My Hellion, My Heart

by Amalie Howard

  Reason returned with the sound of the carriage nearing the blind curve of the bend.

  “I should attempt to get up before my mother sees us and has heart failure,” he said softly, and with a groan of effort, pushed her body gently from his ribs and sat up.

  Irina kneeled beside him, dirt smudging her breeches and riding coat. She tried to secure the tangled mess of her hair, and Henry wanted to tell her to leave it. She looked like a beautiful and wild forest sprite. He said nothing, however, watching as she pinned the heavy mass in place. He had no claim on her hair…or any part of her, for that matter.

  A few paces away, a massive branch lay in the center of the road. It had splintered in places, the wood having been old and dry. Just beyond that, their horses waited, luckily also unharmed.

  “Thank you,” Irina said as the loud rattling of carriage tack came up behind them. Billings wouldn’t have seen what had happened even from his driver’s perch given the sharp curve, which meant the countess would also be none the wiser. Henry was grateful for small mercies. He did not want her unduly worried, and apart from a bruised shoulder and head, he was fine. He got to his feet, his back smarting with pain from the fall and extended his hand to help Irina stand, as well. “For saving my life. Again,” she finished.

  Henry held onto her fingers, reveling in the difference in size from his own. His hand dwarfed hers, and he was struck with the urge to do it all again. To protect and to keep her safe. He didn’t make a reply but released her hand as the door to the barouche opened and his mother called out.

  “What in the name of the king is going on out here? Henry? Irina, dear, are you injured?”

  “No,” they both replied quickly, to set his mother at ease. They grinned at one another, though only briefly.

  “A fallen branch,” Henry explained, choosing to leave out the rest as Billings hopped down to help clear it from the road.

  “Thank goodness,” she replied, a bit too dryly. “What a mess that branch made. We are lucky it did not fall right on top of us. Come now, we should be off.”

  Henry went for the horses. “Will you ride in the barouche now?” he asked Irina. She took her horse’s reins and climbed into the saddle. He shook his head and grimaced at the spear of pain. “Fine. Have it your way, princess. But no more racing.”

  After a few minutes, she turned to him with an impish look. “I have it on good authority that I was in the lead when that branch fell.”

  “Whose authority?”

  “Mine, of course,” she quipped. “Which means I won.”

  Henry favored her with a benevolent nod. “Since I do not wish to call your honor into question, I shall offer a tie. Otherwise I will be forced to call you out at dawn, and I hope to keep my present body intact given your boasts of your consummate skill.” He shot her an arch stare. “Which by the way still needs to be demonstrated.”

  “A tie?” Irina snorted. “That means no one wins.”

  “Or it means we both win.”

  Her animated eyes met his, and once more Henry fought the stirrings of lust. There was another, far more pleasurable race he envisioned in which they would both be victors. Irina, riding him as she had the horse, with nothing but abandon and enthusiasm spurring her on. The tantalizing mental image of Irina caught in the throes of passion atop his body nearly unseated him. Henry growled low in his throat and adjusted his suddenly uncomfortable position on the horse. If he wasn’t careful, the rest of this journey would be the bloody death of him.

  He cleared his too-tight throat. “Why did you learn to fight?”

  “I wanted to be able to defend myself,” she replied after a prolonged moment, her humor fading rapidly. Henry almost regretted the question and the swift change in her demeanor, but his interest was piqued. Irina carried her father’s penknife on her person at all times for protection, she’d told him. Did she truly believe she was in any danger? Henry frowned. Her vicious uncle, tried and convicted of treason against the Russian Tsar and the murder of her parents, and summarily executed, could not hurt her.

  “For what reason?” Henry probed gently.

  The muscles in her throat worked compulsively as if it were a fight to expel the answer. “After what happened, I don’t ever wish to feel defenseless again. If I’d known what I do now, those men who kidnapped me would be dead.” She grew quiet. “I was the reason my sister nearly died. Because I was weak.” Her voice broke on the last word, her fists tightening on the reins. Frustrated anger streaked across her face. She’d confided something she hadn’t meant to say.

  “You’re not weak.”

  “I’m not now.”

  Irina’s stare was fierce, her gaze probing his as if daring him to contradict her. In delayed understanding, Henry realized that her past, much like his, tormented her daily. He understood the sway of those inner demons more than she knew, the ones she tried to keep tightly reined, and the residual fears that plagued her. Her uncle could no longer hurt her, but she’d done all she could to ensure that no one else would. Pity and admiration for her courage surged in equal measure in his chest.

  “I can see that,” he said softly.

  Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” she whispered, her voice shaking with suppressed fury, which seemed to be directed more at herself than at him. A mask of shadows descended across her face as she slowed her mount and stopped. She would not look at him. “I think I will ride with the countess for a spell after all if that suits you, Lord Langlevit.”

  Henry bowed and signaled to Billings. “Of course.”

  His frown was thoughtful as they resumed their pace once she was ensconced in the carriage. Though clearly Irina loathed it, she preferred the confines to whatever she’d seen in his face or heard in his voice after her whispered confession.

  It was yet another thing they shared in common—she didn’t like being vulnerable.

  Chapter Eight

  Stanton Park, Lord and Lady Northridge’s Essex home, was somehow more stunning than the last time Irina had visited years before. Though Lord Northridge’s family estate, Ferndale, had its considerable charm, there was something about the lushly tended gardens here that reminded Irina of the ones at Volkonsky Palace. Irina eyed the carpet of vibrant blooms that graced the massive courtyard from the window of Lana’s upstairs nursery. Most of the similarities, she knew, were due to her sister’s specifications.

  Watching the delicate swatches of flowers, Irina felt a pang of nostalgia for her home. As much as she loved seeing Lana and playing with her nieces and nephew, there was something about London that didn’t sit right. It carried a thread of ugliness that lingered beneath all the brightness, like a tiny piece of lint caught in her eye. Some days, she felt like she never should have come back. There was nothing truly of interest to her here.

  Except for Henry.

  And the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking…as if she were something he could never dream of having. Irina knew she’d been infatuated with a phantom from the past, but now, the more she got to know him, the more she craved him. Something in his spirit called to hers, an instinctive feeling that he needed her as much as she needed him. Irina wanted to peel back all his layers, break down all the walls he’d surrounded himself with, and unveil the real Henry hidden behind it all. Hell would freeze over before that happened, she thought with a sigh.

  “Is there something in the courtyard that deserves such a scowl?” Lana asked, sipping her chamomile tea.

  Irina looked away from the windowpane and pushed a smile to her face. “I’m not scowling, merely thinking.”

  Lana motioned for the nursemaid to collect Oliver and Kate from the nursery floor where they were nearly falling asleep. “It’s long past the time for their nap. You’ve quite worn them out from your games earlier.”

  “Where is Sofia?” Irina asked as the nursemaid shuttled t
he two from the room. She hadn’t seen her eldest, seven-year-old niece all morning. “Still with her tutors?”

  “Still terrorizing her tutors, you mean,” her sister said with a laugh. “She’s exactly like her father. Same devilish charm and love of pranks. We’ve been through two governesses already. She simply refuses to do as she’s told, arguing her position with logic better suited to a thirteen-year-old.”

  Irina lifted an eyebrow. “That she gets from you. She only mimics what she sees.” She bent to press a kiss on Lana’s head before resuming her seat in the sofa opposite. “And you shouldn’t worry too much about that, anyway. She’ll be a strong woman, like her mother.” Her eyes narrowed on Lana’s drawn face. Motherhood had been kind to her, but her normally glowing complexion was pale. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Mostly tired. The nausea is unbearable. I don’t recall it ever being this bad with Oliver or Kate. Dr. Hargrove has prescribed lots of rest and chamomile tea to settle my stomach.”

  “It will pass soon,” Irina said. “Especially now that I am here to distract you.”

  “Speaking of distraction, what’s this I hear of your antics in London with Max? I know you care for him, but he’s a terrible influence on you,” Lana said, making Irina frown. “And I also heard that you’ve already turned down suitor after suitor. Are you intending for this to be a scandalous repeat of last season in Paris?”

  The last thing Irina wished to discuss was her friendship with Max and her prospects in London, or worse, have her sister find out about the dratted bets. Lana would not be accepting or forgiving if she knew what Irina had been up to. She gritted her teeth. “It’s only been two offers, and I barely recall the gentlemen’s names. Anyhow, I don’t wish to marry. And, well, Max is Max.”

  “Max is a scoundrel. If he weren’t our relative, you would require multiple chaperones to be in his company. Don’t think I’m not aware of the scrapes you’ve gotten into because of him. And I’m certain I don’t have to remind you that this is your third season, Irina. You need to settle down.”

  “But why?” She glared at her sister and then gentled her expression. “I’m not like you. I’m not perfect and beautiful and poised with lords falling at my feet and spouting sonnets.”

  “I’ll have you know I did not fall,” a laughing voice said from the entryway.

  “North!” Irina exclaimed, standing to embrace her brother-in-law. Her ill humor dissolved within seconds. She was more than grateful for his timely interruption.

  Lord Northridge moved toward where his wife sat, his eyes glinting with mischief. “If I recall correctly, she fell at my feet, begging for me to marry—” A swat from Lana cut off his teasing as he bent to kiss her. “Hello, my love.”

  Something in Irina’s heart tugged at the obvious connection between them. She would never have what they did, no matter how many offers she received. Love like theirs was rare, and she envied them that. She was just about to tell them so when a tempest swirled into the nursery and flung itself into Irina’s lap.

  “Aunt Irina! You must save me from the dragon!” Sofia screamed theatrically, her blond curls a rumpled mess.

  Irina stifled a grin and hugged her favorite niece. “Dragon?”

  “The governess dragon of deathly horror.”

  “Come now, she can’t be that bad,” Irina said. “The governesses your mama and I had were the real monsters. They would threaten to cook our bones and boil our flesh if we did not do our lessons.”

  Sofia giggled loudly. “Fibber!”

  “Your Aunt Irina is right,” Lana said. “There’s actually a part of her left ear missing from such a punishment.”

  “Mama,” Sofia said with an eye roll and launched herself toward her mother. Lord Northridge stopped her just in time, tossing his daughter over his shoulder.

  “Careful, sweetheart, we have to be gentle with your mother,” he said before turning to Lana to stroke her cheek. “You should get some rest, darling, and we should be going,” he continued, tickling Sofia and striding from the room. “Or you will be late for your riding lesson.”

  “You should come see my new pony, Aunt Irina,” Sofia said upside down.

  “I will. Have a good lesson. Perhaps we shall have a race later this afternoon, what do you say to that?” The girl’s eyes lit up as she nodded emphatically, and Irina couldn’t help smiling.

  “You’re good with children,” her sister commented as they left. “You should think about having some of your own.”

  “I am content with yours, thank you.”

  “Irina—”

  She stood, raising a hand and strode back to the window. “I don’t want to fight with you about this, Lana. The truth is I have no interest in marrying anyone. And, yes, I do intend for London to be a repeat of Paris: diverting and fun. I won’t be anyone’s trophy.”

  “Is it because of Lord Langlevit?”

  Irina’s breath halted painfully in her lungs. She turned to face her sister, composing her face into a mask of indifference. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve carried a tendre for him for five years,” Lana said quietly. “Ever since you were fourteen. I suspect you still carry it, which is why no one else can measure up.”

  A hundred reasons, excuses, words popped into Irina’s brain. Her sister had always been able to see right through her. She settled for four hard ones. “You mean my infatuation.”

  “That doesn’t mean your feelings weren’t real.” Her sister rose unsteadily and met her at the window as Irina’s fingers wound into the folds of her skirts. “Certain events draw people close, tying them together in inexplicable ways. It’s not surprising that you…cared for Henry.”

  “Hopelessly unrequited, as it were.”

  “Be that as it may,” Lana said. “Henry is not the same man you knew, and I know you can see that for yourself. He has changed.”

  “Because of France,” Irina whispered.

  Lana nodded. “He’s never confided in me, but yes, Lady Langlevit has suggested that what happened to him is beyond understanding. I fear much of him was lost there.” She pulled Irina close. “I don’t want you to lose your heart to him and have it broken. You cannot save him, no matter how much you may wish to.” Her voice wavered. “Trust me, Henry does not want to be saved.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he told me so.” In the same breath, Lana’s body swayed slightly against hers and Irina wrapped her arms around her.

  “What’s wrong? Are you well?”

  “Yes, I am.” Lana gave a reassuring, albeit wan, smile. “Can you ring for my maid? I may need to lie down after all.”

  Once her sister was ensconced in her room and Irina was convinced it was only fatigue, she made her way downstairs. She did not wish to remain indoors. The walls of the manor felt like they were closing in upon her. Her body felt restless and on edge. She needed a ride. Or a run.

  Despite Lana’s cautionary statements, Irina wanted to see Henry.

  Decide for herself that he was a lost cause.

  Save her heart, if she could.

  With a firm nod, Irina strode to the foyer and instructed Morley, the butler, that she was in need of a horse. Returning to her chamber, she dressed in one of the special riding habits she’d had designed in Paris, ones that allowed her to ride astride. She loathed riding sidesaddle. The earl hadn’t seemed too shocked by her unexpected attire the day before, and she was now in the country with everyone of importance still in London.

  As a lady, she had no business riding unchaperoned and uninvited to the earl’s residence, but perhaps, if necessary, she could simply say she’d come to visit Lady Langlevit, who still resided in a collection of rooms at Hartstone.

  Hartstone was not far, and she made the trip in under thirty minutes. Her heart racing, she knocked at the door, which was opened by Henry and th
e countess’s ancient butler, who’d been with them in Cumbria, as well. Carlton’s face cracked a doting smile as he ushered her into the foyer and bowed low. “Princess Volkonsky.”

  “You look well, Carlton,” she said with a smile. “Is Lady Langlevit at home?”

  “She is not, Your Highness.”

  “And his lordship?”

  “You have just missed him. He’s taking a tour of the north end of the estate.” He peered at her. “Shall I leave any message?”

  “No, thank you, Carlton. It was impulsive of me to arrive unannounced. Actually, please do convey my thanks to Lady Langlevit for allowing me to accompany her yesterday. I shall see myself out. Good day.”

  “And to you, Your Highness.”

  Outside, she saddled the horse and made to return to Stanton Park. She paused at the end of the long drive and studied the north end of the estate over her shoulder. If Henry had only just left, she would be able to catch up to him. You are behaving scandalously, her inner voice warned, but Irina paid it no notice.

  Her inner voice sounded too much like Lana.

  Turning her mount about and consulting the rising sun’s position, she headed north. She had no idea where she was going, but she followed what looked like a well-used bridle path.

  “This was a silly idea,” she said to herself after a quarter of an hour had passed with no sign of anyone, much less the elusive Earl of Langlevit. The manicured grass of the landscaped gardens had turned into something wilder, and the surrounding wood had thickened considerably. Defeated, she was about to turn around when she heard a soft nicker. Following the sound, Irina found herself in a small clearing with a stable. She recognized Henry’s favorite horse. Dismounting and latching hers to the fence post alongside it, she stroked its velvet nose. The horse’s flanks were still warm, as if Henry had only just left.