Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  Ruslan held his gaze. ‘You have to promise me not to do anything crazy. You’re not out of the woods yet with your own injury.’

  He was going to crawl out of his skin and strangle Ruslan in a minute. ‘I promise,’ he ground out. He would have promised anything to get this last piece of news.

  ‘She called for you. The maid said she asked for you and when she was refused, she started calling for you.’ Ruslan was watering it down heavily. Illarion could read between the lines. He could imagine Dove waking, sick and remembering, knowing there would be a duel and being helpless to stop it. Worse, now she was miles away in Cornwall with no news until his letters arrived.

  ‘I have to get to her.’

  ‘And we will, when you’re able. The doctor’s not given you clearance to travel yet,’ Ruslan soothed, but Illarion sensed he was holding back.

  ‘You’d better spill the rest of it, Ruslan.’

  ‘You’ve sent your letters. She’ll know you survived when she sees the letters. If she wants to see you, she’ll write back.’

  ‘If she wants to see me?’ Illarion was incredulous. ‘What kind of statement is that?’ He’d proposed. He’d bought a house. She’d called out for him in her need.

  ‘It’s just that the maid said the family left for Cornwall to put the scandal behind them, to give her a fresh start. Things may have changed. She may not want to see you now. I think you have to be prepared for that.’ Ruslan put a hand on his arm in commiseration. ‘This is not the way to make friends, as Stepan would say.’

  ‘I suppose I am cast out of London society for good now?’

  Ruslan laughed. ‘Hardly. You, my friend, are more exciting than ever. A publisher has written, asking for the rights to print a book of your work. Everyone is clamouring for another performance of “Snegurochka”, and the Countess of Somersby is planning a Russian-themed midsummer ball. She plans to dress as Snegurochka. Dressmakers cannot keep enough white fabric on the shelves. I think you may be the only fellow I know to be more popular after a duel than before.’

  Except with Dove’s father, Illarion thought ruefully. ‘I doubt Redruth will appreciate that.’ Illarion sank back against the pillows. He didn’t want loving him to cost Dove her family.

  Ruslan smiled. ‘I may be able to help you with that.’

  Illarion cocked an eyebrow and his friend. ‘Like you did with the house? I do wonder how you spend your days.’ In Kuban, Ruslan had led a secretive life, associated with a shadowy underground or secret society, Illarion had never quite understood.

  ‘Even better than the house. Do you remember asking about Redruth and how he met his wife?’

  Illarion nodded.

  ‘I happened to sit down one night at the club with one of Redruth’s old friends, actually one of Redruth’s father’s old friends.’ Very old indeed, then. Illarion wondered just how that had interview had ‘happened’, what research and arrangements Ruslan had made. He was touched by his friend’s efforts.

  ‘Turns out, it was quite a love story. Her father, the current Duchess’s, didn’t think so much of young Redruth. He had not inherited yet and was a bit on the wild side as a young buck, a bit too wild for a duke’s daughter. But Redruth was madly in love with Lady Olivia Huntington. He settled down and worked hard to prove himself.’ Ruslan leaned back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. ‘The moral of that story is, love wins the day.’ And practicality, Illarion thought. Love and practicality. Perhaps, if he could show Redruth both?

  ‘Did you ever come up with a nice farm in Cornwall?’ Illarion asked, thinking back on their earlier conversation, the one about making him respectable.

  Ruslan reached inside his coat pocket. ‘I thought you would never ask.’ He put a folder in front of Illarion. ‘Not just a farm, an estate. A prince does not settle for farms, it is entirely beneath you.’ And would impress no one, especially a future father-in-law.

  Illarion opened the folder and studied the deed. The deed? ‘You bought it?’ What would he or Ruslan ever do with an estate that close to Redruth if he was refused? ‘Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?’

  Ruslan shrugged. ‘Not really. You are the most persuasive man I know.’ He appreciated his friend’s confidence.

  ‘Does London believe we are still princes, Ruslan?’ he asked, referring to the rumours Percivale had tried to spread.

  ‘Yes, we are still princes. You have Nikolay’s father-in-law to thank for that—it helps to have friends in high places in the diplomatic service. He’s assured everyone we have not been disavowed by Kuban.’ Even though they had tried to renounce their titles, Kuban still recognised them, unlike Dimitri Petrovich’s situation. They had one last tie to the old country. It hurt less to think of Kuban these days. Illarion might miss it, might always miss it, but everything he wanted was in England. More specifically, everything he wanted was in Cornwall. He would go as soon as he could.

  Which wasn’t soon enough for his taste. His body betrayed him. The doctor’s worry over infection setting in, a worry prompted by a slight fever, kept him at home another frustrating week during which he wrote letter after letter and waited impatiently for a response. By week three, when he was cleared for travel, there’d been no word from Dove. Doubt and worry pricked at him over the lack of response. Had she not written because she couldn’t or because she didn’t want to? Had she, as Ruslan suggested, put London behind her, including him? The moment the bandage was off, he threw his deeds and a change of clothes into a valise, saddled his horse and set off. A carriage would only slow him down. He had to make good time. He was already three weeks late to make the most important argument of his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Redruth manor was impressive and imposing with its Gothic architecture and turrets. It looked more like a castle than a house, but Illarion could see why Dove loved it. The gardens were spectacular and he knew that was where he’d find her, pencil in hand. There were those who would have gone straight to her father, but he had not travelled at breakneck speeds for three days to see the Duke. He’d come for Dove and he’d be damned if he was going to wait a second longer.

  His instincts were correct. He found her in the rose garden, her bright head bent over a tablet, pencil in hand. He took a moment to look his fill before announcing himself. A month away had not dimmed his memory of her or distorted her beauty. ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he drawled from the trellised entrance, his eyes fixed on her, watching the surprise take her face like the sun spreading across the dawn sky. But it was not the look of surprise he’d expected and he knew instantly that something was wrong. Surprise usually looked like pleasure, unadulterated elation. Her surprise held an element of stunned disbelief and an element of fear.

  Her drawing tablet dropped to the ground and she ran to him. ‘Illarion! You’re alive!’ Her hands framed his face as if she couldn’t believe it, her eyes filling with tears. She began to laugh and sob all at once. ‘You’re alive,’ she repeated.

  She hadn’t known. All this time, he’d been trapped in London and she hadn’t known. How was that possible? His heart went out to her and his arms closed about her, holding her close. ‘Yes, I am alive. Didn’t you get my letters?’

  She looked up at him, a furrow on her brow. ‘No, there were no letters.’ Her eyes darted across his face. ‘You’ve been hurt!’ She saw the stubbly patch at his temple, the red scar for the first time. Her hand went to it, recognition shadowing her face. ‘Is this from the duel?’

  ‘It’s why I didn’t come immediately. I went to your house, but you were already gone and then...’ he gestured to the small scar ‘...I had a piece of lead wedged in there. I couldn’t travel. For such a small wound, it made quite a difficulty. I came the moment I was cleared to ride. I wrote every day.’

  The fear was back. ‘Does my father know you’re here?’ So that was the source of concern. Her father was keeping
his daughter on a tight rein.

  ‘No, I came straight to you.’ Now it was his turn for a little panic. Now that the moment of reunion had passed, he had a task to perform. ‘When you didn’t write back, I worried for you. Are you safe here? There were unpleasant reports about your exodus from London.’

  Dove’s smile faded. ‘I am not safe here. My father is making plans for me to marry again and there are definitive consequences if I don’t.’ She shot another look at the house and dragged him deeper into the rose garden. The whole sordid story came out in rapid detail: the drugs, the threats, the price of her temporary freedom. ‘I fear the only the way to avoid his plans this time is to run away,’ she concluded. ‘But if I am caught...’ Her voice trailed off, the thought too horrifying to complete.

  Silently, Illarion passed her an envelope. ‘I gave this to Ruslan the day of the duel. Open it.’

  She slid the sheaf of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it, her eyes going wide. ‘You gave me your house?’

  ‘So that you would have a place to go, so that you could be free whether or not you want what I offer you. But now I’m here and I would rather give you the protection of my name—if you would have me?’

  * * *

  If she would have him? She was still accustoming herself to the fact that he was alive, that he’d come for her! She was to be given a second chance after so stupidly having ruined the first with her hesitation. She never should have left him that day in the Portland Square ballroom. She kissed him softly. ‘I will walk out of here today with you, right now. Not because you offer me escape from an unpalatable situation, not because you offer me a house, not because you’re a prince, but because I love you, Illarion Kutejnikov.’

  He bent his head to hers, murmuring, ‘Why do you love me, Dove? I’m a man without a homeland, with a title that probably means very little.’

  ‘Because you love me, just me, not my dowry. Because you make me feel alive. I’ve been dead these last weeks, Illarion, because I’ve been without you and I never want to feel that way again.’

  ‘Then let’s go speak to your father.’

  That startled her. She drew back. ‘Let’s just go. There’s a gate right there. We can just go.’

  His hand closed over hers. ‘A prince of Kuban doesn’t run and neither does a princess. We will face your father. He can decide if he wishes to participate in our lives.’ Then he winked. ‘But let me do the talking, I can be very persuasive.’

  ‘With women.’

  ‘With anyone.’

  * * *

  Dove would never forget those moments: walking into her father’s office, a place of dread, the very place where he’d chastised her and offered his threats of marriage or imprisonment in an asylum; of watching him take in Illarion’s presence, of noticing her hand in his hand, her head held high, Illarion’s broad shoulders straight, his blue eyes confident.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her father’s outrage was palpable.

  Illarion was not deterred. ‘Your daughter and I have come to ask your blessing for our marriage, your Grace.’

  Her father half-rose from behind his enormous desk, hands braced on the polished surface. ‘I thought I told you your suit was not welcome. It was not welcome in London and it is not welcome in Cornwall.’

  Illarion nodded. ‘I understand that. However, we are not asking for your permission. Only your blessing. Do you understand that?’

  Dove was aware of a presence at her back. Her mother had come in silently. Illarion let go of her hand and stepped forward. She moved to go with him, but her mother’s soft hands at her shoulders cautioned her. ‘Let the men settle this,’ she whispered, surprising Dove with a show of alliance. Then again, she’d always favoured the Prince. But Dove shook her head. She would not leave Illarion again. Even so, this was her future, too, and she would be part of settling it.

  ‘Dove and I will marry,’ Illarion said firmly and Dove felt a trill of excitement move through her at the thought of this man as hers for ever, this man who was willing to fight for her, defend her in all ways; with words, with weapons. ‘We will marry for love, surely you remember what that was like?’ Dove’s attention sharpened. What was he getting at?

  ‘Love is not enough in today’s world,’ her father refuted. ‘Love does not get you invited into the right circles, or provide the opportunities your children will need. We raised Dove for more than a life built on the idea of love. What you think is love today will not last. I will not see my daughter left with nothing when that fades.’ Her father paused. ‘Love is for poets.’ He meant it derisively.

  ‘Love is for everyone who is brave enough to reach for it,’ Illarion countered, ignoring the slur. ‘It was once enough for you. Didn’t you once defy your wife’s father to marry your duchess?’

  Dove started. She slid a glance towards her mother. She had not heard that story before. She’d always assumed their marriage was perfect, an arrangement of both affection and affiliation. It was true, though, she could see it in the stunned expression on her father’s face. ‘That was different,’ he protested. ‘I could provide for her. Olivia and I knew what we were doing.’

  Illarion nodded. ‘We know what we are doing. I can provide for Dove.’ He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a stack of documents. He laid them one by one on the desk. ‘This is the deed to my town house on Portland Square. This is the deed to a small estate not far from here. This is a list of my investments. Finally, this is proof of my accounts at Coutts and a list of the assets I have housed in their vault, most of them in jewels. You will see that I can provide for your daughter in the ways that matter to the world and to you. I would not want less for her. I have no desire to see Dove live uncomfortably.’ He stepped back and took her hand again. ‘However, I would rather you reach back into your past and remember how much more important love is to a marriage. How it’s love, not houses or jewels, that helps a man and a woman weather the true difficulties of life. There are things money and titles cannot protect you from, but love can see you through.’

  Dove saw her father’s eyes shift to her mother. They were thinking about the four little crosses in the family cemetery, the four little boys that had come before her. Being a duke had not saved them. Being a duke had not stopped the fever from coming the summer when she was five and her mother had nearly died. Dove remembered how her father had knelt at her mother’s bed. It was only time she recalled ever seeing him cry. Once upon a time, love had mattered. What had happened to it?

  ‘Olivia?’ Her father reached out his hand to her mother, his single word asking a thousand questions, not just about Illarion, but, Dove suspected, about them, about whatever had been lost in the intervening years, choked out by obligations and worries.

  Her mother came forward, taking his hand. ‘I think the Prince is right, George.’ Right about love, Dove thought as she watched her parents. ‘We should let them marry, let them be happy. They will live close and we will see our grandchildren.’

  ‘Is this what you want, Dove?’ her father asked and the question nearly brought her to tears. How long had she waited to hear those words? The decision she fought so hard for was hers to make at last.

  ‘Yes, Daddy. This is what I want.’

  He held his arms out to her. ‘Can you forgive me, Dove?’

  She went to him, letting him fold her in his arms like he did when she was a child. ‘I love you, Dove. I only want what’s best for you.’

  ‘Illarion is best for me, Daddy.’ She glanced over at her mother. ‘You were right. The way I feel when I’m with him is just how you described it.’ She looked over at Illarion and smiled. ‘Invincible, like there’s nothing we can’t do when we’re together.’

  Her father kissed the top of her head. ‘Then this calls for champagne. It’s not every day a man’s daughter is betrothed to a prince.’

  ‘You were right.’ Dov
e smiled softly at Illarion as champagne was poured and whispered, ‘You are pretty persuasive.’

  Illarion bent to kiss her. ‘Not me, Snegurochka. I can’t take all the credit. Love is the greatest persuader of them all.’

  Epilogue

  Illarion Kutejnikov married his Princess in Cornwall on midsummer’s eve, the longest day of the year, the date selected quite on purpose. As he put it to his blushing bride, ‘I want the best day of my life to last as long as possible.’

  The wedding took place in a small stone chapel on the Redruth estate that had seen centuries of Redruth weddings and baptisms. Inside, the Kubanian and Russian guests nearly equalled the English guests in the small, select group invited to the ceremony. Illarion looked over the front row where Stepan and Ruslan sat with Nikolay’s wife, Klara, and her father, Alexei Grigoriev. Behind them sat Dimitri Petrovich, his English wife, Evie, and their precious two-month-old son, Alexander. Nikolay stood beside him, nudging him as the heavy wood doors of the chapel opened and Dove entered in a shaft of sunlight.

  Illarion straightened at the sight of his bride, his pulse quickening. The strains of a single violin began to play as she and her father walked down the aisle. She was stunning in her mother’s wedding gown, her grandmother’s pearls about her neck, a wreath of bright blue forget-me-nots set atop her platinum hair. On the English side of the aisle, Illarion saw her godmother swipe at an early tear. The gossip carried back to London would set the right tone: the bride had been radiant in something borrowed in her mother’s gown, something blue, in the forget-me-nots, something old, in the pearls, and something new in the exquisitely embroidered slippers that peeped beneath her skirts. All the traditions had been followed, including the reading of the banns. Illarion had waited four weeks for this and it was worth it.

  He took her hand from the Duke and raised it to his lips. ‘You look beautiful, Snegoruchka,’ he murmured.

  She smiled, grey eyes silvery with happy tears. ‘Now we know how the poem ends.’