Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  He cried out, perhaps in warning, just before he spent and she caught him in her hand, warm and pulsing and alive. The sight of him, head thrown back, the cords of his neck taut, eyes shut against pleasure, was a primal one of man undone. He was at his best, at his most vulnerable, in these moments and she’d brought him to it. The intensity of the moment awed her. This was intimacy at its finest; to watch a man come apart, to see the pleasure rack him.

  ‘Do you see what you do to me?’ Illarion’s voice was a hoarse rasp.

  She did see. Illarion Kutejnikov climaxed with his blue eyes open, perhaps specifically for that purpose. He wanted her to see the pleasure take him, wanted her to see what they did together mattered to him. In seeing that, she also saw him exposed. She was his weakness, odd thought though it was, that this man of strength and confidence, this man who had the ton at his feet, should have any vulnerabilities. A sense of pride surged through her as she rested her head against his thigh. She was breathing hard, too. This had taken a toll on her as well. His hand played softly in her hair. ‘My dear girl, you do know how to play with fire.’ She smiled up at him and took the handkerchief he offered.

  Something flickered in his eyes. ‘We were talking about tonight before we got distracted.’

  She took the seat across from him. ‘I think you were about to tell me what I was supposed to learn from tonight.’ She’d learned quite a lot, about herself and about him. She’d learned that she could enjoy life beyond the ballrooms of Mayfair. She could, in fact, enjoy many things as long as he was with her. Perhaps enjoy them enough to stand up to her parents if the need arose.

  ‘I wanted you to see the life between,’ Illarion said bluntly. ‘Nikolay and Klara have her father’s connections but they are not necessarily received on their own. They are not recruited into the higher echelons of society. Klara gave all those aspirations up when she married Nik.’ Illarion paused. ‘She was promised to a duke, just as you are.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Illarion? If tonight was supposed to be a warning to scare me off, it failed miserably.’ As did Klara’s story. If living ‘between’ was good enough for Klara, it was good enough for her. ‘Do you think I am so silly as to crave society’s attention? To care what society thinks?’

  ‘It may matter to you some day.’ Illarion looked out the window and sighed. ‘We are nearly home. Thank you for a lovely evening. I am glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘I do not think you finished saying what you meant to say.’ Dove was not eager to get out of the cab with their conversation incomplete. There was a mystery lurking here. Why had tonight mattered so much to him?

  Illarion gave a half-smile. ‘We will finish this conversation tomorrow. Klara will call for you at noon to do some shopping.’

  ‘Shopping?’ The last thing she wanted to do was shop.

  Illarion laughed. ‘Not really. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out, golubushka.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Portland Square, Number Two.

  Noon.

  I have something to discuss.

  Dove fingered the folded note Klara had given her, feeling the form of the key hidden within its folds. For a man known for his poetry, the note was terse and short. But for all its brevity it still had the power to make her pulse quicken.

  She was coming to suspect it would always be that way with him. Even when he left her, the sound of his name in a conversation or the slightest whiff of patchouli would recall him to her. She would never be free of him, one more unintended consequence of her rash gambit. And this visit to Portland Square another.

  Dove wrapped her pink shawl about her shoulders, thankful for the company of Klara in the open-air landau. Klara’s presence had saved her the need to lie to her parents. Number Two was easily located, the whitewash and the black shutters made it stand out from its brick and sandstone counterparts. Dove looked up from beneath the brim of her hat at the four storeys of paned and shuttered windows. The home was impressive, fit for a duke, or, Dove thought with a shiver of anticipation, a prince. Although, why this particular Prince needed a town house was beyond her. Actually, she could imagine a few reasons, all of which left a knot of butterflies fluttering around her stomach. Men needed homes for one reason: to set up housekeeping and nurseries. Was that what he meant to discuss last night?

  Dove climbed the front stairs slowly, behind Klara, smoothing her hand over her belly in the hopes of settling the butterflies. Had Illarion meant to propose? How odd when he’d made it clear to her that he thought marriage was a prison. She had, too, for that matter, only, she wasn’t sure she believed that any more. Marriage to a man like Illarion would be different than marriage to Percivale. And yet, she felt as if marriage would be an imposition. Illarion didn’t want to marry.

  The shiny, black-lacquer door opened before she could knock. Illarion ushered her inside with a sweep of his hand. ‘Come in. Welcome...home.’ He glanced at Klara. ‘Thank you for bringing her.’ It was a polite dismissal. He meant for them to be here alone. A trill of anticipation went through her.

  She gave him an odd look. There was something different about him today. He’d dressed carefully in a dark blue jacket and buff breeches, his hair immaculate in its black bow, his cravat crisply tied in an Osbaldeston knot. A heavy ring set with a sapphire adorned his hand. But that was nothing new. He was always well turned-out. What was new was the tension about him. The ease he usually exhibited, as if nothing mattered, was missing. Today, Illarion was nervous. How curious. But it did nothing to ease the nerves in her own stomach. His nerves became her nerves.

  ‘We need to talk, Dove, but first, let me give you a tour.’ Inside, the town house did not disappoint from the black and white marble tiles of the floor to the high ceilings and the majestic sweep of the staircase leading upstairs.

  ‘This is spectacular,’ Dove commented, and meant it. The entrance rivalled her father’s own home.

  Illarion smiled, pleased. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet. Allow me to show you around.’ He ushered her up the staircase, a guiding hand at her back. The first stop was the main drawing room, done in exquisite wallpaper of hand-painted Chinese silk. Doors opened to a music room that carried out the oriental theme with peacocks, adorning the space in lush teals and blues. The dining room with its long table could seat twenty, easily. There was a library, a lady’s writing room in soft rose. Chintz would look lovely in there; soft and feminine. She could already picture a vase of white roses on the small white hearth. The light was excellent here, it was a place where she could draw. At that thought, she had to take herself firmly in hand. She was not to mentally decorate the space. It was akin to naming strays. It made the space too personal.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Illarion gestured towards the stairs leading to the third floor. ‘There are six bedrooms, but there’s only one I want to show you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything rivalling what we’ve already seen. The house is so...exotic.’ Each room was a story representing a different place in the world: the Far East in the drawing room and conservatory, the grand French style in the dining room, the English garden in the lady’s sitting room. One need never leave the house to see the world if one decorated just right.

  Illarion just grinned smugly, pushing open the door to the suite. ‘Tell me what you think now.’ He stood back and let her enter, let her stare. With the exception of the dining room, the house was empty, but here an enormous, carved four-poster bed dominated the centre of the room. It was lodged against the far wall between two long windows and draped in the most sumptuous collection of silks she’d ever seen: burnished golds, teals, deep plums, dark blues, a splash of red. Silken pillows were piled high at the head, a lush purple throw draped haphazardly at the foot. It was a sultan’s bed.

  ‘I had it brought in last night,’ Illarion supplied. ‘I wanted you to see the room with a bed in it.’

/>   The comment was the most curious remark of all. As intrigued as she was by the splendour of the house, her patience was stretching thin. ‘What is the meaning of all this, Illarion?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking it’s time to have a place of my own.’ He let her look one last time before leading her out of the magical room. ‘I can’t live at Kuban House for ever. Dimitri and Evie will be wanting it back some time and it’s time for me to start my London life in truth.’ The butterflies in her stomach were replaced by a sense of disappointment. He wanted the house for him, that was all. She should have been relieved. He wanted her opinion on a house, nothing more. Of course he’d been wanting a home of his own.

  ‘There’s one last room to show you.’ He took her back to the first floor where a set of over-wide double doors remained unopened. ‘It’s not as grand as your godmother’s.’ He winked as he threw them open and Dove gasped. Ballrooms by nature didn’t have the intimate ambiance of a bedroom, but what this one lacked in intimacy, it made up for in elegance.

  ‘It’s as grand, it’s grander,’ Dove gasped. Beneath her feet, the polished floor gleamed, but it was what hung overhead that claimed her attention. Four chandeliers suspended from a ceiling of painted clouds and cherubs done in the style of Raphael.

  ‘They were hand-blown in Venice, I’m told,’ Illarion offered. ‘They’re not from Metternich himself, but perhaps they’ll do?’ He gave her a wink, seeming more relaxed than he had been since her arrival. ‘I take it you approve of the house?’

  ‘More than approve,’ Dove said breathlessly, moving about the room to study the chandeliers from various angles.

  ‘I see you are already planning balls.’ Illarion chuckled, sweeping up behind her and turning her in his arms. ‘Perhaps we should try out the dance floor first.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ She gave a startled laugh as he moved her into the steps of a tuneless waltz.

  ‘Avoiding buyer’s remorse.’ His mouth was close at her ear. ‘Can’t be buying a ballroom that doesn’t work now, can we?’

  We. What a lovely word. For a moment she gave herself over to the fantasy of it—of them dancing in their own ballroom, of life being a waltz, every day full of laughter and smiles.

  At the end of the ballroom, he brought them to a halt in front of the doors leading out to the wide veranda and a view of the gardens beyond. ‘Do you like it, truly, Dove?’ He was a little breathless. ‘Can you see yourself here? With me?’

  The words took her by dangerous surprise. The butterflies were back. ‘What do you mean, Illarion?’

  Illarion dropped to a knee before her, taking her hands in his, his blue eyes serious and earnest. ‘I am asking you to marry me, Dove, to live here with me, for ever.’

  The fierceness of his grip on her hands was testimony to how serious he was. This was no joke. Illarion Kutejnikov, Prince of Kuban, was asking her to marry him. And Dove didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I will take you around the world for our honeymoon,’ Illarion tempted. ‘We’ll furnish this house from our travels. We’ll be gone for years if you want. You can draw and when we come home, we’ll hang your drawings all over the house to remind us of our great adventures.’

  He was bargaining with her again. Offering what she wanted in exchange for something he supposedly wanted. What a temptation it was to say yes, to ignore the undercurrents of his proposal. With one small word, she’d have everything she’d ever wanted: adventure, freedom and the passion of Illarion in her bed. Her earlier thought returned. Marriage to Illarion would not be like marriage to Percivale. It was everything she wanted. Almost. Was it everything he wanted?

  She was obligated to ask the hard question. ‘Why are you doing this? You said you didn’t want to marry. What has changed your mind?’ A thought came to her that perhaps he felt duty bound to offer for her. She did not want him that way. It would destroy her to be the only one in love. Dove pulled her hands away from his. This would be easier if he weren’t touching her. She tried not to think of the big bed upstairs, or the rose sitting room with the excellent light.

  ‘It occurs to me that I can give you a way out from Percivale.’

  ‘You want to save me?’ A noble but not romantic sentiment. And the words hurt. She knew he did not mean to hurt, but they did. ‘I think marriage needs a little more than that to recommend it, don’t you?’ If he made such a sacrifice now, would he hate her for it later? Unless it wasn’t a sacrifice at all. Unless it was something he wanted, too? ‘I’m sorry, Illarion, I don’t think leaping from one forced marriage to another is a very good idea.’ She understood the purpose of last night in vivid clarity. He’d wanted her to see what life would be like with him. He wanted her to consider the possibility, both the good and the bad, before he asked her this. He’d just made her choice so much more difficult. She could no longer choose Percivale by default for lack of no other offer. Illarion would make her choose deliberately. He loved her that much. The realisation was overwhelming. She had to refuse. Didn’t she?

  * * *

  ‘Did you think I would take you to bed and not honour you?’ Was that the sort of man she thought he was? Illarion rose from his knee, slowly in disbelief. She was refusing him? After last night and the night before? It seemed surreal. He had planned everything so carefully, given her no quarter to say no and yet she had, she was. ‘Do you not want me, Dove?’ He was numb with the realisation, but he knew it would hurt like the devil later when the shock was gone.

  ‘I will not have you sacrifice yourself for me. You will hate me for it, eventually.’

  Something akin to anger flashed through him. To hell with that nobility of hers that said others had to come before self. ‘I can save you. I can give you everything you want.’ He reached for her hands again, wanting to touch her, his voice a low growl. ‘I don’t consider marriage to you a sacrifice, Dove.’ The hurt started to surface as an idea flickered. ‘Perhaps you consider marriage to me a sacrifice?’ Was that it? Had she reconsidered after last night? Had she recognised the importance of belonging to society? How that might be at risk if she married him? Had she chosen her family over him? Perhaps she had reassessed what the price of her freedom was worth and decided it was too expensive? Logically, he could understand and even empathise with those choices, but emotionally he could not accept it.

  His heart sank at the thought of Dove giving up, of allowing herself to become the very thing she hated: a bird in a gilded cage. ‘Dove,’ he began, wanting to exhort her to fight, to persuade her she didn’t have to settle, but he even as he formed the arguments, he was cognisant of the risk she was facing. Marriage to him might have social repercussions; his title might be paper only, his status resting on London’s benevolence alone. Her parents might cut her off, might disown her. Even so, he wanted to cry out, I am enough, Dove. I can be enough for you.

  ‘Don’t,’ she cautioned. ‘I am surprised, that’s all, and now you have honeymoons and houses all laid out. Can you at least understand what an about-face this is? That this is a decision not without risk? I need time to think it through.’ She asked quietly, ‘Will you give me that?’

  He stiffened at the words, reminiscent of another proposal. She’d asked Percivale to give her time because she hadn’t been sure, because she wanted to refuse. Did she want to refuse him? The potential that she might turn him down, that she might spend her life away from him, was an appalling one. ‘Time is the one thing you haven’t much of.’ The world seemed to invade this little paradise of his. Did she understand how little of it there was? Things were rapidly coming to a head with Percivale. A duel was imminent either over Dove or over the slanderous rumours. ‘I will give you all I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stepped away from the balustrade, lost for words. She looked at him with beseeching eyes. ‘Will you excuse me? I have to go.’

  She turned and fled—that was the only word for it. She fairly ran through
the house, wanting to be as far away from the big, beautiful house, from him. Illarion let her go, his own heart breaking a little. He’d finally fallen in love, finally found the woman who could break the spell and she would not have him—ironically to save him from himself. Never had he wanted someone so much. Never had something seemed so impossible to claim. Never had the stakes been so high. To lose Dove would be akin to losing a part of himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dove sat still so as not to disturb the mare, her body quiet, her mind a riot of unsorted thoughts, her pencil unmoving in her hand. Beyond her, in the hay, the mare whickered. She’d come to the mews to draw the horse, but she’d drawn Illarion instead. It was all she could seem to manage these days. Was this what Illarion’s writer’s block felt like? A mind too full to concentrate? Recent days had been filled with momentous events. Two men had proposed to her; demanded decisions from her that would shape the rest of her life. She’d made love with Illarion; she’d drank vodka; she’d given a man pleasure; a man had bought a house for her, for them. That man wanted to spend his life making her happy.

  It should have been a joyous few days, it should have been symbolic of what else she’d done. She should have taken a first step towards her own independence. But she hadn’t. No one but Illarion knew she had done any of those things. She was no more independent now than she’d been when she’d first come to London. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. She had changed, and yet the face that stared back at her every night from her dressing table mirror hadn’t.