Innocent in the Prince's Bed Page 8

  Tonight, Percivale was going on about an upcoming debate in Parliament. Percivale caught his eye, his raised eyebrow an attempt to call attention to his superiority as if to say here was a man who cared about England, who spent his days pursuing the work of his country, as opposed to Illarion, a prince from a foreign land who spent his days doing who knew what?

  Illarion met Percivale’s gaze with a broad, easy smile. Percivale had guessed wrong if he thought such tactics would succeed in driving him from Dove’s side. In fact, Percivale’s tactics had done just the opposite. Illarion was determined to stand his ground.

  He would have done so on principle alone. He would never back down to a man like Percivale. His reputation as a bold lover demanded it. But he had practical reasons, too. He’d found his muse. He was writing again, meaningful poems that went beyond the drivel he’d managed to pen since he’d arrived. There were other reasons, too. He was not in the habit of abandoning a damsel in distress and tonight Dove looked as if she could use a champion. Something had happened. Something was wrong.

  His gaze slid to Dove standing between him and Percivale. The average onlooker would notice nothing. She was poised as always and had obviously been well schooled in hiding any upset she might feel. She looked stunning, turned out in a white-satin gown with hints of ice-blue undertones that played to the platinum depths of her hair. While the other girls looked like a spring bouquet in their pastel yellow and pinks, Dove looked calm and collected. Where the other girls looked like flowers on the verge of wilting as the night wore on, Dove remained fresh and cool, untouched by the heat of the evening. But Illarion knew differently. It was there behind her eyes, in the faint furrow in her brow that deepened the longer Percivale spoke.

  Since the Academy he’d been playing with the metaphor of an iceberg and the idea that an iceberg hid so much of itself below the surface. His haughty debutante was like that iceberg. There was more to her than first impressions implied. Dove Sanford-Wallis loved art; she ran an art school for village children; she understood what art—any art—offered to the human soul; she missed her home. Because of his own experience, he understood why leaving home had been difficult for her. Like him, she’d not only left the familiar geography of home, she’d left people. Homes could be replaced, the way his friend, Nikolay, was rebuilding his through his Russian riding school. But one could not replace people.

  Percivale was still going on. Illarion allowed a small glance of empathy in Dove’s direction. The fringes of a smile played on her lips. Didn’t Percivale know one did not offer details on such things at an evening out? The man had taken up the entire intermission with his prosing. The men in Dove’s court only stayed for her. Was Percivale aware of that? She had drawn them. They stayed for her. The men tolerated him because of Dove. Across the circle, young Alfred-Ashby idly shifted from foot to foot, as did several of the others. Did Dove see it? Illarion wondered. Did she understand this was what life would be like married to Strom Percivale, future Duke of Ormond, commander of ten seats in the House? Political powerhouse he might be, but he needed a strong hostess beside him. Perhaps she did understand and that was the source of her discontent.

  He needed to get her alone. Illarion was damned if he’d spend the evening listening to an attractive but mediocre Italian soprano with a dubious accent for nothing. He’d come tonight to challenge Percivale, certainly, but he’d also come to see Dove. A muse wasn’t a muse if he couldn’t spend time with her, to be inspired by her and, if the truth be told, to protect her. Dove not only inspired him with her sharp wit, but the more he knew of her, the more he liked her, this heiress who taught children to draw. He did not want to see her sacrificed into a loveless marriage. He wanted to show her she didn’t have to settle for such a decision. That was the problem with innocence, it was like being blind. So many girls did not fully understand what they were getting into. How could they? Dove stirred him and, in return, he felt an obligation to protect her.

  Protect her? For what purpose? He knew what he was protecting Dove from, but that prompted the question of ‘for’. What was he saving her for? What happened to her if she didn’t marry the likes of Percivale and take up her place in society? It meant she could be his muse a bit longer. But that wasn’t protection, was it? It was selfish to keep her from Percivale when he had nothing to offer her as an alternative, yet Illarion couldn’t resist. The twin temptations of challenging and championing were too much.

  Lady Hampton begin ushering guests back to their seats in the music room; Intermission was over. Rule number one of any ballroom battle: don’t leave the room until you get what you came for. It was time to separate Dove from the crowd. This would be the tricky part with Percivale nearby likely hoping for the same thing. He’d extricated more difficult women than one debutante from a crowd before. There’d been the excellent Italian soprano in Vienna, the French ambassador’s wife, the Hapsburg Princess—needless to say, he was something of an expert. Although this would be the first time he’d attempted to extricate a woman of Dove’s calibre.

  He was not in the habit of stealing off with virginal debutantes. Too risky. If one was caught with the notorious wife of an ambassador, so be it. One weathered the scandal, which lasted maybe three days until it was superseded by something else, and moved on. There was no moving on from being caught with a duke’s daughter. The only move was to the altar, which seemed to be the one place neither he nor Dove were interested in going.

  Illarion set his gambit in play. ‘Lady Dove, I have seats where the acoustics are excellent. It would be an honour if you would join me for the second half of the performance.’ Illarion boldly put a hand to her back, ready to escort her, hoping she’d take the hint and start moving. One way to settle any question was to walk away while still waiting for an answer, especially if that answer might not be the one you want. It was exactly what he’d done in Kuban. He’d walked away and kept going until he hit London. Tonight, he just had to walk to the next room.

  Fortunately, Dove was an eager study. ‘Thank you, your Highness, I am enjoying the music very much. Are you?’ She might have been overly bright in her response, but it was another successful trick to extricating oneself; using conversation to define the size of your circle. With her question, the circle had just shrunk to two, much to Percivale’s glaring dismay. Gentlemen muttered disappointment behind them as Illarion moved Dove into the conservatory, leading her to two seats in the back by the garden doors. They were ignoble seats, to be sure. Hardly the finest in the house. Lady Hampton had seated him back here, out of the way, where one would not be noticed. Illarion suspected Percivale, who was fast friends with Lady Hampton, had something to do with that. But Percivale had overlooked the charms of these seats, located so close to the French doors.

  ‘Are the acoustics truly any better back here?’ Dove whispered, settling her ice-blue skirts.

  ‘Depends on whether or not you like the music.’ Illarion lowered his voice. ‘When I said the acoustics were better, I meant it was quieter.’ He gestured with a nod towards the French doors. ‘If you felt faint during the performance, we could manage to take the air unobtrusively.’ Then he added, ‘It’s been difficult to get you alone these past few days.’

  His admission caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Have you wanted to? I heard...’ She paused, rethinking her word choice, no doubt to avoid coming across as jealous or gossipy. ‘I mean, you’ve been busy.’ She sounded cooler, more in control like the woman he’d encountered on the dance floor that first night. ‘You had a reading at the Countess of Somersby’s. You’ve had quite a few there, I hear.’

  Ah, so she knew. He’d done a reading of a new, highly erotic piece that he considered not half bad at the intellectual all-male salon held by the Dowager Countess of Somersby. Most of London knew, the poem wasn’t a secret any more than the Countess’s licentiousness was. But somehow, Dove knowing he’d done such a thing took the shine off it.
The poem was called ‘Primavera’, the culmination of one of the poems he’d drafted that first day by the Long Water, the product of the heated images he’d conjured in the gardens of Kuban House. He wondered how Dove would feel if he told her she had inspired it? Exposed? Embarrassed? Empowered? Perhaps a little of all three. Maybe someday he’d tell her. Tonight he’d stay with more mundane topics. ‘I wanted to talk with you about your art school. There was so little time to speak of it at Somerset House.’

  ‘My art school?’ Her question was rife with wary cynicism. ‘Most men don’t want to talk about my art school.’ Unless they wanted something badly, was the implied message.

  ‘Most gentlemen are not artists themselves.’ It was true, he did want to hear about the school, although Illarion suspected he’d talk to her about any number of things if it meant getting her alone in the moonlight, having a chance to watch her come alive, to set aside the cool mask she wore night after night in the ballrooms. That was the woman who inspired him, the woman the rest of the ton didn’t get to see. But he also wanted to make sure she was all right. Perhaps it was nothing after all. She seemed better now that they were alone.

  Dove slanted him a coy smile that was misleadingly worldly as the Italian soprano took the stage. ‘If it’s my art school you want to hear about, be prepared. I might feel faint right before the second aria.’

  * * *

  Good heavens, what was she doing? Accepting an invitation to walk alone with a man? Her response shocked Dove. She knew better. She should not be encouraging this radical Prince who whispered rebellion in her ear. But here she was, agreeing to go out into the gardens with him for reasons she didn’t entirely understand except that they seemed a preferable alternative to sitting here listening to the soprano. The problem with her reasoning was that Illarion had become a preferable alternative to so many things and to so many people: to Alfred-Ashby, to Fredericks, most of all, to Percivale. He was the real threat these days.

  Several rows in front, Percivale’s blond head took his seat. Not for the first time, Dove wondered why she couldn’t like him. Everything would be easier if she did. What wasn’t there to like? He was good looking, titled, wealthy, all the things she was raised to respect and expect in a proper husband, yet she could not fathom herself married to him. Why? What was wrong with her that she wanted to avoid that fate? That she was willing to risk her parents’ disappointment by sneaking out with Illarion? Her parents would not approve of her going into the gardens when they heard of it. And they would hear of it. Her godmother, her chaperon tonight, although Lady Burton was sitting only rows away with old friends, would tell them.

  The dark-haired soprano began the first aria. She still had time to back out, but Dove knew she wouldn’t. The clock on her freedom was ticking. Percivale had called today to speak with her father about his uncle’s feeble health. Time was running out. If she couldn’t turn back time, she had to focus on making each remaining minute count.

  Getting to the gardens was far too easy. Sitting in the back of the room had its merits and she gave herself credit for doing a passable job of waving her fan and leaning on Illarion’s arm should anyone have been watching. ‘You might have a career in theatre if this debutante thing doesn’t work out.’ Illarion laughed as they reached the freedom of the gardens.

  Dove laughed, too. ‘The soprano, she was terrible. Do you really think she was from Italy? I can’t imagine her appeal.’

  ‘I think she appeals mostly to men. I heard Lord Hampton was the one who arranged for her to sing,’ he offered.

  Dove slid him a look, ignoring the other implication. ‘Lord Hampton is tone deaf, then.’

  ‘And his wife is blind,’ Illarion alluded cryptically as they walked the cobbled paths. ‘A perfect pair.’ He gestured to the sky and Dove followed his arm up to the stars. ‘There’s another perfect pair; Polaris and the Plough, as you say in England.’

  Dove looked but didn’t find it immediately. Illarion leaned close with more instruction. He smelled of patchouli, exotic and exciting. ‘To the left a bit, there! Do you see it, Polaris, the brightest star in the sky.’

  ‘I have it now.’ She lifted her finger to trace the lines of the constellation. ‘Do you not call it the Plough in Kuban?’

  ‘No, we call it the Great Bear. Bears are important symbols in Russian folk culture. To have one in the sky looking down on us makes sense.’

  ‘You’re a poet and an astronomer?’ she teased, part of her thrilling to learn another piece of him.

  Illarion shook his head. ‘A poet is a little bit of everything. I think he has to be in order to write about the world and its emotions. A poet has to see connections between the external world and the internal soul.’

  She was quiet before she spoke again, pondering the depths of the remark. ‘I think a good artist must see that connection, too, in order to capture a face or a scene. I do not have that, I think. My life has been sheltered.’ By extension, her art had been limited, too. She tilted her face to the sky, her eyes searching. ‘What else is up there, I wonder?’

  ‘Everything. Secrets, planets, maybe even worlds we haven’t found yet. The sky is eternity,’ Illarion murmured. She was aware of him close behind her, of the slight movement it had taken to draw her close, his arms wrapped about her waist. His back was conveniently to the conservatory, blocking any view of her. No one could see his hands about her. He began to talk, a quiet murmur for her alone. ‘Our skies are clear in Kuban. At night, the sky is covered in stars, like brilliants on dark blue velvet, twinkling and teasing with their mysteries.’

  ‘There’s too much smoke in the city for clear skies very often,’ Dove admitted. ‘There are clear skies in Cornwall, too. One night, I took the children out to a meadow for an evening picnic and we painted the stars.’ She’d never been touched like this, never held like this. It was both natural and exciting. On the one hand, it felt right to be here in his arms looking at the sky. On the other hand, it conjured up hopes—would he try to kiss her again? Would she allow it this time?

  ‘You miss Cornwall. I would never have guessed the sophisticated miss I’d waltzed with at Lady Burton’s was a country girl at heart,’ he teased.

  She nodded. ‘I do. As do you, I think. You miss Kuban. Whenever you talk of it, you say “we” as if you still belong there, as if London isn’t your home yet.’ They had more in common than she first realised. London wasn’t her home yet either. They both clung desperately to the homes of their childhood, the only homes they’d known. Perhaps, like her, he had not given up his home entirely at will either.

  ‘Kuban is the only home I’ve known.’ Illarion sighed and she enjoyed the feel of him against her, the smell of him as she listened. He spun tales for her straight from his memories, painting word pictures for her of summers spent at the summer palace with its fountains and parks. And she fell in love with the beauty of Kuban: boating on the lakes, fishing in the rivers; autumns spent hiking the mountains until snow fell; winters spent indoors near elaborately tiled kachelofen staying warm and listening to stories while wolves howled outside. He told her of Maslenitsa, the holiday that signalled the end of winter and the coming of spring, and always the food; the honey cakes and the piroshkis.

  ‘Piroshkis are peasant food, some say.’ Illarion described the hot, spicy meat wrapped in a pastry. ‘But in Kuban we are hardy folk, not everyone is so lofty. My friend Nikolay Baklanov’s family are Cossacks from the Steppes, what some would call not true royalty in the sense that they are not from the great families of St Petersburg.’ He gave her a history then, explaining how Kuban was a new province, only recently settled by Russia to protect territorial claims and to push Russia’s interest in Turkey. ‘We are three generations old.’

  ‘And your family? Are they Cossacks, too?’ Dove asked, breathless from his tales. Did he understand what a gift he’d given her tonight? The sharing had been honest and heartfelt, so d
ifferent than the drawing room tittle-tattle that ruled her days. It was yet another surprise in an evening full of them. When she’d anticipated the evening, it had been with dread and fear of boredom. It might have started that way, but it was not ending that way.

  ‘No, we are from St Petersburg originally. I’m too blond to be a Cossack.’ Illarion laughed. My family sought to win the Tsar’s favour by being the first to settle in Kuban. It worked. My grandfather was made a prince and his family was given a position of status in the new royal court with all the riches and estates that went with such a title. It was an addictive lifestyle. But to keep that status, to sustain that addiction, one has to stay co-operative. That is easier said than done at times.’ There was a mystery behind those last words, but tonight was not the night to probe it.

  ‘I envy you.’ Dove sighed. ‘You’ve seen so much, you’ve had so many experiences. I have seen little and that is not likely to change. I did not understand that until I came here and saw what it was really like—a handing off of sorts, a changing of the guard. I know it’s meant to keep me safe, to keep the world out. But that’s not how I see it. It’s meant to keep me in.’ Her voice broke and she stopped for fear she’d break down entirely.

  ‘Dove, what has happened? I could tell tonight that something was not right,’ Illarion whispered and the temptation to tell him was too great. When had he become her friend? Her confidante? The one she wanted to run to?