My Hellion, My Heart

by Amalie Howard

  “I invited myself. After your last letters, I decided you might have a need for me tonight.”

  “Oh, Max,” she said, crossing to him. He took his hands from his pockets and wrapped her into an embrace. “It’s going to be awful.” Her words were muffled by his crisp and spotless jacket.

  “Come now, you are going to be far too busy to be mulling over that idiot.”

  “He is not an idiot,” she said, pulling away from Max before her hair was ruined. She didn’t know why she defended Henry. It was instinctual, perhaps.

  “Whether he is or isn’t, you’re going to be the object of attention tonight, not him and his nobody bride-to-be.”

  She rearranged her cape and looked away from him. “Oh, don’t be cruel. She might be perfectly nice.”

  Irina didn’t want her to be, though. She wanted this Lady Carmichael to be perfectly terrible so that she could properly hate her.

  Max frowned. “I have no idea who she is.”

  “Why should you? She’s from Essex, Lady Langlevit says.”

  “I like knowing things about people,” he muttered. “Strangers are boring.”

  “You like gossip,” she corrected with an arched brow, meant to chastise. However, Max merely shrugged his agreement.

  “I will have some for you by the end of the evening, I promise,” he said. But Irina didn’t care for gossip about Henry’s betrothed. She knew enough already. He’d chosen Lady Carmichael and rejected Irina, and that was more than enough knowledge to keep her in a constant state of misery.

  “And what do you mean, I will be the object of attention tonight?”

  With that, Max’s frown over not having any good gossip on Lady Carmichael changed to an expression of mischief.

  “Have you forgotten how popular you are now that men are wagering small fortunes on you?”

  Irina felt a new sickness in her stomach that had nothing at all to do with Henry or his ice-cold heart. She had, in fact, forgotten all about that silly betting book at White’s.

  “They are calling this newest wager ‘The Quest for the Queen.’”

  She began to pace the foyer, her palms sweating in her gloves. She’d told Lana that she wouldn’t be anyone’s trophy, but that was exactly what she’d become. A bloody prize. “I am a princess, not a queen.”

  Max sighed. “Yes, but that doesn’t have the alliteration, now does it?”

  “What kind of wager is it?”

  “The big one, darling. Each gentleman nominates himself as your future husband, and the winner will take all.” He grinned wickedly at her. “I have half a mind to enter and marry you myself. Think of it, we could go to Italy or Greece with our winnings.”

  “Lord Remi,” Lady Langlevit said as she descended the stairs, Andrews at her side. He held his arm at a stiff right angle in order to allow Henry’s mother to lean on him for support. She reached the bottom step breathless, her eyes blinking in what appeared to be fatigue.

  “My lady,” Max said, dipping into a low—almost unnecessarily so—bow. “I’ve come to escort you and Her Highness to Leicester Square, if you are not averse to the idea.”

  She laughed, though to Irina it most certainly sounded strained.

  “Are you feeling well enough to attend?” she asked, touching Lady Langlevit’s arm as she waited for her cape.

  “Of course, of course,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It is my son’s engagement ball. I would not miss it for anything.”

  Irina couldn’t argue with that. She knew the countess loved her son, and being an only child, Henry was all she had. She had been waiting a long time for him to marry and give her grandchildren.

  At that thought, Irina felt the color in her cheeks drain. The stone in her throat tumbled and grew. Henry would have children with Lady Carmichael. He’d make love to her and stand by her as she increased, much the way Gray stood by Lana, admiring her so openly. So completely. Irina knew that Henry thought himself incapable of love, but he would love…for his children, and for the right woman. The knot in her throat throbbed.

  “The carriage awaits,” Andrews announced.

  The drive to Henry’s home was too brief. Before she could extinguish visions of him holding a swaddled infant in his arms, gazing lovingly into its little face, and then shifting that adoring gaze to his wife, a faceless woman in Irina’s mind, they had arrived and the threat of uncontrollable despair loomed ever closer.

  It was, she realized, the first time she’d ever been to his home on Leicester Square. Four stories of rusty brick facade with cream molding and trim, large windows on every floor, except for the attics where the roof scrolled down over smaller windows that belonged, no doubt, to the servants he employed. It was a grand home, and one glance was all it took for Irina to receive the impression of stoic, everlasting importance the architects had most likely intended generations ago.

  Two liveried footmen stood at the front door, guttering torches hanging from sconces and warming her face as she approached. Her nerves were a bundle in her chest and stomach, and blast it, her palms were still damp. She required a drink, and the moment her cape had been shed and they had been escorted into the ballroom on the second floor, she whisked a tall flute of champagne from a passing tray.

  “I thought you hated champagne,” Max said, still at her side. Lady Langlevit had been surrounded by guests longing to congratulate her as soon as they had entered the ballroom.

  “I would drink ale from a barrel if I had to, Max. I have to get through this evening.”

  He touched the base of the glass and stopped her from downing the contents. “Just stay sober, my darling.”

  She glared at him, but decided to heed his advice. And when Gwen found them a few minutes later, already giggling with a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hand, Irina was glad she had. The last thing she needed to do was drink too much and lose control of her senses.

  Gwen peered over the crush of people, presumably to get a look at the lady herself. “I hear she is unrivaled,” she whispered in a not-so-soft way. “Closing in on thirty years, but like her name, she is the perfect English rose.”

  Lady Carmichael was a widow, Irina knew. The countess had explained about Henry’s best childhood friend, Sir Carmichael, and how the man had died a few years ago unexpectedly while on a foxhunt. His horse had slipped on a particularly rocky outcropping, and Sir John had fallen to his death. They’d had one son. Perhaps Lady Carmichael would be the one to finally calm Henry’s demons. Irina had only seemed to incite them.

  “Darling Irina,” Gwen said loudly, drawing her from her thoughts. “May I present Lord Loftham and His Grace, the Duke of Moveton. Both have been pestering me for an introduction.” She indicated the two gentlemen behind her. “You’d think they expect you to disappear at the stroke of midnight the way they’ve been hovering.”

  Irina knew well the reason they, in addition to the handful of unfamiliar gentlemen who had avidly noted her arrival, sought to meet her. She blinked, but nodded gracefully as they each took her hand. “A pleasure,” she murmured and then practically shoved Max in front of her. “Are you acquainted with Lord Remi?”

  The rest of the introductions and pleasantries faded into background noise as Irina sensed rather than saw Henry’s approach. It was odd how aware she was of him, but then again, it had always been that way. She’d always known the minute he arrived at Marsden Hall in Cumbria as if they’d been somehow tethered to each other. She drew in a harassed breath, her fingers tightening on her fan as they stopped to greet the two gentlemen she’d just met.

  Irina wished to press backward, against the wall. Into the wallpaper, even. But she could not avoid the crescendo of voices that heralded the couple’s arrival. And so she stood, her back ramrod straight, and looked Lord Langlevit and Lady Carmichael straight in the eye to offer her congratulations. Though Henry was unsmilin
g and his face unreadable, the force of his presence was magnetic. And Gwen was right—Lady Carmichael was as she expected. Beautiful and poised. Perfect in every way.

  As greetings were made and felicitations exchanged, Irina heard none of it, even though she smiled and nodded at all the right places. When they moved past to greet the other arrivals, she felt Henry’s gaze linger on her for a prolonged moment, but Irina refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she laughed brightly at something Gwen said, her body aching slightly as he drew away.

  Good. That’s over and done with, she told herself firmly, draining the contents of her champagne glass. Ignoring Lords Loftham and Moveton who kept darting hopeful glances in her direction, she linked her hand into Max’s and smiled brightly. “Shall we dance?”

  “But of course,” he replied with a jaunty wink. “I am at my lady’s disposal.”

  Irina smirked at her friend, her sadness fading. “Is that the line that usually works for you?”

  “No, darling, I usually add ‘in the bedchamber’ at the end. Never fails.”

  She chucked him in the arm. “You are incorrigible.”

  As they strolled toward the ballroom, stopping to greet people they knew, several other young gentlemen surrounded them, each vying for a space on her dance card. Irina knew her catapulting popularity was only because of the wagers, but she vowed to make the most of the rest of the season. She would wear the mask and play the part of the lofty, untouchable princess, and then she would return to St. Petersburg to nurse her wounds in private. But first, she would laugh and flirt, and teach these unprincipled, betting gentlemen a lesson.

  In hindsight, Max’s idea was brilliant.

  Grinning, she tugged on Max’s sleeve and drew him off to the side. “How much is the pot for this Quest for the Queen up to?”

  He eyed her. “Nearly forty thousand pounds.”

  She stifled a gasp. It was an absurd amount of money. Why, men of solid fortune lived on a fraction of that sum for an entire year. Forty thousand pounds would afford a man a lavish lifestyle for a decade. And the pot was not even yet at its peak.

  “How does it work exactly?” she asked, her mind beginning to spin in a new direction.

  “A gentleman nominates himself as a contender and places his wager of two thousand pounds. If he wins your hand, he wins the entire pot.” Max lifted an amused eyebrow. “The two bucks falling at your feet a moment ago, Moveton and Loftham, are the latest entrants.”

  Two thousand pounds, just for the chance to win her hand. She laughed softly. No. For the chance to win an unrivaled fortune. Irina herself truly had nothing to do with it. No man who entered the competition had done so because they cared for her.

  “What is so amusing?” Max asked.

  “I will not accept any of them. They must know this,” she said.

  There was but one man she wanted to kneel before her, a proposal spilling from his lips. But that proposal, those words she yearned for with a physical ache, had been said to another.

  “Why should they know?” Max replied. “Look around us. Every young woman in this room is on the hunt for a husband. The men of this society expect nothing less from a woman.” He lowered his lips closer to her ear so that he could whisper. “They are arrogant enough to believe they are your prize, Irina.”

  She wanted to laugh at the idea, but couldn’t muster the energy. He was right. The self-important men of the ton were perfectly content treating marriage as if it were a game to be won. The thought of them cheering for the victor made her cringe. Irina glanced at Max. He’d joked about entering the pot earlier and dashing off to Italy or Greece with the winnings.

  “Put your name in,” she said.

  Max pulled back and stared at her. “What?”

  “There is no one for me,” she went on. Not anymore. “And there is a fortune to be had.”

  He stiffened under her hands. “What makes you think I need money?”

  Irina shook her head, flustered, and hoping she hadn’t insulted him. “Of course I didn’t mean you need the money, Max. When we win, we’ll donate it to one of the Duke of Bradburne’s children’s hospitals.”

  His shoulders softened as he visibly relaxed. “My darling princess, winning involves more than just a betrothal announcement that we can break at a later date. It means taking real vows.”

  She stumbled on the next step as a stab of panic hit her in the chest. Marriage vows with Max. Well. She didn’t love him the way she’d thought she loved Henry, and she certainly didn’t have the same attraction to him. He was a friend. The very best of friends. And though he was technically a cousin, they were removed enough to be legally married without contest. As Max righted her step and they continued to dance, Irina realized she would much rather be married to her friend, someone she trusted and liked and could laugh with, than a man who was only out for money and bragging rights.

  “It wouldn’t have to be a true marriage,” she whispered, widening her eyes to make her point without blatantly stating that they would not have to share a marriage bed.

  Max peered at her. “You are serious.”

  “You were the one who suggested it in Lady Langlevit’s foyer,” she whispered again, suddenly feeling the urge to flee. The last time she’d proposed, it had been to Henry, and he’d roundly rejected her. My God. If Max rejected her, too, Irina would not be able to staunch the sobs that waited just behind her mask of indifference.

  “I did,” he said, gliding smoothly as they danced. Thank heavens one of them was paying attention to their feet. “As a lark.”

  She felt the floor beginning to soften, and all she wanted was for it to open and swallow her whole. He was going to say no, tell her it was a terrible idea. And maybe it was. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted it. If she were married, there would be no more need for her to present herself on the marriage mart. People would finally stop gossiping and leave her alone. She could return to St. Petersburg and live the life she knew and felt comfortable with.

  She could go home and never have to see Henry again.

  “However,” Max went on, and when she looked up to him again, saw his lips pursed. He was thinking. “The idea has merit. Let’s be honest: I would disappoint any young woman who entered a marriage to me who did not know of my…preferences. You know who I am, and you’ve always accepted me.”

  She waited on tenterhooks, the ballroom around her spinning.

  “I daresay we’ll be friends forever. Why not attach ourselves officially? I won’t stop you from falling in love whenever you find a handsome beau, and you won’t stop me. We could live separately and happily so. It’s done often enough.” A playful smile broke out on his lips.

  “So you’ll do it?” she said, so relieved she felt sick to her stomach.

  His smile darkened. “I only wish you’d had this clever idea before I bought those Hanoverians and the curricle. I’m afraid for the moment, I’m rather short of the two thousand pounds it would take to enter the pot.”

  She wanted to jump and embrace him, she was so happy. Why hadn’t she thought of such a brilliant scheme earlier? “I’ll give to you,” she said breathlessly.

  “If that is what you wish,” he said, his brows pulling together. Perhaps out of injured pride. As far as Irina knew, his mother afforded him a secret allowance twice a year, but clearly he had spent too much too fast.

  “It is,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.

  His smile returned. “Then we are in this together.” Max’s grin widened to something wolfish as he lifted her by the waist and spun her in an elegant circle. “Shall we stir up the competition then? Give London a show to end all shows before we waltz into the sunset?”

  Irina stared at her friend, her pulse hammering. She had nothing to lose. It would be the best thing for them both. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”

  Chapter Ten
<
br />   The Kensington ball was always one of the top crushes of the season, and it was the sole reason that Henry held up yet another marble pillar in yet another crowded ballroom.

  He tugged at his expertly tied—and tight as a garrote—cravat and took a long draught of his whiskey. He would give anything to be at Hartstone in quiet and privacy, running his course and his demons into the ground, instead of here, surrounded by people he hardly knew and making small conversation about nothing of consequence. But receiving a thousand and one invitations was part and parcel of an earl announcing a betrothal agreement during the height of the season. And he owed it to Rose to do it right.

  Henry watched as she danced with Stephen Kensington, Earl of Thorndale, their host and his longtime friend. Rose was exquisite, there was no denying it. Her peach-tinted complexion set off her blond hair and blue eyes to perfection, and her slender form was full and curved in all the right places. She had a reserved sort of grace that came across as both admirable and unattainable. While Henry could appreciate her beauty as he would a fine piece of art, there was something missing.

  Of their own volition, his eyes flicked to the laughing sprite dancing in the arms of Lord Remi, and his fingers clenched involuntarily around his snifter. He’d have expected the sight of Irina to become easier the more they saw of each other, but the invisible fist punch to the gut was always the same: swift and brutal.

  Irina and Remi made a striking couple, his fairness complementing her dark beauty. Clearly, they had dressed to suit, she in a vibrant emerald green gown and he in a matching-hued waistcoat. Henry couldn’t curb the scowl that rose to his face. From what he had heard and seen, they had been taking London by storm the past three weeks. The two of them had become the light of the season and ton favorites, their popular presence coveted at every ball and every social event.

  As a result, it was no surprise that the betting book at White’s had also gained notoriety with gentlemen placing wagers for winners as they would a horse race. It made Henry sick to his stomach, but it had taken on a frenzied life of its own. Every possible thing was accorded a price—a smile, a dance, a laugh. He could no more stop it than he could an approaching storm. It would have to run its course. Something else would take their collective fancy. Eventually.