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 behaviours between them. It was like being caught out of doors in an unexpected spring deluge and no refuge in sight. Unless the Prince apologised. That might be enough repair for them to survive the carriage drive home in decency.
Yes, an apology would be just the thing. She needed to prepare herself for that. Dove ran through the scenario in her mind. He would come down to the shoreline and make reparations for his boldness. In return, she would do her part and murmur regret over her own reaction. She’d better start thinking of the words she wanted to use.
* * *
But after five minutes, five very long minutes, he hadn’t come. After ten minutes, she began to fear he had left her. How would she explain that to her mother? How would she explain that the Prince had merely been exacting retribution for her having left him on the dance floor? Or that they’d quarrelled over her perceptions of him? Any one of those explanations would horrify her mother. For two more minutes, she fought the urge to look over her shoulder and see if he was still on the bench.
The curiosity was killing her. Dove bent down, feigning a check of her shoe for a non-existent pebble and shot a hasty glance at the bench. She felt some relief. He was still there and he was writing. Writing? A small travelling desk was open on his lap, a quill in hand, and he was utterly engrossed in whatever he was doing. At least that explained why he hadn’t come to her and what had been in his bag. But it was still odd. She’d been down here, worrying over an apology, expecting an apology, and he had so obviously moved past the quarrel. Blown right by it, in fact. It had not even been a ripple on his pond. Unless that was an apology he was penning?
* * *
She was watching him with those silver eyes that hid and revealed her by turn. He could feel the intensity of her gaze on him. That gaze would expose her if he looked up. But he didn’t need to. He knew what she wanted. ‘I will not give you a lie, Lady Dove.’ Illarion concentrated on the paper before him, on the words flowing out of his pen. He almost had it. He wouldn’t look up until he was done. ‘I cannot give you what I don’t possess.’
‘And what is that?’ She was cross with him anew, no doubt for giving her riddles when she wanted a very certain speech from him.
‘Remorse.’ He did look up then, setting aside his pen. ‘You want an apology from me. I cannot give it since I possess none over our last exchange. In short, I am not sorry for a single word I said.’ He watched her gaze move from him to the paper on the writing desk. He blew on the sheet once more to ensure the ink was dry and tucked the sheet inside the case. ‘Did you think I was writing you an apology?’ Lady Dove had confidence in spades to make such assumptions, to think that every man she met was dying of need to make himself presentable to her.
‘I did think it was a possibility given the nature of our conversation.’ The straightforward expectation of her due was fast becoming part of her appeal. Illarion studied her carefully, seeing beyond the outer shell of loveliness. There was a beautiful boldness to such naïve belief that she would never be denied. It was that which he had tried to capture on paper today, not an apology. That boldness could not last. It was like a bloom of spring, a bright splash of colour for a season, but ultimately destined to fade after heat and weather had its way. He had seen it happen to too many women. He didn’t want to see it happen to Dove.
He rose, tucking his writing case back into the canvas bag. ‘Since I cannot offer you an apology, I shall make a peace offering. Before we go, I would like to show you one of my favourite places, if you’ll permit?’ He placed a hand lightly at her back, guiding her towards the path, the gesture giving her permission to stay a while longer. He had decided for them. He guided her down the Lancaster Walk towards the Queen’s Temple, keeping up easy conversation as the building came into view through the trees. ‘It was built for Queen Caroline in 1734. It was meant to be a summer house.’ How odd to be the guide and not the tourist. Perhaps London truly was becoming his home now.
He paused long enough to let her study the classical parchment-coloured architecture of the last century before leading her inside where it was dim and cool and empty. Whatever treasures the Queen had once kept in here for her comfort had long been removed. Illarion let Dove wander through the three chambers ahead of him, taking in the grace of her movements, the way her hand trailed against a wall, tracing the etched initials irreverently marking the presence of guests before them. ‘That’s a shame,’ she murmured. ‘To deface a thing of beauty by marking it.’
Illarion stopped behind her, close enough to catch the light spring lilac of her perfume. ‘This is naught but an empty building to the public.’
She shook her head. ‘But once it was someone’s refuge, a place they went for privacy, where the world could not touch them for a brief while.’
There
