Bronwyn Scott - Innocent In The Prince's Bed

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.