“I was fourteen, and my skill was lacking then.” It was the first bit of the old Henry she’d seen in him, and the small glimpse gave her hope. Hope that the man she’d revered for so long was still in there somewhere. Irina smiled at him, wanting desperately to prolong the moment…to give freedom to the feelings blooming in her chest. After all, she wasn’t fourteen anymore, and he was here just as she’d always envisioned in her imaginings. She would seize the moment. Her pulse hummed beneath her skin as she edged toward him, the narrow sliver of light between them disappearing. “I’m more than willing to offer a demonstration the next time we are in Essex, my lord.”
“Essex,” he murmured, distracted by the press of her gloved arm against his. Frictional heat seeped through the layers of cloth between them, and it singed. Simmered. Burned.
Langlevit’s eyes clung to hers as his chin tilted toward her. Irina had never felt more aware of anything or anyone than she was right at that moment. The air was combustible, and still he held her stare with that relentless lion’s gaze. He felt the rawness of the connection between them, too, she was certain of it. Hovering closer, their breath met and mingled, ready to ignite as if she were flint and he tinder. Irina could almost taste the whiskey lingering on his tongue, and she sighed deep in her throat. He was so close that she could reach forward and touch her lips to his if she wanted. Her center went liquid at the thought.
The warmth spread to her chest, pooling low in her belly, between her hips, making her feel like everything within was molten. Irina’s breath shortened, and she licked her dry lips. The earl’s eyes followed the movement. Desire darkened them, and a telltale muscle flexed in his cheek as his gaze shifted into something feral. It should have made her want to flee. Instead it made her want to throw herself forward and demand to be claimed.
Twisting slightly, Irina reached up to stroke his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble as his skin there leaped reflexively at her touch. “Henry—”
He froze, his eyes boring into hers, and then pushed off the rail as if it were made of flame instead of stone. Shutters descended over his eyes within seconds, the leaping muscle in his cheek going unnaturally still. It was as if a light had been extinguished inside of him. Irina was shocked by the swift and brutal transformation.
“I won’t be in Essex for quite some time,” he said in a clipped, polite voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, frowning and advancing toward him. “You felt something between us, I know you did.”
“I’m not debauched enough to take advantage of a naive debutante.”
Naive? She was not that. And she was not blind, either. Twice now he’d devoured her with his eyes. He’d responded to her suggestive sip of his whiskey glass last week the same way he’d responded to her closeness just now. It was dangerous, the way he’d looked at her. It was anything but gentle—or gentlemanly. Why wouldn’t he admit that she affected him?
With a frustrated breath, she pushed up onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Heat licked across her skin at the feel of his smooth male lips, and thunder rushed in her ears for an infinitesimal moment. But then firm hands pushed down on her shoulders, separating them.
The earl’s countenance was unmoved, his eyes like chips of golden quartz. “You have proven my point,” he said softly. “Allow me to escort you back inside, Your Highness.”
Heat flooded her whole body, rushing from her cheeks to her neck and back, then coursing along her arms. Even her scalp burned. Suffocating in humiliation, Irina swallowed past the aching lump in her throat and nodded mutely. Oh dear God. What had she done? She’d made a complete cake of herself, that’s what. All because she’d thought…she’d been certain that he felt something, too.
The earl could have been a wooden soldier for the silent and brisk half dozen steps he took before depositing her back to where Lady Langlevit was sitting. After a short, polite bow, he walked away without a backward glance. It was at that moment Irina realized she’d been fooling herself by holding on to such desperate, ridiculous childhood fantasies. The Earl of Langlevit was not the same man she’d remembered…the same man she’d held in such high esteem…the man she’d adored.
No, there was nothing left of the Henry she’d known.
She’d been in love with a ghost.
Chapter Five
Henry had never been so affected by a virginal kiss in his life.
Days later, despite seeing her at two other crushes and keeping his distance, it still haunted his every waking moment. She haunted him. Nights were the worst, when that slight peck morphed into something far more carnal. He was sinking to new lows, his fevered imaginings conjuring up images of Irina, naked, with those endlessly long legs of hers wrapped around him. Twice now he’d woken up on the brink of spending himself like some adolescent, untried buck.
“Preoccupied, Langlevit?” Lord Northridge commented from the opposite end of the table with a laugh. “That’s another loss for you. Either I’m on a lucky streak or you’ve lost your ability to bluff.”
“North,” Henry said, emerging from the fog that had been consuming him. “I didn’t see you sit down. When did you arrive?”
“Three hands ago.”
The men around them chuckled. Henry hadn’t been paying attention, instead using the game as a means to pass the time and not think about anything. Especially her. He’d failed at the latter, obviously, if he’d lost three rounds without knowing. “How is Lady Northridge?” Henry frowned. “Surprised to see you here. I’d heard she’d returned to Essex.”
“She has, and she is as well as can be expected, thank you for asking,” North said. “I’m here on official business.”
His frown deepened. “Is there a meeting at the House of Lords?”
North shook his head. “It seems my son forgot his favorite toy at Bishop House, which of course warranted my immediate return. Nothing like a half day of hard riding for no purpose at all.”
Despite his disparaging tone, Henry couldn’t help noticing the man’s doting expression. It was clear he thought the world of his son and his family. It wasn’t long ago when Henry had wanted to skewer Northridge for taking advantage of Princess Svetlanka, who had been hiding from her uncle by posing as a lady’s maid in Northridge’s household. But in the end, it had turned out to be a love match. Henry was happy for Lana. She deserved happiness after what she’d endured.
So did Irina.
Henry was well aware that this was her third season. She should have been whisked off the marriage mart within weeks. Hell, even days. Like her sister, the young princess was beautiful, wealthy, and titled. A prize amongst the ton and Russian royalty. Certainly, she was also stubborn and opinionated, but that wouldn’t stop any man from wanting her.
After some quiet investigation last week, Henry had been stunned to find out how many gentlemen had offered for her. The number had surprised him, as had her flimsy reasons for rejecting them all. As such, she’d acquired uncharitable nicknames like Ice Queen, Iceberg, and Lady Frost.
He’d wanted to laugh. Irina was the furthest thing from frosty. Passion had fairly crackled off her on that balcony. Her bold boast offering to demonstrate her skill in Essex had nearly made him press her into the shadows of that alcove at Hadley Gardens. Hearing the word “sex” uttered from those luscious lips, even as part of the word “Essex” had nearly unmanned him. It was only by sheer force of will that he’d been able to resist the inexperienced graze of her mouth on his. No, icy was the last word he’d use to describe her. Irina Volkonsky was pure, uninhibited flame. Fiery and dangerous.
“Good man!” someone shouted nearby, making both Henry and North glance up from their cards. Lord Bainley strutted into view, looking like an effervescent peacock, and was surrounded by a group of young men thumping him enthusiastically on the back.
“Well done!” another said.
Henry’s eyes narrowed with
distaste on the man. He’d been about to throw him over the balcony by the scruff of his neck when Irina had produced that knife of her father’s. Still, the sight of him made Henry wish to tenderize that pompous face with his bare fist. His jaw clenched as the men drew closer.
“What’s this commotion?” Sir Kelton, one of the men at Henry’s table, asked.
“Bainley has won the first bet of the season!”
Henry wasn’t interested in hearing about the latest wager written in White’s infamous betting book. Despite the frequent bets placed on horse races or prize fighting or who would outlive whom, gossip and scandal tended to fuel most of them, especially as the season wore on, with wagers being placed on which gentlemen would win a lady’s hand or steal a kiss. Henry’s mouth tightened as Bainley and the other men, chattering like a gaggle of hens, moved toward the hazard room.
“One hundred guineas…with the princess!”
Henry stiffened in his seat and turned. “Princess?” he repeated.
“Princess Irina Volkonsky, of course,” one of the young fobs answered over his shoulder.
Sir Kelton laughed loudly, his jowls shaking. “Nearly every wager of late has her name beside it. Races, kisses, dances, favors, proposals, who will bed her, who will wed her. If I were younger in years, I’d have half a mind to give these dandies a run for their money,” he said. “Egad, Langlevit, isn’t she the same chit staying with your mother?”
North speared him with a steely glance.
“That chit is my sister-in-law,” North said softly. “Guard your words carefully, Sir Kelton.”
The man cleared his throat and took a healthy interest in his hand of cards.
“What was the wager for?” Henry asked, his muscles tensing.
“A stroll on the balcony,” Bainley said, puffing his chest and sneering. “It would have been five hundred guineas more had the lady not been as arctic as a winter storm. The rumors about her are all true. I shudder to think who will win the wager to bed the Ice Queen. It would freeze a man’s co—”
“Enough.” Henry rose out of his chair, his fury barely contained. The rest of Bainley’s words stuck in his throat, and as he sidled away, his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.
Henry signaled for a footman to bring him the book. He skimmed the list and sure enough, it was as Sir Kelton had said. Wager upon wager, all with Irina’s name. Gentlemen betting others for dances claimed, suitors turned down, rides in Hyde Park. And those smaller bets did not include the larger pot as to whom she would accept in marriage. The fortunes being wagered were already staggering. With the exception of his, almost every eligible bachelor’s name was in there.
“She’s causing quite a stir, is she not?” a man said beside him.
Henry looked up to see Lord Remi, a baron he’d been introduced to at the Duke of Bradburne’s opening ball. Lady Lyon had announced him as a distant cousin and childhood friend of the princesses.
“I’d say it is a little more than a stir, Lord Remi,” he said in greeting, his finger sliding down the list.
“There are even a few married names,” Remi said with a laugh. “Though it does not surprise me. She left Paris in a shambles last season and a trail of broken hearts behind her.”
“But not yours?”
“Good God, no!” Remi laughed. “I have no wish for a marriage noose around my neck, not even from one as enticing as she. Honestly, Lord Langlevit, have you met Princess Irina? Trust me, as much as I adore her, I’d rather take my chances jumping naked into St. Petersburg’s River Neva in the middle of winter.” He shook his head. “Being married to her would be like trying to bottle a thunderstorm.”
A glorious challenge, Henry thought. “I see your point.”
Henry’s eyes fell on a particularly lecherous wager that made him want to hurl the book across the room and squeeze the throat of the gentleman who had written it. Agitated, he made note of the man’s name and slammed the book shut, giving it back to the footman. Bets like these stirred up a frenzy, causing men to behave in appalling ways. He’d witnessed it firsthand with Bainley and Irina on the balcony. And from the looks of the betting book, it would only get worse. She would be besieged.
His fingers clenched to fists at his sides, nervous energy whittling through him at the thought of her in any kind of danger. If he remained in here, he knew things would worsen quickly. Signaling to the factotum for his coach, he eyed the young man beside him. Remi seemed like a good sort, if a bit high in the instep for his liking. “You are her friend,” Henry said in a gravelly tone. “She cannot know about these bets.”
She had a temper, Henry knew, and after that kiss on the balcony, he was now well acquainted with how impulsive she was. There was no true need to inform her of these bets, risk a scene, and insult her. Not when he, and perhaps Remi, could watch out for her.
“I’m sure you can see how things could get out of hand,” he said to Remi. “If you truly are on her side, I’d advise you to stay close to her to deter some of the more overzealous competitors.”
“Irina can handle herself,” the young baron replied with a circumspect look at him.
Henry nodded, remembering her boasting and her grim confidence on the balcony. “I’m sure she can. However”—his eyes flicked to Bainley, who was still in the throes of congratulating himself—“I would not wish her to be hurt if word gets out of the nature of these wagers.”
“Of course,” Remi agreed, lifting his glass to his lips, his eyes settling on Henry. “It’s good to know we both have her best interests at heart.”
Years of service to the War Office and the Prince Regent had taught Henry to express caution when it came to trusting acquaintances, let alone strangers. Though he could not yet trust Lord Remi—not without first thoroughly investigating his background—he also did not believe the man was lying. Remi did not want to marry Irina, of that Henry was certain.
He stood and with a nod to Northridge and the others at the table, including Irina’s friend, took his leave. He wanted nothing more than to return home to Leicester Square and remove his starched cravat, but it was not possible. His mother was hosting a dinner at Devon Place and Henry was required to attend.
Being an only child exacerbated the feelings of guilt his mother plied him with when asking him to attend such social functions. Having a brother or sister who could ease the weight of his absence would have been welcome. Had he an elder brother to take the title of earl, he would also not have to be the one to heed the rules of the inheritance. Not being Earl of Langlevit had its appeal. Though Henry wasn’t quite sure what he would do otherwise. Perhaps go north, to Cumbria. Disappear into the countryside and run the distillery. Drown himself in Scotch whiskey, milkmaids, grass, and fresh air.
The coach took but a few minutes to reach his mother’s house, and once Andrews had shown him in, stripped him of his coat and hat and gloves, and led him to the receiving room, the longing for such a simple, satisfying life had sprouted like a seed inside his stomach. It made him ache. It made him feel the press of the dinner guests more acutely and the air thicker than it truly was.
He’d gone to White’s in full dress in preparation for the dinner, and yet he still felt out of place among the other men here. Henry was experiencing the strangest feeling that he was nothing more than a wild animal stuffed into a fine suit, attempting to look and act human, when a high, alarmed voice cut through the chatter from the other side of the receiving room.
“To Essex already? But what about her season?”
He found the woman who’d spoken, Countess Vandermere, on a sofa, seated next to his mother and Lady Dinsmore. Henry was vaguely acquainted with her daughter, Lady Cordelia. Countess Vandermere had a shocked expression upon her face.
“I could not keep her from her sister’s side even should I wish to,” Henry’s mother replied. He declined a passing tray of wine and went to the sideboar
d to pour himself a whiskey, one ear turned toward the conversation.
“Lady Northridge’s letter was not urgent, but it worries Her Highness. And it has been so long since they have seen one another,” Lady Dinsmore added.
They were speaking of Irina. Henry’s eyes traveled the length of the chamber, searching for her, but without success. She was going to Essex? His body seemed to deflate, that awkward sensation of being a beast inside a suit relinquishing a bit. The farther away from that damned betting book at White’s, the better.
“What is this?” Henry asked as he approached the women, a sip of whiskey already coursing down his throat and inflaming his chest. It felt good. Centering.
His mother met him with a wide, pleased grin. “Langlevit, I’m so happy you’ve come. I wanted to tell you in person, rather than send word. Princess Irina and I are departing for Essex tomorrow, first thing.”
“My daughter-in-law wrote that she isn’t feeling well. A little scare, that is all,” Lady Dinsmore said with a slight wave of her hand, though she could not erase the crease of worry upon her brow. “However, Princess Irina insists upon going.”
“It truly is a shame,” Countess Vandermere said with an overly dramatic sigh. “The princess cannot afford to miss a fortnight of the season. It is her third, after all.”
Henry did not miss the slight flare of his mother’s nostrils at Countess Vandermere’s barb, despite her own daughter’s spinster status. He had heard whispered rumors that Lady Cordelia’s unmarried state was quite by the young lady’s own choice and not for lack of offers.
My Hellion, My Heart Page 6
