‘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.
‘And I don’t like liars,’ he cautioned, his eyes on her again. ‘Be honest, Lady Dove—the truth is you wanted to escape this afternoon. So badly, in fact, you made quite the deal with the devil, didn’t you? You had to choose to go with the arrogant prince and claim an afternoon of freedom, or stay behind in the drawing room to entertain whatever boring gentlemen walk through that door until six o’clock.’
Dove did not reply. What would her response be? That he was right? It occurred to her, however, that she was not the only one who’d made a bargain. The Prince had, too. After all, what could he possibly want badly enough to take a girl driving who had made no secret of her dislike for him?
In the end, they went to Kensington Gardens instead, a less-populated alternative to crowded Hyde Park. ‘I think it’s quieter here. I come when I want to think or talk. There’s less chance of being interrupted,’ the Prince explained, coming around to help her alight. Dove was suddenly self-conscious of her hands on his broad shoulders, of his strong hands at her waist, blue eyes laughing up at her. Were those eyes always laughing? Her reaction was silly. She’d touched him before. She had danced with him last night and they were in public with his tiger and her maid just a few feet away, to say nothing of the other carriages and couples nearby. This was hardly an intimate moment or an intimate setting, yet she was acutely aware of him.
He reached past her for something under the seat, a canvas bag he slung across his chest, then offered her his arm, taking them down to the Long Water, where the lake joined Hyde Park’s Serpentine on the park’s western edge. Her maid trailed discreetly behind them.
The light breeze off the water was refreshing and the lake was quiet. Not many were out today. An empty bench beneath a tree at the shoreline beckoned invitingly. ‘This would be the perfect place to draw.’ Dove sighed wistfully, the words slipping out. She had not drawn or painted nearly as much as she’d hoped since she’d come to London and she missed it sorely.
‘What would you draw?’ He dusted off the bench with his hand, ridding it of random 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
