“It is my third season as well,” Irina replied, expecting Gwen to gasp and apologize. But she did not.
“Yes, I know. And just like Lady Eugenia, it is an absolute travesty. You are much too beautiful to have not stolen the heart of a deserving beau.” Gwen did not lower her voice as she went on. “I understand high standards, of course, but I really do think you should endeavor to settle on a husband this season. A fourth season would simply be pathetic.”
Irina’s lips parted with surprise, a smile of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “My goodness, you say what you mean, don’t you?”
“And not a beat of hesitation!” Gwen replied merrily. “That is why I like you, Princess. You can handle the truth.”
“Indeed, she can,” came a lazy male voice from behind them.
“This is Lord Remi,” Irina said without having to turn and see him. “I brought him with me from Paris.”
He slid in between her and Gwen, the countess eyeing him appreciatively. Irina didn’t know the particulars of her marriage to Lord Lyon, but she didn’t peg Gwen as the monogamous sort.
“Yes, rather like a cherished pet,” he said, sipping his champagne.
Irina nudged him with her elbow. “I don’t keep pets. I keep friends. This is Lady Lyon.”
“I remember you,” Max said with a gracious bow over Gwen’s proffered hand. “Such beauty does not slip easily from my memory.”
“And as your friend, I must tell you that is a terrible line,” Irina said, fighting a roll of her eyes. Gwen only laughed heartily again.
“Terrible, yes, but effective. Lord Remi, tell me you agree that Lady Irina must choose a beau by the close of the season.”
He murmured his agreement, and the two of them fell in easily, exchanging deft comments and replies regarding Irina’s failed seasons. She let the words slide off, uninjured by them. She liked Max and Gwen, and while she let them have their fun, she didn’t join in. The fact was, she had arrived at the Bradburne Ball with the Lady Langlevit more than an hour ago, and so far, not one gentleman in attendance had approached her for a dance. Her reputation for turning men down had made its way through the evening’s guests, it seemed. Why bother to ask a known iceberg for a dance when there were so many other warm and willing ladies in attendance? Iceberg. She was not cold. Just…selective.
She had peered through the crowds, attempting to convince herself that she was only assessing the invited guests. But twice now her eyes had landed upon the back of a tall, straight-backed man with sandy brown hair and broad shoulders, causing her pulse to skip. Until the man in question turned, revealing an unfamiliar face.
He was not here. He would not be coming.
It had been over a week since that awful episode in the countess’s day room. A week since she’d so bawdily sipped from his snifter. Every time she thought of it, she cringed. Had she appeared silly instead of sexy? Had Langlevit gone home, amused by her inexperienced demonstration?
Every time she doubted herself, however, she recalled his expression as he’d half stood from the chair. She still could not determine if it had been a look of barely contained anger or lust, or perhaps even disgust. She simply didn’t know. She didn’t know him. Not anymore. Perhaps she never truly had.
“Ah, look. She is pining away for a dance partner. It is the only excuse for not listening to us, I think,” Max said, pushing into her thoughts by placing his empty glass on a passing tray and touching the small of her back.
“Come, Your Highness, allow me,” he said, guiding her away from Gwen, who twitched her fingers in a playful wave—whether it was meant for Irina or Max, Irina did not know.
“Oh, bother,” she sighed. “Now that you’ve asked me to dance I suppose there will be a tide of men lapping at my ankles, insisting they have their chance.”
She smiled at her own sarcasm, hoping Max wouldn’t see through it. But, truly, she didn’t want to dance with a pool of men who would likely nip at her toes with their own. So long ago, at the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne’s wedding ball at Worthington Abbey, her first dance of the evening had been with the Earl of Langlevit. He had not wanted to be there. She was certain he did not enjoy crowds, and it was most likely why he was not in attendance at this ball tonight. She remembered the easy glide of their feet and the firm, protective press of his large hand against her waist as he had led her through a quadrille.
“Oh, there will be. Leave it to me. I meant what I said last year about you becoming the excitement of the season,” Max replied.
She glanced up at him as they waltzed among the other couples. “You really haven’t given up on that betting scheme of yours?”
“Forgotten it? My dear princess, it is already in the works.”
She tripped on a step. Max righted her and corrected their turn.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He winked down at her. “Your friend Lady Lyon is correct. This season needs a spectacle, and you will be its star.”
Irina frowned. She hadn’t heard Gwen say the season needed a spectacle. Then again, she had been drifting off in thought while Gwen and Max had twittered back and forth. She might have missed it.
“Why me? Why not some other wallflower?” she asked, feeling a strange pulse of worry. Men would be wagering bets. On her. For her hand.
“Because you are young and beautiful and exotic and rich, and”—he spun her around, lifting her feet from the floor and eliciting a gasp of surprise from a nearby couple—“because I am surely going to need the entertainment. My goodness, London is a box. No beauty. No air. Just these closed-up ballrooms and crowded assembly rooms and smoky parlors.”
She sighed again. “Paris suits you better.”
He shrugged. “It would be a bore without you.”
Irina continued to dance, resisting the urge to kiss his cheek for the compliment. Perhaps in Paris it would have gone unnoticed, but not here, and she did not want to dish any embarrassment or scandal upon her sister or her current chaperone. Irina adored Countess Langlevit and for a long while, especially during those months in Cumbria, had considered her family.
As Max turned her again, this time more properly, she caught a blurred image of another tall, straight-backed man with broad shoulders and hair the color of beach sand. Immediately, she wondered how she could have possibly mistaken the other two men earlier in the evening for Lord Langlevit. He stood near the base of the grand entrance staircase in conversation with the Duke of Bradburne. This time, her pulse did not skip. It throbbed. Painfully.
He was beautiful. As Max turned her again, she noticed not only the evening kit the earl wore, though perfect, of course. What she noticed first and foremost was his presence. He wasn’t the tallest man in the crowd, nor the largest or most muscular. It was the intensity of him that radiated outward, invisible but so very there. How could any woman not notice it? It went deeper than his handsome looks and impressive figure. It was as if his very body, even when he was just standing there murmuring with His Grace, Lady Bradburne’s husband, sent out continuous waves of energy.
“You are clutching at me as if you’re about to fall over,” Max said, and Irina realized how tightly her hands had clenched around his arm and hand.
“Sorry, I…” but her mind refused to provide a creative excuse. Max followed her gaze and cleared his throat.
“Ah. The elusive Langlevit.”
“He is not elusive,” she whispered, uncertain why she was arguing with him. “I simply did not expect to see him here, that is all.”
The countess had mentioned that she’d told him about the ball, but that she didn’t think he would attend. He never does, Lady Langlevit had added with a sigh and a shake of her head.
“You want to dance with him,” Max said with a perceptive wink.
“Hush. No, I do not,” she replied, glancing around to make sure no one
had heard him.
But it wasn’t true. Had Henry made eye contact with her and approached, asking for a dance, she would have said yes without a moment’s pause, even after his chilly reception last week. However, just as the waltz was ending and Max was escorting her from the dance floor, Irina saw a woman step up beside the earl. She was tall and lithe, beautiful the way hothouse flowers were…unnaturally pretty, but pretty all the same. She whispered something to Henry and his mouth quirked into a wicked smile.
“Your earl is keeping the right kind of company in my estimation,” Max said as they reached a server. He took a glass of punch for her.
“You know her?”
“Viscountess La Valse,” he said. “Widowed now, but she was married to a transplanted Frenchman who won a title for services rendered to the Crown. She has quite the reputation for…play, I suppose you could call it.”
Irina’s grip on her glass tightened. She was one of Henry’s mistresses, then. It shouldn’t have bothered her, especially knowing what Henry had become. This woman had shared Henry’s bed and knew him in ways Irina didn’t. In ways, for years now, Irina had contemplated, and yes, dreamed about.
“I think I need some air,” she said softly, but as Max released her arm, another young man materialized in front of her.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing so quickly Irina did not even have the chance to see his face. When he straightened again, she thought he appeared slightly familiar, though she did not recall his name or when she had met him before.
“Forgive my rudeness, but we were introduced many years ago, at His Grace’s marriage ball. We danced a set.” After an awkward moment of silence, Max smiling on as if vastly amused, the young man continued. “Allow me to introduce myself again. Lord Bainley, at your service.”
He took another bow, this one briefer. He had dark, curly hair and a face that was not quite pudgy, but also not entirely healthy. His smile was a bit crooked, as if he had a secret to tell her. It was, she considered, a smile Max would often wear.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, my lord,” she said, hoping he would go away. But instead he gestured toward the dance floor.
“Might I accompany you for this next dance?”
Irina held her breath and listened to the musicians. Blast. They had started playing music for a cotillion.
“Of course,” she said, knowing there could be no other acceptable reply.
As she handed off her punch to Max, he whispered, “Lapping at your ankles…”
She glared at him before taking Lord Bainley’s arm and joining the other dancers on the floor. It was difficult to concentrate through the dance steps, though she did try. Her eyes kept wanting to drift toward the grand staircase and see if Henry was still standing with the viscountess. She was proud that she did not give in to the urge, though, and instead grinned at her dance partner whenever they were brought face-to-face during the dance. By the end of it her cheeks were aching.
“A breath of air?” Lord Bainley asked, glancing at her. “You look piqued.”
Just frustrated, she thought to herself, but nodded in answer after seeing no sign of Max. The balcony was by no means a private area. Guests stood in scattered groups and servers brought around trays of punch and champagne and wine. Irina accepted a glass of wine from a footman and took a long sip.
“I must say it was my greatest pleasure to see you here tonight,” Lord Bainley said, deftly steering her to a quieter area of the balcony, his body blocking the partial view of the other guests. “What brings you to London?”
“My sister,” she murmured, closing her eyes and letting the cool night air fan her flushed cheeks. She opened them again, though, as she felt Lord Bainley’s hand at the small of her back, once again shepherding her along the terrace. Something about the young man rankled, and the intense way he was staring at her made her uncomfortable. He had a face like a ferret, she thought, pinched and calculating. She realized the noise had lessened and that the thicket of people had filtered back into the ballroom for the next set. The balcony was far less crowded than it had been moments before, and suddenly, Irina found herself caged between a trellis and a determined Lord Bainley. She recognized that look.
Oh no.
Without warning, he plucked the wineglass from her fingers and placed it on a nearby ledge. “Your Highness,” he began, drawing her hand toward his mouth and closing the gap between them.
“How…how is it that you have not yet married, Lord Bainley?” she hedged, calculating her odds of escape without making a scene. Irina wanted to slap the grin off his face, but pushed a patient smile to her lips instead and took a small step to the left.
He mirrored the movement, a smile playing about his lips. “Perhaps I have not yet found the right woman.”
“I expect you have so many to choose from.”
“And what if I’ve narrowed my choice?” he asked.
Sidestepping to the right, she encountered the cold stone of the balcony pressed against her right hip. Bainley moved closer, and her odds of escape diminished further. Worse yet, they seemed to be completely alone in an odd sort of alcove. It was made for this, she supposed, clandestine embraces. Would that it were the earl instead of the odious young man now breathing heavily across her knuckles and making her skin crawl in the process.
“Lord Bainley, I’d like to go back inside.”
“Why? We both know why you wanted to come out here.” His tone was suggestive, the lascivious look on his face even more so.
“I assure you I am not interested in whatever you have to offer.”
His mouth curled, his fingers tightening on hers. “Is that so?”
Irina’s entire body tensed. She’d dealt with overeager suitors before, but something glittered dangerously in Bainley’s eyes, something she instinctively recognized as a pernicious will. Her uncle had been a man of similar temperament, one who was accustomed to taking what he wanted no matter the cost. Men such as these would not be deterred.
Not without force.
Irina reached into her reticule at the same time that his head descended toward hers, only to halt an inch away as the lethal tip of the diminutive folding knife she’d extracted pressed purposefully into the side of his breastbone.
“Are you mad?” he asked, his eyes goggling between the knife and her face.
“Mad enough, it seems,” she said quietly. “Now please, Lord Bainley, do us both a favor and go back inside, or I assure you, the outcome will not be a pleasant one.”
After a fraught moment, he stepped back out of reach, a sneer on his face. “You really are a frigid bitch, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called many things, but at least I’m not a man who forces himself on unwilling women.”
“You’ll regret this.” He turned on his heel and stormed off.
With a relieved groan, Irina leaned heavily against the railing and tucked the steel blade into its mother-of-pearl handle. She had just threatened a peer with bodily harm. Though she doubted a weasel like Bainley would spread that bit of gossip about; his pride would never recover from being cowed by a woman. Irina didn’t doubt, however, that he would do his best to shame or discredit her. Men like Bainley were nothing if not predictable.
She stared at the knife in her palm. The tiny contraption had belonged to her father—a clever combination of a penknife and a fruit knife. It gave Irina comfort to have it close by, and she’d taught herself to use it over the years. She never wanted to be in a situation as she had been when she’d been taken unawares by her uncle’s men. Frightened and defenseless. And so, necessity had dictated she learn to protect herself from evil men like Zakorov and lesser ones like Bainley.
“I couldn’t have handled that better myself.” A shadow emerged from a darker corner of the terrace. She gripped the blade’s handle but relaxed as Langlevit came into view. Irina didn’t mov
e when he came to stand beside her. Curiously, she didn’t feel the same leashed energy she’d felt earlier. He seemed calmer, less agitated. Or maybe she’d been imagining she’d sensed anything at all. She had no intuition when it came to this man.
“Come to rescue a damsel in distress?” she asked lightly.
He pursed his lips. “Alas, this particular damsel did not need my gallant assistance. She seemed to be doing quite capably on her own.” He reached out a hand toward the knife gripped in hers. “May I?”
Grudgingly, Irina handed him the penknife. “It was my father’s.”
“Do you carry this with you at all times?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She exhaled slowly and met his stare with guarded care. “For protection.”
Irina expected him to reply that she was being nonsensical or that it was ridiculous for a woman to have such a weapon on her person, but instead the earl nodded. He was well aware of what she and Lana had been through. He and Lord Northridge—Lana’s husband—had been the ones to rescue them from her uncle’s clutches and foil his murder plot. Irina had held the earl in profound esteem ever since.
Henry leaned his arms against the baluster, and even in the dim lighting, she could see the dark superfine pulling taut over the sleek muscle beneath. His long fingers traced the jeweled detail of the intricately carved hilt. Though he appeared to be relaxed, Irina could feel the readiness in him…that instinctive constant awareness of his surroundings and those around him. It was something she understood, something she also felt. Henry ran his thumb gently over the penknife’s razor-honed edge.
“Sharp and beautiful,” he said with an unfathomable look, handing it back to her. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Of course,” she answered, tucking the sheathed blade back into her reticule. “I’m skilled with many weapons. Knives, bows, pistols, swords—I’ve mastered them all.”
An amused eyebrow lifted in her direction, a reluctant twitch tugging the corners of his lips as he chuckled softly. “I wish I could say I am surprised, but I am not. You always did have a singular mindset once you set your sights on something. I still rue the day I taught you to play chess. It took all of three lessons for you to become the master and me the pupil.” He laughed again and angled his face toward hers, the glow of the light from the ballroom reflecting in his eyes and making her heart thud painfully against her ribs. “So exactly how good is your skill with the bow?” he asked. “I seem to recall you mentioning it was your least favorite.”
My Hellion, My Heart Page 5
