante juxtaposed against the inner shadow on her soul, the shades of rebellion hidden within. He found it intriguing even if that rebellion had been aimed at him. He wondered now in the clarity of daylight if her dislike had been of him or of the occasion? Was it possible she hadn’t enjoyed the ball? He’d thought she was lying earlier when he’d asked.

‘That sounds promising,’ Stepan encouraged.

‘It was!’ Illarion replied passionately. ‘Right up until I got home and nothing would come. My head was so full I couldn’t get the words out and then the images were gone, just like her.’

‘Ah, hence the bird in the hand,’ Stepan murmured. ‘I like sin in satin better.’

Illarion gave a wry smile and reached for a pen. ‘That is pretty good, isn’t it?’ He’d been disappointed in himself last night. He’d tried everything, even brandy, to get the creative juices to flow, but nothing had worked. Candles had burnt down and eventually he’d thrown himself on the mercy of sleep just before the sun had come up, another night that had begun with promise, wasted. He couldn’t afford many more nights like that. ‘She inspires me, Stepan, and I have to write something. I have the reading in three weeks and nothing to perform. An original work is expected.’

It was to be a grand affair, attended by the ton’s best. He’d been invited to do a reading from some of the poems that had got him exiled from Kuban. People had been clamouring for months now. He’d wisely kept them under wraps until the time was right to make the most of them. But there was also an expectation he’d have something new as well, perhaps something that celebrated his new life in London. To capture that celebration, to seek inspiration from the subject, he’d immersed himself in the ton, with all its beauty and entertainment, its lavishness and grandiosity, and he’d come up empty night after night. Until last night when a woman who disdained him had lit a spark. ‘There’s nothing for it, Stepan, I have to have her.’ He pushed a hand through his hair and went to his wardrobe. He had an introduction and her name. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.

Stepan, however, was more cynical. ‘You have to have her? How, precisely, do you mean that? Surely you don’t mean to bed her. Is she even beddable?’ Meaning, was she of the merry-widow variety and eminently available, or was she a virginal debutante, and as such, untouchable? It was a highly salient question indeed, although one Illarion had no intention of answering. For one, it gave away who the muse was and he wanted to savour the thrill of the secret. For another, he simply didn’t have an answer.

Illarion turned from the wardrobe. He hated when Stepan was a step or two ahead of him. The truth was, he didn’t know exactly what ‘having’ Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis entailed at this point. He was only interested in feeding his muse, but Stepan, as usual, had a point. He couldn’t bed her, not without marriage first and that seemed a bit extreme to contemplate at this point. He just wanted to write poetry the way he used to—poetry, by the way, that focused on avoiding marriage, not engaging in it.

‘Well?’ Stepan pressed. ‘This is important, Illarion. You can’t seduce every Englishwoman you meet.’

Illarion thought back to the night before and all the men gathered around her. ‘I will be part of her court, nothing more. A few dances, a few social calls, a bouquet of flowers now and then.’ It would probably take more than that for what he had planned, but the answer would pacify Stepan and it actually seemed a good place to start when he thought about it. He would play the potential suitor well enough to get her alone, long enough to be inspired. His mind hummed with a plan.

‘You, the swain? It’s hard to imagine,’ Stepan teased.

‘Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.’ Illarion didn’t laugh. He was deadly serious about finding his muse. ‘I have to do something or I will show up to my own reading empty-handed.’ He dived back into his wardrobe, rummaging for a waistcoat.

‘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.

Dove scanned the room, wondering. To whom in this room had she become only a trinket to be added to their social cache? It was a bitter pill to think that some of the gentlemen were only here because she was the Season’s Diamond of the First Water and they would benefit from association with her. They had no intentions of getting to know her. Just of using her.

Such assessment had never been part of the fairy tale she’d grown up on. How splendidly everyone filling her drawing room pretended to be themselves and how disgusting it was. Her newly awakened sense of injustice rose again. People were basing life-long decisions on these façades. Coupled with the ridiculous rules of courtships and calls it was downright farcical; a gentleman might stay no longer than a half-hour, preferably somewhat less, and he might certainly not be alone with the subject of his affections.

How did one get to know anyone in the confines of a large group and conversation limited to the weather and the previous night’s entertainment? Lord Fredericks laughed at something said in his small group by the window and she heard his standard reply: ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Perhaps the rules weren’t so limiting after all. She already knew she couldn’t spend a lifetime with him, or any of the gentlemen present for that matter. It had only taken one ball and one at-home to make that clear. Maybe the rules had done her a favour, after all, by sparing her any more of Lord Fredericks’ company.

* * *

At the stroke of half past four, the last group of gentlemen dutifully began to take their leave and Dove began to hope. She crossed her fingers for good luck in the folds of her skirt as she smiled politely and accepted goodbyes. She could almost feel the charcoal in her hand, she was that close to freedom. She was working on a drawing of a mare in the mews, bought for her riding pleasure. The mare had a soulful face and she was eager to capture it on paper. She’d already done several sketches in the attempt. But something was missing. Perhaps if she took the mare outside where the light was better?

The last two gentlemen had just left, the door barely shut behind them, when disaster arrived.

‘His Royal Highness, Prince Illarion Kutejnikov,’ the butler intoned.

He was dressed in dark blue superfine and buff breeches and cream waistcoat, far more English today than he’d been last night, but no less tempting. Dove’s pulse sped up in a turmoil of anxious excitement. Just this morning she’d wanted to see him again and now he was here. Lesson learned. One needed to be careful with what one wished for, because wishes could end up in one’s drawing room.

‘Prince Kutejnikov.’ Dove nodded politely as he presented her with a pretty bouquet of lilies of the valley. ‘How kind of you to call and what a surprise.’ What sort of man called on a girl who’d left him on the dance floor? Two options came to mind: obtuse or arrogant. Perhaps the Prince was one of those men who thought every woman was dying of love for him. Only in this case, he might be right.

‘These reminded me of you,’ he murmured with a smile. She waited for the usual accolades to follow—‘you are like springtime in bloom, you are fresh, innocent’. She’d heard them all today. But none of the usual came. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, ‘Beautiful on the outside, poisonous on the inside.’

‘What a lovely concept.’ She forced a smile to match his, but hers was nowhere near as convincing. What did a girl say to a man she’d rejected the night before? He knew he had her cornered. He was laughing at her. She could see it in his eyes—cobalt and merry. The chandeliers last night had not done them justice. ‘I’ll find a vase. I know just the one I want.’ Any vase that took a half-hour to find. The search would let her escape the drawing room for a little while. Perhaps he’d made his point and he’d be gone by the time she returned.

In the hallway, she drew a calming breath. The Prince was outrageous. Another gentleman would have taken her rather broad hint last night and not bothered to call. At least he’s not boring, a small, perverse part of her mind whispered for the sake of argument. True, but what he was might be worse: a temptation, handsome, different, a diversion from the disappointments of the Season. He lit up a room with his presence, where the other gentlemen merely filled up a room with theirs. A footman hurried up to her, a vase in hand, cutting short her search. Her parents’ servants were too well trained. Dove took her time walking back to the drawing room, only to make two discoveries. First, that leaving had been her first mistake. Second, not even her mother was insusceptible. The Prince, it seemed, was not as easily dismissed in person as he had been over breakfast.

Prince Kutejnikov sat beside her mother, smiling, leaning forward, eyes riveted on the Duchess as if the conversation was the most interesting he’d ever had. He rose when she entered, flashing that smile in her direction. Her mother rose, too. ‘There you are, dear. I was just saying to the Prince that it’s too lovely a day to stay inside. He suggested you might enjoy a drive in the park. I’ve sent your maid for your bonnet and gloves.’

‘I have my curricle waiting at the kerb,’ the Prince added, mischief sparking in his eyes as if he knew the very protests running through her head. There’d be no relief for her. She was trapped. With him; a man she’d deserted on the dance floor last night, and he’d given every indication with his lilies of the valley he meant to claim retribution for it. This was his revenge: a drive in the park where they would have to make conversation with each other, where he could say more audacious things and talk about debauching London’s virgins. She didn’t deserve it. She’d been acting out of self-protection.

Her maid arrived with her things and he took the light shawl, settling it about her shoulders, his touch sending sparks of awareness through her. The question of going was settled, too. It did not escape Dove’s notice that she’d not actually accepted the invitation. Now it was too late to turn it down.

The Prince offered her his arm and her awareness of him piqued. She was cognisant of his height, of the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer muscled bulk of him. It was hard to believe he was a poet with a body like that. Poets were wan, pale, intellectuals. ‘Time is of the essence, Lady Dove. Let’s be off before you are beset with more callers.’ To her mother he nodded courteously and said, ‘We won’t be over-long. Thank you for the conversation. I haven’t enjoyed such a talk in a while. I look forward to another one soon.’ Was her mother blushing? It made Dove curious. What had they’d talked about?

She was still pondering the transition as the Prince helped her up to the bench of his curricle. Her mother, a stickler for propriety where her daughter was concerned, had proved not the least bit resistant to her driving in the park with a foreign prince the Duchess of Redruth barely knew. What had happened to rule number two: being polite to all but never falsely encouraging those who are beneath her? There was only one explanation for it. ‘You manipulated my mother,’ Dove said, partly in accusation, and partly in admiration. The Duchess was not easily swayed.

He winked, all easy confidence. ‘Most women like my persuasion. Besides, it’s not every day one’s daughter goes driving with a prince.’ He laughed, settling beside her, his long legs stretched out. He flashed her a smile. ‘What good is it to be a prince if one can’t throw one’s title around?’ But Dove thought it wasn’t entirely the title that had done the trick. She knew what her parents thought of him—that he was not worthy of the Redruth attentions. It made his feat all that more impressive. She was coming to believe that Illarion Kutejnikov usually got what he wanted, prince or not.

‘I did not think I would find you alone, today,’ he began, pulling out into the traffic. ‘I had elaborate plans for stealing you away from your crowd of adoring suitors. A drive is so much better.’

‘They were here earlier. You just missed them.’ She kept her answers cool and short. It was all the defence she had. Perhaps if she did not encourage him a second time, he would leave her alone. What a pity that would be. Her thoughts had grown a mind of their own. She was supposed to be resisting him, dissuading him. And yet, there was no denying he was the most intriguing person she’d met in London.

‘Then I am the lull before the second wave. I’ve saved you. Perhaps you should be thanking me.’ He chuckled conspiratorially, his laugh warm and congenial as he nudged her with his elbow. ‘You are disappointed? I wonder, Lady Dove, if it’s me that disappoints you or that you’ll miss the other suitors? Was there someone you were hoping to see?’ That was the problem. The only one she’d been hoping to see was him. Now that he was here, she had no idea what to do with him. She couldn’t encourage him and she didn’t want to turn him away even though she should.

‘I am disappointed by neither,’ Dove protested.

He fixed her with a sideways slide of his blue stare. ‘Don’t lie to me. That’s the second time in two days, Lady Dove. It’s why I am here. I want the truth about last night. Why were you dismayed to dance with me? Was it me or the occasion? I was lying in bed... Well actually, I was lying on a sofa—very narrow by the way—thinking of you and our dance and it occurred to me that perhaps your reaction was not to me specifically.’

Dove felt herself blush at the image of him lying in any sort of bed. ‘That is a most improper reference, your Highness. In England, unmarried men and women don’t discuss their nightly, um, rituals with one another.’

‘From what I’ve seen, I don’t think married men and women do either,’ he answered boldly. ‘Perhaps they should.’ Dear heavens, his conversation was positively rash! This was not how gentlemen talked.

‘Perhaps it is your use of innuendo I object to,’ Dove replied. ‘This is the second time in two days you’ve couched our conversation in rather intimate terms.’

‘Couched. I like that,’ Illarion said wryly, his blue eyes merry. ‘Now who’s being audacious, Lady Dove?’

Her cheeks heated. The schoolroom had not prepared her for matching wits with a man like this. She was out of her depth, but not outdone. If she couldn’t match wits, she would do her best to end the interaction. ‘If I were truly bold, your Highness, I wouldn’t be here at all, toeing society’s line like a good daughter.’

He ignored the finality in her tone and pursued the conversation. ‘Where would you be?’ The breeze changed. She caught the scent of him: lemon and bergamot mixed with basil and the exoticism of patchouli. He smelled better than any man had smelled today with their heavy colognes. If she closed her eyes, Dove could imagine herself in Tuscany, or perhaps even further east in Aladdin’s Arabia or far-off India, pencils and charcoal in hand, drawing everything she saw. ‘Not London. Not now that I’ve seen it.’ She prevaricated, unwilling to let him into her thoughts. He’d divined enough as it was. Did he also see that she was not nearly as opposed to him as she let on?

‘Ah ha! It is the occasion you are opposed to, not the man.’ He grinned, teasing her. ‘I am relieved. I thought I was losing my charm.’

‘You are arrogant in the extreme. I think it’s important you know I don’t care for conceited men,’ Dove cautioned. She was glad his arrogance was back. It gave her something to be annoyed at. For a moment, he’d been far too likeable.

‘And I don’t like liars,’ he cautioned, his eyes on her again. ‘Be honest, Lady Dove—the truth is you wanted to escape this afternoon. So badly, in fact, you made quite the deal with the devil, didn’t you? You had to choose to go with the arrogant prince and claim an afternoon of freedom, or stay behind in the drawing room to entertain whatever boring gentlemen walk through that door until six o’clock.’

Dove did not reply. What would her response be? That he was right? It occurred to her, however, that she was not the only one who’d made a bargain. The Prince had, too. After all, what could he possibly want badly enough to take a girl driving who had made no secret of her dislike for him?

Chapter Four

In the end, they went to Kensington Gardens instead, a less-populated alternative to crowded Hyde Park. ‘I think it’s quieter here. I come when I want to think or talk. There’s less chance of being interrupted,’ the Prince explained, coming around to help her alight. Dove was suddenly self-conscious of her hands on his broad shoulders, of his strong hands at her waist, blue eyes laughing up at her. Were those eyes always laughing? Her reaction was silly. She’d touched him before. She had danced with him last night and they were in public with his tiger and her maid just a few feet away, to say nothing of the other carriages and couples nearby. This was hardly an intimate moment or an intimate setting, yet she was acutely aware of him.

He reached past her for something under the seat, a canvas bag he slung across his chest, then offered her his arm, taking them down to the Long Water, where the lake joined Hyde Park’s Serpentine on the park’s western edge. Her maid trailed discreetly behind them.

The light breeze off the water was refreshing and the lake was quiet. Not many were out today. An empty bench beneath a tree at the shoreline beckoned invitingly. ‘This would be the perfect place to draw.’ Dove sighed wistfully, the words slipping out. She had not drawn or painted nearly as much as she’d hoped since she’d come to London and she missed it sorely.

‘What would you draw?’ He dusted off the bench with his hand, ridding it of random tree debris.

‘The ducks and the trees with their low-hanging branches skimming the water’s surface. If I had my pencils, I could practise with the light, like Constable does.’

‘Then we should come again some time and bring your things. Today we can sit and enjoy the lake,’ he offered, ‘and you can tell me why you found your coming-out ball so distasteful last night.’ Another trade. He was constantly bartering with her, giving her what she wanted in exchange for her secrets.

‘Is everything a negotiation with you?’ Dove said amiably, settling her skirts as she sat. He’d traded her a chance at escape in exchange for his company in the drawing room and now this; the peace of the lake.

‘Is everything always defence with you? You are a suspicious soul, Lady Dove.’ Prince Kutejnikov laughed, undaunted by her boldness. He was probably used to bold women. ‘Now, tell me what had you so prickly last night. Your secrets are safe with me.’ In that moment, she wanted to believe him. Maybe it was the eyes, the smile, the pleasantness of the afternoon, the freedom of being out of doors that she found so intoxicating. Or maybe it was simply that someone had asked her what she wanted. Whatever the reason, the dam of her polite reserve broke. Her newly formed truth came out haltingly as she searched for words to express it.

‘I think I am a bit disappointed in London. It had been built up for me as a shining city of fairy tales, a metropolis beyond belief. For years, I had this image of London—women in silks and jewels, beautiful ballrooms filled with music, gallant men full of honour waiting on them.’ Dove shook her head. ‘But London wasn’t like that.’

The Prince nodded, his gaze contemplative. ‘Were there no silks last night? No jewels? No ballrooms? No gallant men?’

Dove argued. ‘Of course there were, except perhaps the gallant men, but it wasn’t enough.’ She paused, letting out a sigh. ‘You’re making me sound ungrateful.’

‘Not ungrateful. Honest, perhaps, even if that honesty is based on some rather naïve assumptions.’ The Prince crossed a long leg over a knee. ‘Are you comfortable with that?’

Dove shook her head. ‘It’s a rather unflattering depiction.’

‘Innocence is unflattering? I thought it was valued—virginity, innocence, purity, all one and the same,’ he prompted obliquely.

‘Last night you said London had taken our virginity.’

He chuckled. ‘So I did. The city has deflowered you if you have become a cynic. How does that feel? To have the proverbial scales lifted from your eyes? London is a lover who demands to be accepted on its own terms.’ His allusion was wicked and highly inappropriate. Not unlike the man himself. He was being audacious on purpose. Perhaps part of her had waited all day to hear such things, to be secretly thrilled by a man who dared to speak his mind instead of posturing. And yet, she was required to scold him for it, lest he think her too easy.

‘Does everything come back to...?’ Dove groped for a decent word, one she could say out loud and still convey what she meant, which was a scold for his boldness.

‘Sex?’ he filled in coolly. ‘Definitely. Most things in this world come down to sex. If you haven’t figured that out yet, you are still in possession of your innocence.’

‘I thought most things came down to money,’ she retorted sharply, to be perverse. It was too easy to call to mind the calculating gentlemen from the ball.

‘That is also true,’ the Prince acceded, leaning towards her conspiratorially. ‘But I think more things come down to sex.’ He laughed at her reaction. The more she scolded the more audacious he became. ‘Does the truth scandalise you, Lady Dove?’ It was easy to see him as a poet today, the way he played with words to derive certain responses. ‘Do I make you uncomfortable?’

Uncomfortable seemed a mild adjective for what he did to her. He set her skin to tingling, her thoughts to jangling, the order of her world to spinning. ‘No one has ever talked to me in such a way.’

‘Honestly? No one has ever talked to you honestly? Would you prefer I be like everyone else and continue to tell you sugar-coated versions of reality? You’ve seen how well that’s worked out.’

That might have been the hardest truth yet. Maybe she had wanted that, expected that at least; that he would argue against her version of the ball, that London was indeed the fairy tale she’d dreamed of. He’d made none of those arguments. Instead, he’d held up a mirror to her own flaws. In his mind, the problem wasn’t London, the problem was her; her naïvety in not questioning the assumptions her mother and aunts had fed her; her arrogance in assuming such a fairy tale was her due as the daughter of a duke. ‘Life was simpler in Cornwall. I spent years yearning to get away from there and now I find I wax nostalgic for it.’

‘Are you homesick? I know something about that. London takes getting used to.’

Dove gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t believe that. London suits you perfectly.’ With the exception of his clothing last night, she couldn’t imagine a man better adapted. His manners, his athletic grace on the dance floor. He had every nuance London valued in a gentleman and he was entirely at ease with himself. That was where his confidence came from, his boldness.

‘Is that your way of telling me you find me superficial, empty and disappointing?’ His words were sharp.

‘That is not fair!’ Dove snapped. He was putting words in her mouth and twisting them to be unflattering.

‘Is it honest, though?’ he pushed with a wry smile.

‘I don’t know you well enough to make such a verdict.’ The line was a flimsy refuge and he charged straight through it with all the bluntness of a raging bull.

‘And yet, you have. I saw it in your eyes last night. I saw it again this afternoon. You wanted to refuse. It was quite the sacrifice you made for your freedom back there in your drawing room. You don’t know what to make of me. It’s easier to push me away than it is to figure me out. You’re not sure you like me, but you want to.’

She blushed hotly and rose from the bench, ‘You are the most infuriating man! Is this what you wanted? To take me out so you could insult me at every turn? You’ve managed to malign innocence as a virtue and you’ve equated naïvety with stupidity. Is that what you see when you look at me? An empty-headed debutante, a spoiled princess?’ Her temper was running far ahead of her words. She was embarrassed to have been caught out, embarrassed to be seen as a hypocrite, a woman condemning the shallowness of others while being thought shallow in her judgements as well. Her mother would have a fit if she’d witnessed her daughter’s outburst. Dove had managed to break at least two of the rules.

‘Forgive me if truth and honesty are offensive to you, Lady Dove.’ His tone was cool. He didn’t want the forgiveness he alluded to. He was not sorry. She could see that in his eyes.

Dove huffed in frustration. ‘Being truthful and being honest are not permissions to be rude and insensitive. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like a moment to collect myself.’

Dove wandered to the shoreline, wanting space between her and the Prince. What sort of gentleman said such things to a lady? An honest one, apparently, to resort to his overused word of the afternoon. But such honesty created awkwardness. It was one thing to think such things privately, it was another to say them. Sharing such thoughts made interacting more difficult. How did one manage to communicate with someone who had announced your flaws out loud? Without the necessary screen of a façade, there was no protection. Perhaps she was a hypocrite after all. She was starting to understand the callers in her drawing room with their posturing and façades, but that didn’t make her like them any better.

Prince Kutejnikov was a paradox of a gentleman. For all of his royalty, he was ill bred, if this conversation was anything to go on. Actually, she had two conversations to go on and both had been highly unacceptable. The schoolroom had not taught her to converse on such subjects or in such a manner. Now they were stuck in Kensington Gardens, with awkward truths and behaviours between them. It was like being caught out of doors in an unexpected spring deluge and no refuge in sight. Unless the Prince apologised. That might be enough repair for them to survive the carriage drive home in decency.

Yes, an apology would be just the thing. She needed to prepare herself for that. Dove ran through the scenario in her mind. He would come down to the shoreline and make reparations for his boldness. In return, she would do her part and murmur regret over her own reaction. She’d better start thinking of the words she wanted to use.

* * *

But after five minutes, five very long minutes, he hadn’t come. After ten minutes, she began to fear he had left her. How would she explain that to her mother? How would she explain that the Prince had merely been exacting retribution for her having left him on the dance floor? Or that they’d quarrelled over her perceptions of him? Any one of those explanations would horrify her mother. For two more minutes, she fought the urge to look over her shoulder and see if he was still on the bench.

The curiosity was killing her. Dove bent down, feigning a check of her shoe for a non-existent pebble and shot a hasty glance at the bench. She felt some relief. He was still there and he was writing. Writing? A small travelling desk was open on his lap, a quill in hand, and he was utterly engrossed in whatever he was doing. At least that explained why he hadn’t come to her and what had been in his bag. But it was still odd. She’d been down here, worrying over an apology, expecting an apology, and he had so obviously moved past the quarrel. Blown right by it, in fact. It had not even been a ripple on his pond. Unless that was an apology he was penning?

* * *

She was watching him with those silver eyes that hid and revealed her by turn. He could feel the intensity of her gaze on him. That gaze would expose her if he looked up. But he didn’t need to. He knew what she wanted. ‘I will not give you a lie, Lady Dove.’ Illarion concentrated on the paper before him, on the words flowing out of his pen. He almost had it. He wouldn’t look up until he was done. ‘I cannot give you what I don’t possess.’

‘And what is that?’ She was cross with him anew, no doubt for giving her riddles when she wanted a very certain speech from him.

‘Remorse.’ He did look up then, setting aside his pen. ‘You want an apology from me. I cannot give it since I possess none over our last exchange. In short, I am not sorry for a single word I said.’ He watched her gaze move from him to the paper on the writing desk. He blew on the sheet once more to ensure the ink was dry and tucked the sheet inside the case. ‘Did you think I was writing you an apology?’ Lady Dove had confidence in spades to make such assumptions, to think that every man she met was dying of need to make himself presentable to her.

‘I did think it was a possibility given the nature of our conversation.’ The straightforward expectation of her due was fast becoming part of her appeal. Illarion studied her carefully, seeing beyond the outer shell of loveliness. There was a beautiful boldness to such naïve belief that she would never be denied. It was that which he had tried to capture on paper today, not an apology. That boldness could not last. It was like a bloom of spring, a bright splash of colour for a season, but ultimately destined to fade after heat and weather had its way. He had seen it happen to too many women. He didn’t want to see it happen to Dove.

He rose, tucking his writing case back into the canvas bag. ‘Since I cannot offer you an apology, I shall make a peace offering. Before we go, I would like to show you one of my favourite places, if you’ll permit?’ He placed a hand lightly at her back, guiding her towards the path, the gesture giving her permission to stay a while longer. He had decided for them. He guided her down the Lancaster Walk towards the Queen’s Temple, keeping up easy conversation as the building came into view through the trees. ‘It was built for Queen Caroline in 1734. It was meant to be a summer house.’ How odd to be the guide and not the tourist. Perhaps London truly was becoming his home now.

He paused long enough to let her study the classical parchment-coloured architecture of the last century before leading her inside where it was dim and cool and empty. Whatever treasures the Queen had once kept in here for her comfort had long been removed. Illarion let Dove wander through the three chambers ahead of him, taking in the grace of her movements, the way her hand trailed against a wall, tracing the etched initials irreverently marking the presence of guests before them. ‘That’s a shame,’ she murmured. ‘To deface a thing of beauty by marking it.’

Illarion stopped behind her, close enough to catch the light spring lilac of her perfume. ‘This is naught but an empty building to the public.’

She shook her head. ‘But once it was someone’s refuge, a place they went for privacy, where the world could not touch them for a brief while.’

There was such longing in her voice and knowledge, too, about the value of such a place. Illarion could not help but ask, ‘Did you have refuge like this in Cornwall?’

She did not look at him. Her gaze remained riveted on the ignoble etching on the wall, but a smile quirked at her lips. ‘I did. We had an orangery. It was always warm, even in the winter. I would go there and draw. In the summers, I would open the doors and sit outside.’

‘Had?’ Illarion gave a laugh. She talked as if she’d never go back. ‘London isn’t the end of the world.’

Her grey gaze swivelled to him, her voice quiet in the empty space. ‘It may not be the end of the world, Prince Kutejnikov, but it is the end of the world as I know it. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis will not go back there. When I return, it will be as someone’s Duchess if my father has his way. I will only return to visit, never to live, never to stay. My place will be with my husband. There is no question of if I will “take” this Season, or if I will wed. The only thing left to be decided is to whom.’

She moved away from him, her back to him as she spoke as the enormity of her realisation swamped her anew. ‘The stories, the fairy tales I’d been raised on about the Season, all grew my hopes. I was so excited to come and it distracted me from what coming here really meant.’

‘And what is that?’ Illarion asked carefully. He could feel the old anger begin to stir in him, the anger that had seen him exiled from Kuban, the anger that had earned the Kubanian Tsar’s displeasure.

‘That I have a duty to my family in marrying well, and that marrying “well” is not defined by finding someone with whom one shares a mutual affection, but by finding someone who’s bloodline and title and wealth are worthy of your own. My duty is to show up at the church, a beautiful symbol of my family’s part of the alliance. A symbol!’ she spat. ‘Not a person with any free will of her own.’ Her resentment was raw, palpably new and she was grappling with what it all meant.

Illarion was struck by the irony beneath her struggle. For all the liberalism of London, for all the modernity of England, some things had not changed. Even among the glittering ballrooms of the ton with its silks and jewels, women were still slaves. The hatred of such a system flooded back to him, a reminder of how dormant his passions had been in the year since he’d left Kuban, of how he’d tried to bury them, forget them. Life was easier when one did not trouble oneself with issues of social justice. It had also proven to be emptier.

Here, in the dimness of the Queen’s Temple, he felt himself coming to life. The poet-warrior in him waking after hibernation, old habits, old emotions surfacing. He closed the distance between them, wanting to touch her, wanting to give her reassurance, protection against the reality she’d glimpsed, the anger she felt over the betrayal and her own impotence, he wanted to remind her that she was a person, with free will and real feelings. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t have to be that way for you.’ He let his voice linger at her ear, let his hands rest at her shoulders as he whispered his temptation.

‘Of course it does. I cannot shame my family.’ He heard the resignation in her tone. Despite her anger, she was a loyal daughter. Did she even think of fighting it? Or like Katya, did she feel forced to accept her fate?

‘At the expense of your own happiness?’ he said softly, urging her to think about the cost of her acquiescence. He turned her then, moving her to face him, his hand tipping her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. ‘It’s easy to give up that which you don’t understand. You don’t fully know what you’d be missing.’ He wanted to awaken her, wanted to give her a reason to fight. He could show her and, if she drew certain conclusions from the demonstration, then so be it. He dropped his eyes to her lips in the briefest of warnings before he claimed them.

He teased her lips apart, his mouth patient in its instruction as she opened to him, her body answering him along with her lips and he knew then he was her first kiss, her first taste of desire, first taste of a little wickedness, too. He deepened the kiss, slowly, expertly, so as not to rush her or pressure her, but to answer her, to lead her at her pace where he wanted her to go. She was delicious in her inexperience, eager and hesitant by turns. He would ensure she didn’t regret this...until she did. Without warning, she was out of his arms and thwack!

Her palm struck his cheek, her eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell was that for?’ He was too stunned to correct his language. It wasn’t the first time curiosity over a kiss had sparked a rebellion, but it was the first time he’d been slapped for it.

Chapter Five

Sweet heavens, her hand hurt! She hadn’t bargained on that. And, oh, dear Lord, she’d marked him! Dove stared at Prince Kutejnikov in stunned disbelief. She’d never struck anyone, or anything, in her life and now the palm of her hand was a glaring red mark on the Prince’s cheek. This was insanity! She’d only wanted to scold him for his impertinent boldness and now they were both smarting. The Prince rubbed his jaw, glaring his surprise and his disapproval. He probably wasn’t used to being slapped. Women probably liked his kisses. She certainly had, although she wouldn’t dare admit it to him, not now that she’d put her handprint on his face. What she hadn’t liked was the indiscretion of the act. In no way did it embody any aspect of her mother’s rules.

‘Have you no thought for our reputations?’ Dove gathered her thoughts long enough to answer his question. ‘We are in a public place where anyone could come strolling through and my maid is just in the other room. She could have walked in at any time! Do you know what could have happened if we’d been caught?’ That lesson had been drummed into her quite thoroughly: kisses of any nature were compromising. They led straight to the altar, the very thing the Prince seemed intent on counselling her against. ‘Perhaps the better question is not what was I thinking, but what were you thinking?’

The Prince’s blue eyes were hot flames fixed on her, his voice low. He might have been stunned for a moment by her act, but he was not angry. He was...amused? But his words were serious. ‘I thought you should know what you’re sacrificing, what your parents and society are asking you to give up in order to make their alliance.’

Something inside Dove shrivelled and she realised she’d been hoping for a different answer, something along the lines that she’d been irresistible, or that he’d been overcome. The Prince gave a wry smile. ‘You are disappointed. Still clinging to the fairy tale, are we?’

Dove flushed. Perhaps she was. Perhaps it took more than two hours to kill a dream after all. ‘Prince Kutejnikov, I think we should return home.’ There was no reparation that could call back the peace of the day now.

‘I think after this afternoon you should call me Illarion.’ He offered her his arm, negotiating again: the use of his name in exchange for escorting her home. ‘And I shall call you Dove.’

‘First names are shockingly informal. It is impossible. It cannot be done.’ If she allowed such a liberty, she’d be admitting to their intimacy. Admittance meant acceptance. Acknowledgement. At the moment, she would rather not acknowledge what had passed between them, the press of his mouth on hers, the way her body had responded. She’d been all too aware of the need to lean into him, the shocking thrill to feel the hard, muscled planes of a man’s body up close for the first time. Even through layers of clothes, there’d been an intoxicating intimacy in that physical connection. Her reaction had surprised her, confused her.

Illarion gave a wicked chuckle. He was laughing at her again. This time at her expense. He thought her a prude. ‘We’ll use those names only in private then.’ He winked, assuming her consent.

They stepped out into the lingering sunshine. Late afternoon shadows had begun to fall, hinting at the onset of a spring evening. Illarion leaned close to her ear as they walked. ‘A piece of advice for you, my dear. I don’t let the title wear me.’ He fell silent, letting her absorb the words as they walked to the curricle. He handed her up as if there’d been no break in the conversation. ‘Of course, it’s dangerous. They want you to wear the title. It’s easier for them if you’re not a person. It’s easier for you, too; you forget to think about what you want, until you realise it’s too late.’

He moved around the horses’ heads and sprang up to his seat, his body taking up space beside her. His thigh rested against hers unapologetically as he gathered the reins, making her even more aware of him now than she had been on the drive out.

He clucked to the horses. ‘Is it me or my ideas that make you uncomfortable?’ He slid her a sideways glance. ‘Perhaps it is my kisses? You may have stopped the kiss, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t like it.’

She was seized with the urge to put her hands over her ears, to shout at him to stop! It was too much to take in for one day, his radical ideas, his kisses. Her mind was swimming in the newness of her thoughts and the confusion they brought, panicking even. Like a drowning victim who would drown her rescuer along with her in her confusion, she lashed out. ‘I’m beginning to think you didn’t leave Kuban. They most likely kicked you out if this is how you behave.’ She’d meant the words to be scolding, the kind of set down a lady might offer a forward gentleman who’d crossed the line of politeness. She had not expected her words to hit a target.

The line of Illarion’s jaw went hard, the features of his face going tight, his words terse. ‘You know nothing about me.’ He didn’t like the quizzing glass turned his way, although he hadn’t minded probing her psyche.

‘And you know nothing about me.’ Dove straightened her shoulders and fixed her gaze on the road. Another lesson learned today: this was what happened when one confided in someone one didn’t know well. ‘I was wrong to have burdened you with my confidences. I was unforgivably impetuous. I would appreciate it if you would forget my disclosures.’

A proper gentlemen would accept her apology and would understand what it meant: that they should limit their association. She was counting on Illarion to know that and to act accordingly. But he did not. ‘What about the kiss? Should I forget about that, too?’ His tone was hard with cynicism as if he knew she could not forget that as easily. Indeed, she suspected she might think about that kiss far longer than was prudent.

The town house came into sight and she was saved from answering as Illarion pulled the carriage to the kerb. The street was quiet and for a moment they were nearly alone except for the servants sitting on the back. She slid him a questioning look when he didn’t immediately come around. ‘Give me your hand, Lady Dove.’ The hardness had left his face and he was charming once more, his voice low. ‘I want to give you a talisman. If you would forget the first kiss, perhaps you would do better to remember the second.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her open palm. It was nothing like the first kiss, but gentle as the gesture was, she could feel the fire start to burn once more. Would it be like this now every time he touched her? The question was wickedness itself in the assumption that there would be a next time. She was allowing herself to be tempted.

A footman spotted them and came down the stairs to assist her. Illarion—Prince Kutejnikov, she strongly reminded herself—released her hand. ‘Good day, Lady Dove.’

‘Good day, your Highness.’ She could not take even the tiniest step down the road of familiarity. Dove stepped down from the curricle with a strict politeness she hoped made it clear that there would be no first names, no private permissions. She promised herself she would not be like the other ladies who followed him around ballrooms and patiently waited while he danced with others. She couldn’t be like them. It simply wasn’t permissible. She was the Duke of Redruth’s daughter and she was held to higher standards. Always and in all things.

He inclined his blond head, the fragments of a smile on his lips as if he knew a secret. ‘Thank you for an interesting afternoon, Lady Dove.’ It was done so well, Dove imagined she was the only one who noted the mocking tone beneath his propriety. Halfway up the steps, he called to her, ‘Lady Dove, was your deal with the devil worth it?’

She glanced over her shoulder. She linked her gaze with his and let a coy smile take her mouth. ‘Was yours?’

* * *

It was damn well worth it and he had the pages to show for it. Illarion sat in paradise, otherwise known as the back veranda of Kuban House, a glass of Stepan’s homemade samogan to hand should he need it and papers spread before him. His thick mass of hair was piled into a bun atop his head, not unlike an eastern warrior’s, a testament to how seriously he was working. He preferred his hair out of his face when he wrote. He’d discarded his coats, too, the moment he’d arrived home. The fewer distractions the better. He liked his body as free as his mind. He’d write naked out here if he could, but Stepan would kill him if he came home and found him nude in the garden. He’d tried it once, so he knew. Now he reserved that particular artistic luxury for the privacy of his chambers. Right now, shirtsleeves and trousers would have to do. He wanted to be outdoors, wanted to capture what it had felt like at the park; the feel of spring, the scent of grass and Kuban House’s gardens were ideal, especially at night when the lanterns were lit.

Illarion leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, letting his mind wander through the afternoon’s images: Dove walking along the shore edge, all unconscious grace, a swan princess perhaps with her platinum hair and elegant length of neck? The personification of spring and innocence? That picture conjured up a rather provocative series of subsequent images: of Dove walking the shore clad in a gossamer gown that left nothing to the male imagination; high, firm breasts with rose-tipped nipples pressed hard against the thin fabric, her bare feet scything through the long, fresh spring grass; of Spring removing her gown, her body unveiled to hidden eyes, her hands reaching up to take down her hair. Dove as Spring was the perfect juxtaposition of new innocence and womanly knowledge. She’d shown him both sides today.

The images he’d conjured from that inspiration were certainly powerful if the beginnings of his arousal were anything to go on, but Illarion was not satisfied. Any poet could depict a young virgin in the freshness of spring. Spring was the season of birth and newness, the season of the virgin and the woman. But spring wasn’t entirely the right season for a woman like Dove, with her snowy looks. Physically, winter was her time and yet it was a far more difficult task to cast Dove’s innocence against a season that was often symbolic of death and dormancy.

Ah. Dormancy. That was the key. His poet’s brain fired. Today, winter had awakened. He recalled how the sun and a bit of temper had brought a flush to Dove’s porcelain cheeks. He focused on the flush. He’d liked the colour in her cheeks, proof that his cool ice queen from the night before was still there, but that she also possessed a warm core. Fire. Ice. An ice princess awakening... That conjured a stronger image and he hastily scribbled a single word, a Russian word. Snegurochka. The Snow Maiden of Russian folk tales, a girl of great beauty who, according to some of the stories, had melted in the spring when she’d ventured from Father Frost’s forests in pursuit of love.

He was writing furiously now, the allegory pouring from him. He wrote of Snegurochka trapped in spring, a season not of her making, of winter’s princess far from home, surrounded by Primavera’s blushing roses, her paleness a marked contrast. His mind was a blur of thought and image.

When he finished, his glass of samogan was untouched, the lanterns were lit. A tray of cold meats sat at his elbow, waiting for him. The servants must have brought it. He had not noticed. He’d been too caught up in all that had been revealed today. He had not thought to see so much. In truth, he’d gone today for selfish reasons, to see if she could inspire him again as she’d inspired him last night on the dance floor, to see if he could capture what had slipped away from him last night. He’d got more than he’d bargained for; he’d glimpsed a woman who was figuring out the game, figuring out that she was trapped or nearly so and something in him had started to wake. His own winter, ending. Proof of that awakening was scrawled across pages.

Footsteps clipped on the flagstones, a pair of them, not boots but shoes. Ruslan and Stepan were dressed for going out, for dancing and ballrooms and Primavera’s roses. ‘You’re not drunk yet, I’ll take that as a good sign.’ Stepan noted the glass of samogan with a subtle lift of his brow, his gaze drifting disapprovingly to the hastily crafted topknot.

‘The Huns wore their hair like this,’ Illarion answered the silent reproach. There were others, too: the Samurai, the Mongols.

‘Oh, to be a Hun. My greatest wish.’ Stepan’s tone was dry with sarcasm.

‘At least you’re still dressed,’ Ruslan interjected, always the diplomat, always positive. Illarion had long felt that he, Stepan and Nikolay might have killed each other years ago if it hadn’t been for Ruslan’s cool diplomacy keeping them in check. Ruslan slapped him on the back. ‘I see today’s visit was profitable.’ He snatched up a paper before Illarion could protect it. ‘“Snegurochka?” I like it.’ To his credit, Ruslan read silently, dark eyes darting over the lines. ‘It’s lovely, Illarion. It could be one of your best. It has that Russian sense of fatalism, that one cannot escape destiny, and the nature allegory is sublime.’ Ruslan set the paper down. ‘Is it about us, Illarion? I think it is. I think Snegurochka represents the four of us, the four princes exiled from home.’

Illarion smiled, appreciative of his friend’s praise, but the praise was tempered by Stepan’s hard gaze, studying, assessing. ‘It’s not about us, Ruslan,’ Stepan growled. ‘Don’t be a dimwit. It’s about a woman.’

Ruslan gave Stepan a considering glance, taking the recommendation seriously and prepared his rebuttal. ‘No, Stepan, look at this line here, I am pretty sure it’s about us.’

Stepan was surlier than usual. ‘No, it’s about a woman,’ he said with finality. ‘Who is she, Illarion?’

‘My secret muse and that’s all I’m going to say,’ Illarion answered staunchly. Whatever was needling Stepan was doing a good job of it. He was quite the bear this evening. Illarion grinned, much to Stepan’s obvious consternation. ‘A gentleman never tells.’ But a gentleman did say thank you and Illarion knew just how to do it. Lady Dove had brought him to life today at the expense of exposing herself: her beliefs, her hopes, her disappointments, many of which she was just starting to recognise. It had left her confused, uncertain and sad. He knew first-hand how hard it was to let dreams go, even when they proved no longer viable or useful. He’d left a life behind, a country behind.

He would bring his Sneguruchka’s dream to life for just a day. He would show her that if fairy tales weren’t possible in whole, they were at least possible in part. He chuckled as Stepan and Ruslan stepped out for the night. He was already imagining the look on her face when she opened the note he hadn’t written yet. She would think it was an apology. But he knew better. He wasn’t sorry for today in the least, he was thankful for it. He had a new poem, worthy of Pushkin himself once he tidied it up, and who knew what tomorrow might bring? For the first time in over a year, the possibilities were endless.

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