London—May 1823
So this was how dreams died—ignobly. Expeditiously dispatched to the hereafter in a mere two hours after eighteen years in the making, bludgeoned to death in Lady Burton’s ballroom by what passed for Strom Percivale’s, the very eligible future Duke of Ormond, wit. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis watched her court of gentlemen nod sagely as Percivale expounded on fire-building techniques he’d seen demonstrated on his latest diplomatic excursion: ‘It takes two sticks and a beastly amount of rubbing to get a spark.’ The group laughed, a poignant reminder that it was unfair to place all the blame on Percivale. Like Brutus stabbing Caesar, he had help.
Dove leaned forward, one white-gloved hand gently resting on Percivale’s dark sleeve to forestall any further comment. She smiled at the circle of gentlemen. ‘It’s probably easier when one of the sticks is a match.’
On her right, young Lord Fredericks’s fair brow knit in confusion, not grasping her remark, and her long-nurtured dream of a London debut breathed its last.
‘A match would allow you to light the other one,’ she explained patiently.
‘Oh, I do see! A match.’ He chortled, overloud and over-exuberant. ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Lord Fredericks’s brow relaxed. ‘You’re a wit, you are, Lady Dove.’
She was also quite disgusted and it was only her first formal outing of the Season. Disgusted. Disappointed. Devastated even. Her dream had betrayed her. Neither her debut nor London were remotely like she thought they would be and yet the source of that betrayal was hard to pinpoint.
Dove surveyed her godmother’s famed ballroom, searching for the cause of her antipathy amid the surreal swirl of pale silks and dark evening clothes, finding it everywhere and nowhere. She was surrounded by bland perfection on all sides, which made it that much harder to fault the evening, and to explain her sense of dissatisfaction.
The ballroom itself was architectural excellence with its twin colonnades parading down the left and right sides of the dance floor, columns draped in expensive but simple swathes of oyster satin bunting and ivory roses bred in her godmother’s private Richmond hothouses, brought to town especially for the ball. Pairs of imported chandeliers crafted from Austrian crystal glittered overhead, a gift from Metternich himself to her godfather. Every inch of the room was decorated to emphasise the three essential ‘E’s’ of tonnish entertainment: elegance, excellence and expense.
There was no doubting the elegance of the decoration, just the creativity of it. Beneath it there was a strong note of uniformity—or was that conformity? Minus the Metternich chandeliers, Dove suspected other ballrooms in London looked exactly the same as this one—virginal and uninspired, a setting worthy, unfortunately, of the guest list. Where was the colour she’d dreamed of? Where was the life? How could the ‘happy ever after’ she’d spent her girlhood imagining occur in such a sterile environment?
Several girls had made their official curtsy at the royal drawing room today, but only the crème de la crème was present with her at her debut, and none of them was as highly anticipated as she. It was not arrogance that drove her to that conclusion. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis knew her own worth. She was the pampered, well-loved only child of the Duke of Redruth. She came with a dowry valued at fifteen thousand pounds annually, plus an initial bridal portion of twenty thousand and three coal-producing properties in the West Country. She would have been the most anticipated debutante of the Season even if she’d had the face of a horse. That she didn’t was a pleasant bonus for this year’s crop of marrying gentlemen.
And yet, knowing this had not made her a cynic; not before tonight anyway. She’d approached the year leading up to her Season with excitement. Excitement over leaving the isolated West—she’d never left the environs of Cornwall in eighteen years—excitement over the prospect of planning her wardrobe in London with the finest drapers in the business—up until now she had worn only proper muslins and gabardines in the spring, dark wools in the winter, as befitted a young girl—and excitement over visiting London with its entertainments.
She could hardly wait to ride in the park, to see Astley’s, to tour the Tower, to eat Gunter’s sweet ices, to receive flowers and chocolates from well-heeled gentlemen, to shop and to dance late into the night and drive home sleepy in her father’s carriage. All of which would lead to the discovery of her very own Prince Charming. He would sweep her off 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