Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott
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very well be living with three bachelors when one had a new wife. Illarion had no such intentions of marrying. There were far too many women in the world for sampling to limit himself to just one. Besides, the institution of marriage Kubanian style hadn’t exactly recommended itself to him, with all its rules and expectations. Love was not one of those expectations. He’d seen too many people—close friends—forced into marriages not of their choosing. And then he’d seen them wither away; strong people, vibrant people like Katya, becoming husks of their former selves.
Illarion dried his face and took a chair across from Stepan, letting Stepan pour him a cup of coffee. ‘How’s the writing going?’ Stepan passed him the cup, his tone less surly.
‘Better.’ If one called five cliché words strung together in a phrase ‘better’. He’d hurried home from the Burton ball last night, scribbling madly in the carriage, racing to his room to pull out paper and pen in an attempt to capture the emotions brought on by the haughty Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis. The flurry of images, however, had flown, his pen unable to capture the feelings in words, his mind unable to focus, preferring instead to follow the questions she’d prompted. Why hadn’t she liked him? He’d done everything right; he’d allowed the hostess to introduce him, he’d made the guest of honour the centre of his immediate attentions. He’d waltzed with her, made conversation with her. He’d been the ideal gentleman. No woman in Kuban could have faulted his manners or his deportment. But she’d found fault aplenty and, truly, he didn’t understand why.
‘I met a woman who inspired me last night,’ Illarion began, sipping at the hot coffee. ‘The first in a long while, to tell the truth. She was like...sin in satin.’ He had been stirred not just by her beauty, but also her spirit, buried deep behind those eyes, a rebel in white, the outer purity of a debutante juxtaposed against the inner shadow on her soul, the shades of rebellion hidden within. He found it intriguing even if that rebellion had been aimed at him. He wondered now in the clarity of daylight if her dislike had been of him or of the occasion? Was it possible she hadn’t enjoyed the ball? He’d thought she was lying earlier when he’d asked.
‘That sounds promising,’ Stepan encouraged.
‘It was!’ Illarion replied passionately. ‘Right up until I got home and nothing would come. My head was so full I couldn’t get the words out and then the images were gone, just like her.’
‘Ah, hence the bird in the hand,’ Stepan murmured. ‘I like sin in satin better.’
Illarion gave a wry smile and reached for a pen. ‘That is pretty good, isn’t it?’ He’d been disappointed in himself last night. He’d tried everything, even brandy, to get the creative juices to flow, but nothing had worked. Candles had burnt down and eventually he’d thrown himself on the mercy of sleep just before the sun had come up, another night that had begun with promise, wasted. He couldn’t afford many more nights like that. ‘She inspires me, Stepan, and I have to write something. I have the reading in three weeks and nothing to perform. An original work is expected.’
It was to be a grand affair, attended by the ton’s best. He’d been invited to do a reading from some of the poems that had got him exiled from Kuban. People had been clamouring for months now. He’d wisely kept them under wraps until the time was right to make the most of them. But there was also an expectation he’d have something new as well, perhaps something that celebrated his new life in London. To capture that celebration, to seek inspiration from the subject, he’d immersed himself in the ton, with all its beauty and entertainment, its lavishness and grandiosity, and he’d come up empty night after night. Until last night when a woman who disdained him had lit a spark. ‘There’s nothing for it, Stepan, I have to have her.’ He pushed a hand through his hair and went to his wardrobe. He had an introduction and her name. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.
Stepan, however, was more cynical. ‘You have to have her? How, precisely, do you mean that? Surely you don’t mean to bed her. Is she even beddable?’ Meaning, was she of the merry-widow variety and eminently available, or was she a virginal debutante, and as such, untouchable? It was a highly salient question indeed, although one Illarion had no intention of answering. For one, it gave away who the muse was and he wanted to savour the thrill of the secret. For another, he simply didn’t have an answer.
Illarion turned from the wardrobe. He hated when Stepan was a step or two ahead of him. The truth was, he didn’t know exactly what ‘having’ Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis entailed at this point. He was only interested in feeding his muse, but Stepan, as usual, had a point. He couldn’t bed her, not without marriage first and that seemed a bit extreme to contemplate at this point. He just wanted to write poetry the way he used to—poetry, by the way, that focused on avoiding marriage, not engaging in it.
‘Well?’ Stepan pressed. ‘This is important, Illarion. You can’t seduce every Englishwoman you meet.’
Illarion thought back to the night before and all the men gathered around her. ‘I will be part of her court, nothing more. A few dances, a few social calls, a bouquet of flowers now and then.’ It would probably take more than that for what he had planned, but the answer would pacify Stepan and it actually seemed a good place to start when he thought about it. He would play the potential suitor well enough to get her alone, long enough to be inspired. His mind hummed with a plan.
‘You, the swain? It’s hard to imagine,’ Stepan teased.
‘Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.’ Illarion didn’t laugh. He was deadly serious about finding his muse. ‘I have to do something or I will show up to my own reading empty-handed.’ He dived back into his wardrobe, rummaging for a waistcoat.
‘I am sure it’s not as dire as all that. Something will come to you, it always does. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to clean up,’ Stepan offered the reassuring platitudes nonwriters gave their literary friends.
‘Time?’ Illarion said distractedly, hauling out two waistcoats, one blue, one a rich cream. ‘What time is it?’
‘Two o’clock. I’m afraid you slept away most of the day.’
‘Perfect.’ Illarion was undaunted by his friend’s scold. Stepan believed every day began at sunrise. He pulled out a dark blue coat and reached for the bell pull. He needed his valet and a shave. At-homes began at three. He had just enough time to make himself presentable and stop for flowers on the way.
‘What are you doing?’ Stepan asked, undoubtedly perplexed by the burst of energy.
‘I am going calling.’ Illarion rifled through a bureau drawer. ‘Where did I put my cards?’
Stepan rose, rescuing a chased silver case from being drowned in paper on the desk. ‘They’re here. Who may I ask are you calling upon?’
Illarion turned from the wardrobe with a grin. Stepan was like a dog with a bone, but Illarion would not give up her name. ‘My muse. Who else?’ This time he’d be prepared for her. He was already planning how he might separate her from the herd. He had no illusions about finding his muse alone. She’d been vastly popular last night. Gentlemen would be sure to flock to her at-home today to extend their interest. He’d have to charm her into a walk in the gardens, or a tour of the family portrait gallery. Thankfully, charm was his speciality. His haughty inspiration in white satin would not give him the slip again.
‘You are quite determined—’ Stepan began and Illarion sensed a lecture coming on. He cut in swiftly.
‘Don’t you see, Step, she might be the one, the one to break the curse.’
‘You’re not cursed.’ Stepan shook his head in tired disbelief. ‘I can’t belief you’re still carrying that nonsense around with you. It’s been a year and you’ve been able to write. You did an ode last week to the Countess of Somersby. The ladies were wild for it. The society pages even reprinted it.’ Stepan was as practical as they came. On the other hand, Illarion had a healthy respect for the supernatural.
‘That was drivel. It wasn’t a real poem. The Countess is easily impressed,’ Illarion argued. He’d produced