Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott

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