My Hellion, My Heart

by Amalie Howard

  The relief he’d felt that day had been instantaneous, and he’d left Rose and William with the idea percolating in the back of his mind. The damned stipulation in the letters patent made no mention of when an heir had to be conceived. Perhaps, as time went on, he and Rose might be easy enough with one another to attempt to produce an heir, as awkward and uninspiring as the task would likely be. However, at the moment, he needed only to concern himself with attaining a wife by the end of his thirtieth year. And so Henry had, many months later, sent the proposal to Rose. Everything hinged on her answer.

  “Will you be going out, my lord?” Stevens asked, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes glanced up the open shaft of the stairwell in silent question about what to do with the women who had just recently been escorted to Henry’s bedchamber.

  He could not face them again. Not today. Perhaps not ever. There were plenty of other women he could call for…though if he was to be married soon, maintaining that sort of colorful company would be disrespectful to his wife.

  “Yes,” Henry answered his butler. “I’m going to Devon Place.”

  “Should I call for your carriage?”

  “No,” he answered quickly, the muscles in his legs aching at the thought of being confined to a boxed-in conveyance. “I’ll walk.”

  Henry paused in the foyer, knowing his staff could be trusted with the utmost discretion. After all, they’d witnessed far worse debauchery in the residence over the past few years after his return from the Peninsula. The presence of two light-skirts wouldn’t make Marbury or Stevens or any of them bat an eye. Hell, it was far tamer than the intimate gathering he’d had a few weeks ago that had lasted three full days. “Have Billings take the women in my bedchamber back to their place of employment in the east end.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  He took up his coat and hat, permitted Stevens to tighten up his loose cravat, and stepped outside. Leicester Square was still a month away from greening, and so it appeared brown and dull as he walked south, toward Irving Street. His mother’s home was along the Pall Mall, giving him a good ten minutes at his breakneck pace to clear his head and get his pulse back under control.

  His mother would not press about the necessary marriage, he knew. She only wanted to wish him a happy birthday and had probably had Mrs. Baskings prepare the special French chocolate truffles she always did on this day. He’d stay for truffles and tea and then be on his way to the Palace of Westminster, where there was an expected address from members of Parliament. Losing himself in his political duties would be a fine way to pass the day and forget Camilla and Mary, who would be returned to The Cock and the Crown and tell all who listened how Earl Langlevit had panicked and run.

  Bloody hell.

  He increased his pace and tried to focus on the paving stones before him. The street was busy, the chilled morning air having warmed enough to invite the stench of refuse. He felt the press of people as they passed him on the right and veered around his left, heading in the opposite direction.

  A sudden crack from behind took his breath away and made his legs freeze. Just a driver leading a horse with his whip, his rational voice told him. But then a creature rushed toward his ankles, yapping sharply, and it was all Henry could do not to kick at the animal in response, every nerve within him firing in violent bursts. His fingers curled into rigid fists at his sides as his muscles tensed, ready to attack. To defend. To fight.

  A dog, the voice said. Just a dog.

  His internal voice was soft, though, dampened by the thunderous rushing of blood in his ears. Henry darted around the animal and its mistress, who had scooped it up and tried to apologize. Nodding brusquely, he hurried on, his ears still ringing, his clothing heavy and suddenly too constricting. Underneath, his skin grew sticky and hot, then cold and clammy, and just when he thought he might never take another deep breath of air again, his eyes tripped on the familiar front steps of his mother’s house, Devon Place.

  He stormed up them and let himself inside without bothering to knock. The cool air in his mother’s house hit him, and he sucked in a breath. Then another and a third, and he hated himself more with every one. The mere crack of a whip and the annoying bark of a dog had made him nearly lose his wits, bringing back nightmarish memories he fought to keep dead and buried. Bracing against the door, Henry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, just as a physician had instructed him to do after he’d been injured on the Peninsula.

  Meditation, as the physician termed it, had helped Henry breathe through the pain of his wounded back and shoulders, and it had helped calm him after his last—and final—mission into France. A disastrous mission that he didn’t wish to think about ever again. Instead, he pictured the green fields and hills of Hartstone in Essex. The deep, cool paths through the woods there and the sound of the gurgling Brecken Kill running through it. Mentally, he ran the deadly obstacle course he’d built deep in the woods of his estate, feeling the strain ebb from his body with each turn in his mind’s eye—through the icy river, down the rocky hillside, across the gorge, back into the forest. After several breaths, his heartbeat slowed and calmed.

  “Lord Langlevit?”

  Henry opened his eyes and saw his mother’s butler, Andrews, approaching him, a frown upon his face. “My apologies that I was not present to see you in.”

  “Not at all, Andrews,” he said, whisking off his hat and allowing his mother’s faithful servant to help him from his coat, as well.

  “Her ladyship is waiting for you in the front parlor,” Andrews said and then led Henry down the short hallway off the foyer. He heard her voice through the calming pulse in his ears.

  Andrews announced him seconds before Henry stepped inside his mother’s favorite day room. The light-blue walls were a soothing color, and his eyes went instantly to them, skipping over his mother’s figure in one chair and a second figure on a sofa. The blue paint reminded him of the open sky over one of Hartstone’s fields.

  “Langlevit?”

  His mother’s voice crept into the imagined sky.

  “Henry.”

  He finally let go of the image and met his mother’s concerned gaze. Sense rushed back into him, and he remembered they were not alone. He stood taller and looked at his mother’s guest.

  A woman with dark, upswept hair, soft curls at her temples. A pair of unforgettable deep-blue eyes, nearly violet, stared at him, wide and alarmed. The apples of her cheeks were pink, her lips parted in surprise. And when Henry’s mind slammed back into gear, he realized whom he was staring at.

  “Darling,” his mother said. “You remember Princess Irina, don’t you?”

  Chapter Three

  At the appearance of the tall man in the doorway, Irina’s pulse slowed and galloped in intermittent fits and starts. Her arms felt like rubber as she placed the teacup delicately onto its matching china saucer. She’d known she would see him at some point during the season, but not today. Not so suddenly. Not when she wasn’t prepared.

  All her carefully rehearsed imaginings flew out the window as she studied the earl and frowned inwardly. He did not seem the same as she’d remembered. Certainly, on the surface he was as handsome as ever, accounting for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but something was different. Something wasn’t right.

  Two years ago in St. Petersburg, he’d been cold and aloof, but now he seemed as if he was holding himself together by the grace of one fragile thread. Harrowed or haunted by something. Lines of tension notched his wide brow, and his shoulders were rigid, as though bearing the weight of the world and more.

  His eyes, warm amber she knew from memory, but now dark with shadows, settled on her. There was recognition there, along with something fiercer, something that made an icy tremor race across her spine. Lana had confided, in secret, the earl’s clandestine activities as an officer of the king, and Irina had heard even quieter talk about the unyielding core that ha
d kept him alive on the Peninsula and inspired his promotion to Field Marshal. She saw it then in his eyes—a look that would make grown men quake—but Irina did not drop her gaze like a terrified mouse. Instead, she held his stare until he drew a measured breath and turned to the countess.

  The tension slipped from his face and body as he crossed the room toward Lady Langlevit, his lips curving into a familiar smile. A shallow dimple appeared in his right cheek. Despite his earlier rigidity, the sight of it made Irina’s bones turn to water. A handful of years ago, she’d been the recipient of those tender smiles, usually only reserved for his mother, and then her, whenever he’d visited the estate in Cumbria. In her childish infatuation, she’d craved them like a flower craves sunlight.

  “Mother,” he said and then aimed a short bow in Irina’s direction. The smile shifted into something a bit lazier, the dimple disappearing, and Irina couldn’t help but mourn its loss. Then again, she was a grown woman now, not a child. He obviously did not view her as anything more than an acquaintance. “Your Highness. You’ve grown.”

  “Lord Langlevit,” she murmured, proud that her voice didn’t sound like an indelicate croak. “That is the usual side effect of time passing, I hear.”

  One of his pale brown eyebrows arched, his smile widening at her glib response. There was no dimple in sight, though. A fake smile, then.

  “So I see,” he replied, taking the armchair opposite them.

  “Would you like some tea, dear?” the countess asked.

  Langlevit shook his head. “Something stronger, I think. It is my birthday, after all.” He signaled to the hovering footman who brought him a snifter of what looked like whiskey.

  The earl had always favored whisky when he’d visit the estate, Marsden Hall, in Cumbria. He would sip it slowly, as if just having a glass in his hand was enough. The whiskey was likely from his own distillery in Dumfries, Scotland. Irina longed for a glass to fortify herself, as well, but she sipped her tea instead, peering at him over the cup’s gilded rim. In other company, she might have been bold enough to ask for a few drops in her tea, but it would be unseemly in the countess’s presence.

  “Happy birthday, my lord,” Irina said, surprised that she had forgotten what day it was. All those years ago, when she and the countess had been secluded in Cumbria, the earl had not been present for his birthday. But on March the twenty-first, she and Lady Langlevit had enjoyed a selection of divine French truffles in his honor. Irina had never tasted anything so decadent and wonderful as those chocolate morsels, and when the countess had explained that they were “Henry’s favorite,” she had decided that they would be hers, as well.

  He nodded at her now, a tight incline of his head, his back and shoulders so straight they looked painful. It was all the acknowledgment he gave for her birthday wishes. His eyes did not even settle on her for more than a heartbeat. Irina felt a sinking sensation in her chest, quickly followed by a rising fire. Had he always been such a horse’s ass?

  “Oh, Andrews,” Lady Langlevit called out to the butler, “would you please fetch the box from the mantel that was delivered earlier? And there is also a sheaf of papers in the study under the—” She paused abruptly and stood. Langlevit leaped to his feet, nearly spilling the contents of his glass over the pale blue-and-gold Aubusson carpet. “Sit, my darling,” the countess said, patting his arm on her way past. “Never mind, Andrews, I’ll see to the papers. I’ll just be a moment, my dears.”

  Irina set her cup down again and folded her hands in her lap. Without the countess’s gentle presence, the tension in the room became nearly solid. The earl studied her with a hooded gaze, the long fingers of one hand drumming against his knee. Irina could feel the leashed energy vibrating off him. With his tousled, dark-blond hair and Cimmerian gaze, he had the air of a captive lion more than that of a man. He did not want to be here. She saw it in every tap of his finger. Well, he was not the only one. He sipped his whiskey, and she followed the movement, wishing once more for a drink of her own. She’d become used to the relaxed rules of society in Paris, where women were not restricted to sherry and wine.

  Something flared in his eyes for a moment, and then he extended the glass to her. “Would you like a taste?”

  The question threw her years into the past. Like his rare tender smiles, he’d offered occasional sips of his family whiskey to her on return from his visits to the distillery in Dumfries. A taste here and there, explaining how it was made and aged, walking her through the complicated process and the uses of different grains and barrels. She used to love listening to him talk about a subject he obviously had a passion for, and it was, she supposed, the reason she’d developed a liking for whiskey in the first place. Or why whenever she drank it, she thought of him.

  Glancing at the silent footman who hadn’t blinked an eye at the earl’s highly improper question, Irina leaned forward, taking the snifter. She breathed in the rich aromas of oak and vanilla. Henry slouched back in his chair, crossing his legs and watching her with a slightly bored expression. His aloofness chafed at her. Had she not changed enough in appearance to warrant some sort of response from him? Something more than a mundane, “You’ve grown?” Of course, she had not expected him to lose his mind or dissolve into absurd compliments, but did she truly not look any different to him than she had when she was fourteen? She would not stand for his cool reserve. Not this time.

  Keeping her eyes deliberately on his, Irina turned the glass to where the outline of his lips remained on the rim and brought it slowly to her mouth. She pressed her tongue lightly against the edge as she sipped the smoky liquid. She heard his indrawn breath, saw his throat bob from the corner of her eye, but did not release him from her stare until she’d placed the glass on the table between them.

  Irina licked her lips and savored the mellow bite, enjoying the lingering finish of the fine whiskey. Her blood boiled from the phantom imprint of his mouth more than the taste of the liquor, but she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Henry’s eyes were narrowed on her, his nostrils flaring. She’d bet anything he wasn’t thinking of her as some naive child now.

  “Far better than I remembered,” she said softly.

  The earl half rose out of his chair, a muscle beating along his jaw, his eyes focused on her mouth. At that precise moment, however, Lady Langlevit swept back into the room. Irina let out a breath, uncertain what he’d been about to do. Her heart was racing at a fair clip, though, as if he had become that lion again, and she had become prey.

  If the rumors about Langlevit were to be believed, he was no gentleman. At least, not anymore. Deep down, she knew she was playing a dangerous game. Though she was not ignorant of what happened between men and women, and she had flirted with the opposite sex in abundance, she had never been so forward in an attempted seduction. The word made her cheeks warm. She had not meant for it to be that. She had only wanted to shake that cool, unflappable exterior.

  Refusing to feel one ounce of shame for her scandalous behavior, she watched as the countess shuffled a large stack of documents, which she placed on the cushion beside her as she sat. Langlevit took one look at them and also resumed his seat, his mouth tightening.

  “When did you arrive in London?” the earl asked Irina, his cool tone at odds with the storm brewing in those tawny eyes.

  “Two weeks past.”

  “Staying with Lord and Lady Northridge, I presume?”

  The countess was quick to answer. “I’m glad you brought that up, dear. You see, Lady Northridge had planned to host Irina for this season, only she’s had another horrible scare. Upon orders from Dr. Hargrove, she has returned to Essex for the duration of her confinement.” With a pained sigh, she placed a hand to her breast. “After the last loss, it is best for her to rest as much as possible.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Langlevit murmured.

  “The loss of a child is tragic, indeed.” Lady Langlevit p
atted his hand where it lay on the arm of his chair. “My Henry was the fourth in a long line of similar tragedy. I would wish such torture on no one.” The countess took a long sip of her tea and addressed her son. “As a result, I’ve offered to host Irina while I am in London. I’m in need of the company, and she is in need of a suitable chaperone.”

  The earl’s entire body stilled. “Here?”

  “Why not? I have more than enough room in this drafty old residence,” Lady Langlevit replied. She sent a warm, reassuring smile in Irina’s direction. The countess’s elegantly appointed house was far from drafty. “It will do us both good.” She eyed her son. “It would do you good to show your face in polite society, as well. Perhaps you can endeavor to act as Irina’s escort to a few functions.”

  “I’m certain Her Highness will have more than enough suitors breaking down the door, as she did in Paris,” he said, his snifter paused at his lips. “I wouldn’t want to besmirch her reputation with attention such as mine.”

  Irina stiffened, and Lady Langlevit stared at her son with an expression of mild disgust. “Really, Henry, what has come over you?”

  “I certainly would not wish to inconvenience anyone,” Irina said, “much less take the esteemed Lord Langlevit away from his important affairs.”

  She met his stare, arching an eyebrow to make sure her emphasis on the last word hadn’t been lost. She and everyone in London knew exactly what, and whom, he did with his time. His eyes remained fathomless for an eternal moment before an impassive look descended on the rest of that austere face. It rankled her to no end that he could dismiss her so easily, but two could play at this game. She hiked her chin and fought the slow bloom of embarrassment rising in her cheeks.

  With a deepening frown that swung uneasily between the two of them, the countess signaled to Andrews to bring in the small velvet box she’d sent him for, which the butler placed on the small table between them. “In any case, before your mood sours further and ruins our lovely afternoon, this was your father’s, handed down to each heir on their thirtieth birthday. I wish he could have been here to present it to you himself. He would have been proud of you, I think.”