Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott

write tonight.

       Chapter Three

      Dove glanced at the clock on the mantel and double-checked her mathematics. With luck, no one else would arrive and these gentlemen would leave when their half-hour was up. Then, she’d have the rest of the afternoon to draw. Freedom was only a few minutes away. It was possible. It could happen. After all, so many of the expected gentlemen had arrived as soon as it was decent to do so at quarter past three and they’d kept arriving in wave after wave. The footmen had been kept running for vases under the onslaught of bouquets. Too bad the gentlemen hadn’t brought new personalities instead. If she’d hoped they might shine better by daylight than they had by the light of her godmother’s chandeliers, that notion had been quickly dispelled. The only bright spot was that Percivale hadn’t arrived yet.

      Her mother beamed with pride each time a new gentleman had been announced, keeping up a quiet running commentary at her ear, ‘Lord Rupert has four estates and stands to inherit an earldom from his uncle. Lord Alfred-Ashby has a stable to rival Chatsworth in the north. Of course, all that pales compared to Percivale. He is the real catch. He’ll inherit his uncle’s dukedom.’ On the prattle went, each gentleman assessed and categorised as he entered, smiled and bowed, as if he were oblivious to what was really happening, as if he thought he might truly be valued for himself. Dove wondered: Did they know who had already been discarded? In counter to that, who was here simply for politeness’ sake? Who in this room had already discounted her?

      Dove was not naïve enough to think her mother was the only one doing any assessing. Each of the gentlemen were appraising her in turn. It was why her hair had taken her maid an hour to style so that it softened the sharp jut of her chin. It was why she’d worn the pale ice-pink afternoon gown to bring out the platinum of her hair. Heaven forbid she be seen in any colour with yellow undertones that clashed with her skin. Even with that effort, there would be those who decided they would do better to marry elsewhere. The idea that she’d been dismissed carried a surprising sting. She wasn’t used to rejection, implied or otherwise.

      Dove scanned the room, wondering. To whom in this room had she become only a trinket to be added to their social cache? It was a bitter pill to think that some of the gentlemen were only here because she was the Season’s Diamond of the First Water and they would benefit from association with her. They had no intentions of getting to know her. Just of using her.

      Such assessment had never been part of the fairy tale she’d grown up on. How splendidly everyone filling her drawing room pretended to be themselves and how disgusting it was. Her newly awakened sense of injustice rose again. People were basing life-long decisions on these façades. Coupled with the ridiculous rules of courtships and calls it was downright farcical; a gentleman might stay no longer than a half-hour, preferably somewhat less, and he might certainly not be alone with the subject of his affections.

      How did one get to know anyone in the confines of a large group and conversation limited to the weather and the previous night’s entertainment? Lord Fredericks laughed at something said in his small group by the window and she heard his standard reply: ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Perhaps the rules weren’t so limiting after all. She already knew she couldn’t spend a lifetime with him, or any of the gentlemen present for that matter. It had only taken one ball and one at-home to make that clear. Maybe the rules had done her a favour, after all, by sparing her any more of Lord Fredericks’ company.

      * * *

      At the stroke of half past four, the last group of gentlemen dutifully began to take their leave and Dove began to hope. She crossed her fingers for good luck in the folds of her skirt as she smiled politely and accepted goodbyes. She could almost feel the charcoal in her hand, she was that close to freedom. She was working on a drawing of a mare in the mews, bought for her riding pleasure. The mare had a soulful face and she was eager to capture it on paper. She’d already done several sketches in the attempt. But something was missing. Perhaps if she took the mare outside where the light was better?

      The last two gentlemen had just left, the door barely shut behind them, when disaster arrived.

      ‘His Royal Highness, Prince Illarion Kutejnikov,’ the butler intoned.

      He was dressed in dark blue superfine and buff breeches and cream waistcoat, far more English today than he’d been last night, but no less tempting. Dove’s pulse sped up in a turmoil of anxious excitement. Just this morning she’d wanted to see him again and now he was here. Lesson learned. One needed to be careful with what one wished for, because wishes could end up in one’s drawing room.

      ‘Prince Kutejnikov.’ Dove nodded politely as he presented her with a pretty bouquet of lilies of the valley. ‘How kind of you to call and what a surprise.’ What sort of man called on a girl who’d left him on the dance floor? Two options came to mind: obtuse or arrogant. Perhaps the Prince was one of those men who thought every woman was dying of love for him. Only in this case, he might be right.

      ‘These reminded me of you,’ he murmured with a smile. She waited for the usual accolades to follow—‘you are like springtime in bloom, you are fresh, innocent’. She’d heard them all today. But none of the usual came. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, ‘Beautiful on the outside, poisonous on the inside.’

      ‘What a lovely concept.’ She forced a smile to match his, but hers was nowhere near as convincing. What did a girl say to a man she’d rejected the night before? He knew he had her cornered. He was laughing at her. She could see it in his eyes—cobalt and merry. The chandeliers last night had not done them justice. ‘I’ll find a vase. I know just the one I want.’ Any vase that took a half-hour to find. The search would let her escape the drawing room for a little while. Perhaps he’d made his point and he’d be gone by the time she returned.

      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