her feet and happy ever after would begin, if not this Season, then most certainly the next. Not even her mother’s endless admonitions during the journey from Cornwall about the expectations for a good match had dimmed her enthusiasm for fabled London.
It was the fairy tale she’d been raised on. Her mother, her maid, her aunts, all had exclaimed over the magic of a Season in London. Not once had they mentioned that somewhere between the journey from Cornwall to the altar of happy ever after there was this: listening to men like Strom Percivale prose on about primitive fire-making techniques, spending her evenings explaining simple jokes to the handsome, empty-headed Lord Fredericks of the ton and dancing with men who were trying to peek down her bodice while calculating the prospect of what they could do with her fifteen thousand a year. This was definitely not the dream, not her idea of happy ever after. Was this the best London could do? She’d been raised to expect better. Therein lay her disgust. What did one do when a dream died? Find another one, she supposed. But at this late date, what would that be? A most disquieting thought indeed, one that left her feeling empty, hollow.
A loud burst of energy at the ballroom’s entrance snared her attention and her gaze went past Percivale’s shoulder to where people gathered about the doors in excitement. Perhaps it might be someone interesting? Hope surged as a broad pair of shoulders parted the crowd. She caught sight of champagne-blond hair, a square-jawed face sporting a broad smile and penetrating blue eyes. Excited whispers ran through the ballroom, announcing that this wonder of a man was the royal poet laureate of Kuban, Illarion Kutejnikov, not just a real-life prince, but a larger-than-life one who was nothing like the fairy-tale charmer of her childhood stories.
Unlike every other man in the room, this Prince made no attempt to fit in. From head to toe, he was different. His champagne-blond hair was worn long and thick, caught back with a black silk bow. Instead of dark evening attire, he wore a thigh-length tunic of brilliant royal-blue silk with a heavily embroidered placket of dark blues and teals at the collar, sashed at the waist with a swathe of black silk, emphasising the trimness of his physique and the long legs that supported it. Long legs that were no more traditionally clothed than the rest of him. He wore tight dark trousers that left no room for discreet padding or doubt that his legs were all muscle.
He was without question the most attractive man she’d ever seen, the most exotic, the most sensual, the most vibrant. He was simply more than any man in the room, a peacock in a ballroom full of black wools and white silks. His presence excited her and discomfited her. She wanted him to look in her direction and yet there was a flutter of panic, too, at such a notion. What would she do if he did glance her way? A Russian Byron, the women called him, only much more hale, the audacious would titter behind their fans; a man with a poet’s soul and a warrior’s body. The gossips had got the warrior’s body part right. Already, within moments of him entering the ballroom, women flocked to him, forming an entourage of fawning females as if he were the pied piper. He stopped his progression to bow over Lady Burton’s hand, who was all smiles. Even her redoubtable godmother, it seemed, wasn’t immune to the man’s notorious charm.
Her godmother lifted a hand and gestured towards her, directing the Prince’s gaze. Dove froze, a hasty litany forming in her mind. No, no, do not bring him over here. She knew instinctively she should not want his attention. She was not meant for a man like the poet-Prince. She was meant for a man like Percivale, perhaps even Percivale himself. The realisation blossomed heavy and dark in her chest. That was the source of her dissatisfaction. She didn’t want the Strom Percivales of the ton. She wanted more and more was looking right at her.
The Prince’s champagne head followed her godmother’s gesture, his eyes locking on her, his smile acknowledging her. To the great regret of every other woman in the ballroom, he and her godmother began to move towards her, his intentions clear to her and to everyone else present. Good manners required there could be no escape now, not with her godmother doing the introductions. ‘My darling, here’s someone I want you to meet,’ her godmother began. At her words, part of Dove wanted to run. There was nothing but trouble here if she tempted herself with a sweet she couldn’t have. She should settle for Strom Percivale’s dukedom and be done with it. But the girl from Cornwall who wanted more stood her ground and let more bend over her hand with a kiss. Heaven help her, she would need all her wits now.
* * *
London in Season did not disappoint. This was heaven on earth: twelve weeks of exquisite entertainments, a never-ending flow of champagne, of dancing, of beautiful women, Lady Burton’s goddaughter included. Twelve weeks of drinking from life’s cup, a most heady elixir, heady enough to forget what he’d left behind in Kuban, heady enough to bring him to life once more, if only for a short while. Illarion Kutejnikov took a deep breath and bowed confidently towards the pretty chit in an exquisitely made white creation with her hair done up in seed pearls. Not a bad way to start the night—his favourite time of day.
The night meant freedom, each glittering ballroom offering release from the restlessness that plagued his mornings. He did his best work at night these days, when the scent of a woman still hovered on his skin, lingered in his sheets, the feel of her touch still fresh on his body, the champagne still thrilling through his blood, freeing his mind to wander the paths where emotion and philosophy conjoined into words and phrases.
Illarion let his eyes rest meaningfully on the girl as if she was the only woman in the ballroom. In truth, he didn’t have to try too hard to convey that sense. It was difficult to look away from the silver-grey depths of her eyes. A man could lose himself there. If the eyes didn’t do a man in, there was the perfection of her skin, all pearly translucence, the heart-shaped face with its pert, snub nose and delicately pointed chin resting atop the slim column of her neck in sculpted perfection. And that hair; that glorious hair! A crown to her beauty. He would write an ode to it; it was the colour of snow, a veritable avalanche of platinum silver waiting to be set free from its pins. To be the man to do so would be a pleasure indeed, and, he was quite sure, a privilege that came only through marriage. She had all the hallmarks of a girl who’d been raised swaddled in the cotton wool of her parents’ protection. He took her hand and bent over it with a kiss at her knuckles. ‘Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, at your service.’
Those quicksilver eyes looked him over with a hint of challenge, an air of arrogance as if his adoration was her due. Perhaps it was. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She was not the sort just any man could entertain thoughts of loosening hair about, yet Illarion could not look away. The orchestra struck up a waltz and he slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we?’ He meant the question rhetorically. Women didn’t protest the opportunity to waltz with Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, dance cards be damned.
For a moment, he thought she might break with that precedent. He wasn’t used to being refused. That would be theoretically interesting up to a point, a point he had no intention of testing tonight. Illarion showed her no quarter. He swept her out on to the floor, his hand at her waist, matching his body to hers as he moved them into the waltz.
She danced exquisitely, her body never closer than the proper distance required between them, her eyes never lingering too long on his to imply undue interest, but remaining correctly fixed on a spot just over his shoulder. Her smile never wavered. Her conversation was neutrally polite; Yes, the weather was fine for May, was it not? Yes, she was enjoying the evening. He’d wager that was a lie. She didn’t act like someone enjoying the ball. There was no spark in her eyes as they turned at the top of the floor. By the time he asked her if she’d been to London before, he was heartily tired of the bland neutrality that came with her unwavering smile—a pasted-on smile, a doll’s smile, not a real one. So when she said, no, she’d never been to town, this was her first time, Illarion could not resist.
He seized her attention on one of the rare moments she wasn’t looking over his shoulder, his gaze becoming a smoulder as he drawled, ‘It’s my first time, too. We’re no longer virgins, you and I.’ He’d meant to shock her out of her neutrality. Women were never ambivalent
