Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott
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tree debris.
‘The ducks and the trees with their low-hanging branches skimming the water’s surface. If I had my pencils, I could practise with the light, like Constable does.’
‘Then we should come again some time and bring your things. Today we can sit and enjoy the lake,’ he offered, ‘and you can tell me why you found your coming-out ball so distasteful last night.’ Another trade. He was constantly bartering with her, giving her what she wanted in exchange for her secrets.
‘Is everything a negotiation with you?’ Dove said amiably, settling her skirts as she sat. He’d traded her a chance at escape in exchange for his company in the drawing room and now this; the peace of the lake.
‘Is everything always defence with you? You are a suspicious soul, Lady Dove.’ Prince Kutejnikov laughed, undaunted by her boldness. He was probably used to bold women. ‘Now, tell me what had you so prickly last night. Your secrets are safe with me.’ In that moment, she wanted to believe him. Maybe it was the eyes, the smile, the pleasantness of the afternoon, the freedom of being out of doors that she found so intoxicating. Or maybe it was simply that someone had asked her what she wanted. Whatever the reason, the dam of her polite reserve broke. Her newly formed truth came out haltingly as she searched for words to express it.
‘I think I am a bit disappointed in London. It had been built up for me as a shining city of fairy tales, a metropolis beyond belief. For years, I had this image of London—women in silks and jewels, beautiful ballrooms filled with music, gallant men full of honour waiting on them.’ Dove shook her head. ‘But London wasn’t like that.’
The Prince nodded, his gaze contemplative. ‘Were there no silks last night? No jewels? No ballrooms? No gallant men?’
Dove argued. ‘Of course there were, except perhaps the gallant men, but it wasn’t enough.’ She paused, letting out a sigh. ‘You’re making me sound ungrateful.’
‘Not ungrateful. Honest, perhaps, even if that honesty is based on some rather naïve assumptions.’ The Prince crossed a long leg over a knee. ‘Are you comfortable with that?’
Dove shook her head. ‘It’s a rather unflattering depiction.’
‘Innocence is unflattering? I thought it was valued—virginity, innocence, purity, all one and the same,’ he prompted obliquely.
‘Last night you said London had taken our virginity.’
He chuckled. ‘So I did. The city has deflowered you if you have become a cynic. How does that feel? To have the proverbial scales lifted from your eyes? London is a lover who demands to be accepted on its own terms.’ His allusion was wicked and highly inappropriate. Not unlike the man himself. He was being audacious on purpose. Perhaps part of her had waited all day to hear such things, to be secretly thrilled by a man who dared to speak his mind instead of posturing. And yet, she was required to scold him for it, lest he think her too easy.
‘Does everything come back to...?’ Dove groped for a decent word, one she could say out loud and still convey what she meant, which was a scold for his boldness.
‘Sex?’ he filled in coolly. ‘Definitely. Most things in this world come down to sex. If you haven’t figured that out yet, you are still in possession of your innocence.’
‘I thought most things came down to money,’ she retorted sharply, to be perverse. It was too easy to call to mind the calculating gentlemen from the ball.
‘That is also true,’ the Prince acceded, leaning towards her conspiratorially. ‘But I think more things come down to sex.’ He laughed at her reaction. The more she scolded the more audacious he became. ‘Does the truth scandalise you, Lady Dove?’ It was easy to see him as a poet today, the way he played with words to derive certain responses. ‘Do I make you uncomfortable?’
Uncomfortable seemed a mild adjective for what he did to her. He set her skin to tingling, her thoughts to jangling, the order of her world to spinning. ‘No one has ever talked to me in such a way.’
‘Honestly? No one has ever talked to you honestly? Would you prefer I be like everyone else and continue to tell you sugar-coated versions of reality? You’ve seen how well that’s worked out.’
That might have been the hardest truth yet. Maybe she had wanted that, expected that at least; that he would argue against her version of the ball, that London was indeed the fairy tale she’d dreamed of. He’d made none of those arguments. Instead, he’d held up a mirror to her own flaws. In his mind, the problem wasn’t London, the problem was her; her naïvety in not questioning the assumptions her mother and aunts had fed her; her arrogance in assuming such a fairy tale was her due as the daughter of a duke. ‘Life was simpler in Cornwall. I spent years yearning to get away from there and now I find I wax nostalgic for it.’
‘Are you homesick? I know something about that. London takes getting used to.’
Dove gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t believe that. London suits you perfectly.’ With the exception of his clothing last night, she couldn’t imagine a man better adapted. His manners, his athletic grace on the dance floor. He had every nuance London valued in a gentleman and he was entirely at ease with himself. That was where his confidence came from, his boldness.
‘Is that your way of telling me you find me superficial, empty and disappointing?’ His words were sharp.
‘That is not fair!’ Dove snapped. He was putting words in her mouth and twisting them to be unflattering.
‘Is it honest, though?’ he pushed with a wry smile.
‘I don’t know you well enough to make such a verdict.’ The line was a flimsy refuge and he charged straight through it with all the bluntness of a raging bull.
‘And yet, you have. I saw it in your eyes last night. I saw it again this afternoon. You wanted to refuse. It was quite the sacrifice you made for your freedom back there in your drawing room. You don’t know what to make of me. It’s easier to push me away than it is to figure me out. You’re not sure you like me, but you want to.’
She blushed hotly and rose from the bench, ‘You are the most infuriating man! Is this what you wanted? To take me out so you could insult me at every turn? You’ve managed to malign innocence as a virtue and you’ve equated naïvety with stupidity. Is that what you see when you look at me? An empty-headed debutante, a spoiled princess?’ Her temper was running far ahead of her words. She was embarrassed to have been caught out, embarrassed to be seen as a hypocrite, a woman condemning the shallowness of others while being thought shallow in her judgements as well. Her mother would have a fit if she’d witnessed her daughter’s outburst. Dove had managed to break at least two of the rules.
‘Forgive me if truth and honesty are offensive to you, Lady Dove.’ His tone was cool. He didn’t want the forgiveness he alluded to. He was not sorry. She could see that in his eyes.
Dove huffed in frustration. ‘Being truthful and being honest are not permissions to be rude and insensitive. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like a moment to collect myself.’
Dove wandered to the shoreline, wanting space between her and the Prince. What sort of gentleman said such things to a lady? An honest one, apparently, to resort to his overused word of the afternoon. But such honesty created awkwardness. It was one thing to think such things privately, it was another to say them. Sharing such thoughts made interacting more difficult. How did one manage to communicate with someone who had announced your flaws out loud? Without the necessary screen of a façade, there was no protection. Perhaps she was a hypocrite after all. She was starting to understand the callers in her drawing room with their posturing and façades, but that didn’t make her like them any better.
Prince Kutejnikov was a paradox of a gentleman. For all of his royalty, he was ill bred, if this conversation was anything to go on. Actually, she had two conversations to go on and both had been highly unacceptable. The schoolroom had not taught her to converse on such subjects or in such a manner. Now they were stuck in Kensington Gardens, with awkward truths and