Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott

up a rather provocative series of subsequent images: of Dove walking the shore clad in a gossamer gown that left nothing to the male imagination; high, firm breasts with rose-tipped nipples pressed hard against the thin fabric, her bare feet scything through the long, fresh spring grass; of Spring removing her gown, her body unveiled to hidden eyes, her hands reaching up to take down her hair. Dove as Spring was the perfect juxtaposition of new innocence and womanly knowledge. She’d shown him both sides today.

      The images he’d conjured from that inspiration were certainly powerful if the beginnings of his arousal were anything to go on, but Illarion was not satisfied. Any poet could depict a young virgin in the freshness of spring. Spring was the season of birth and newness, the season of the virgin and the woman. But spring wasn’t entirely the right season for a woman like Dove, with her snowy looks. Physically, winter was her time and yet it was a far more difficult task to cast Dove’s innocence against a season that was often symbolic of death and dormancy.

      Ah. Dormancy. That was the key. His poet’s brain fired. Today, winter had awakened. He recalled how the sun and a bit of temper had brought a flush to Dove’s porcelain cheeks. He focused on the flush. He’d liked the colour in her cheeks, proof that his cool ice queen from the night before was still there, but that she also possessed a warm core. Fire. Ice. An ice princess awakening... That conjured a stronger image and he hastily scribbled a single word, a Russian word. Snegurochka. The Snow Maiden of Russian folk tales, a girl of great beauty who, according to some of the stories, had melted in the spring when she’d ventured from Father Frost’s forests in pursuit of love.

      He was writing furiously now, the allegory pouring from him. He wrote of Snegurochka trapped in spring, a season not of her making, of winter’s princess far from home, surrounded by Primavera’s blushing roses, her paleness a marked contrast. His mind was a blur of thought and image.

      When he finished, his glass of samogan was untouched, the lanterns were lit. A tray of cold meats sat at his elbow, waiting for him. The servants must have brought it. He had not noticed. He’d been too caught up in all that had been revealed today. He had not thought to see so much. In truth, he’d gone today for selfish reasons, to see if she could inspire him again as she’d inspired him last night on the dance floor, to see if he could capture what had slipped away from him last night. He’d got more than he’d bargained for; he’d glimpsed a woman who was figuring out the game, figuring out that she was trapped or nearly so and something in him had started to wake. His own winter, ending. Proof of that awakening was scrawled across pages.

      Footsteps clipped on the flagstones, a pair of them, not boots but shoes. Ruslan and Stepan were dressed for going out, for dancing and ballrooms and Primavera’s roses. ‘You’re not drunk yet, I’ll take that as a good sign.’ Stepan noted the glass of samogan with a subtle lift of his brow, his gaze drifting disapprovingly to the hastily crafted topknot.

      ‘The Huns wore their hair like this,’ Illarion answered the silent reproach. There were others, too: the Samurai, the Mongols.

      ‘Oh, to be a Hun. My greatest wish.’ Stepan’s tone was dry with sarcasm.

      ‘At least you’re still dressed,’ Ruslan interjected, always the diplomat, always positive. Illarion had long felt that he, Stepan and Nikolay might have killed each other years ago if it hadn’t been for Ruslan’s cool diplomacy keeping them in check. Ruslan slapped him on the back. ‘I see today’s visit was profitable.’ He snatched up a paper before Illarion could protect it. ‘“Snegurochka?” I like it.’ To his credit, Ruslan read silently, dark eyes darting over the lines. ‘It’s lovely, Illarion. It could be one of your best. It has that Russian sense of fatalism, that one cannot escape destiny, and the nature allegory is sublime.’ Ruslan set the paper down. ‘Is it about us, Illarion? I think it is. I think Snegurochka represents the four of us, the four princes exiled from home.’

      Illarion smiled, appreciative of his friend’s praise, but the praise was tempered by Stepan’s hard gaze, studying, assessing. ‘It’s not about us, Ruslan,’ Stepan growled. ‘Don’t be a dimwit. It’s about a woman.’

      Ruslan gave Stepan a considering glance, taking the recommendation seriously and prepared his rebuttal. ‘No, Stepan, look at this line here, I am pretty sure it’s about us.’

      Stepan was surlier than usual. ‘No, it’s about a woman,’ he said with finality. ‘Who is she, Illarion?’

      ‘My secret muse and that’s all I’m going to say,’ Illarion answered staunchly. Whatever was needling Stepan was doing a good job of it. He was quite the bear this evening. Illarion grinned, much to Stepan’s obvious consternation. ‘A gentleman never tells.’ But a gentleman did say thank you and Illarion knew just how to do it. Lady Dove had brought him to life today at the expense of exposing herself: her beliefs, her hopes, her disappointments, many of which she was just starting to recognise. It had left her confused, uncertain and sad. He knew first-hand how hard it was to let dreams go, even when they proved no longer viable or useful. He’d left a life behind, a country behind.

      He would bring his Sneguruchka’s dream to life for just a day. He would show her that if fairy tales weren’t possible in whole, they were at least possible in part. He chuckled as Stepan and Ruslan stepped out for the night. He was already imagining the look on her face when she opened the note he hadn’t written yet. She would think it was an apology. But he knew better. He wasn’t sorry for today in the least, he was thankful for it. He had a new poem, worthy of Pushkin himself once he tidied it up, and who knew what tomorrow might bring? For the first time in over a year, the possibilities were endless.

       Chapter Six

      The family carriage crawled through the evening traffic of Mayfair, bringing Dove ever closer to another supper, another ball, another evening with gentlemen she couldn’t respect, gentlemen who didn’t trust themselves to be liked for who they really were, gentlemen, she doubted, who even knew who they were any more. A ballroom full of liars. It was a rather cynical thought to start the evening on. It did not go beyond Dove’s notice that it was also a rather hypocritical thought. Hadn’t she scolded the Prince for being just the opposite, for being too honest? He would laugh at her if he were here now. Hours ago, she’d been scandalised by his outrageous thoughts and actions and now she was missing them. She wished she weren’t. She wished she was in better control of herself and her thoughts. The truth was, she was still reeling from the afternoon.

      Beside her, her mother squeezed her hand. ‘Are you excited for tonight? Lady Tolliver’s will be a crush.’ She began reciting the guest list, offering her usual commentary on the guests. ‘Percivale will be there, of course.’ Her mother smiled knowingly. ‘It seems he’s already managed to align his schedule with yours. He arrived after the Prince had taken you out. He was sorry to miss you this afternoon, but he made it clear he was looking forward to this evening.’ This announcement was followed by another squeeze of her hand. ‘You’re off to a fabulous start, my dear. Your father and I could not be prouder. Everything is coming off just as we hoped.’