“Peril!” she scoffed. “I’m hardly in danger!”
“Yes, peril. As the book is at White’s and women are not permitted, I am certain you have not seen the current list of wagers. I have, however.”
Irina’s mare, restless, trotted in a tight circle. “I do not believe it. Max would never play with my safety. What sort of peril?”
He wanted to drag her out of her saddle and shake sense into her.
“A kiss,” Henry replied. “And not a chaste peck upon the lips.”
Her brows pinched in confusion. At least she was not dismissing it with another lighthearted chuckle. She appeared to be mulling it over at first, but then, with a shrug, said, “It seems you’ve won that bet.”
“I don’t want to win any ridiculous bets,” he bit out, his frustration boiling over.
“What do you want then?” she shouted, her horse’s legs shifting forward and back in response to her agitation. “One moment you’re professing that you feel nothing for me and that you never will, and the next you…you’re touching me in ways no man ever has. You’re either lying to me about how you feel or you’re lying to yourself, and I don’t know which one makes me more furious!”
The mare whinnied and spun, nearly breaking free of his grip, but Irina managed to hold her in check. Henry had lied, yes. He’d lied to them both. And he was as tired of it as she.
“You desire the truth? The truth is uncomplicated. I want you. I want you in ways that would shock you, ways you cannot begin to imagine.” He stepped forward, the grass against his bare feet somehow urging him onward with the truth. “The things I want to do to you, Irina, they are…base. Far too sordid for even that damned book at White’s.”
Going still, she stared down at him with an unreadable expression, even the mare quieting beneath her. “So it is only lust? You wish to bed me.”
“Yes, it is lust. Yes, I want to bed you,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. God, yes. But it was also more. He wanted to be in her presence. He wanted her to look at him and smile and laugh at the things he said. He wanted to hear her voice whenever one of his memories paralyzed him. He wanted to keep her far away from the arrogant pricks in London making wagers on her as if she were a racehorse. They knew nothing of her, or of the real prize she offered.
How in hell was he supposed to say these things without laying himself bare?
Or perhaps that is exactly what he needed to do.
“Irina—”
“You’ve made yourself clear,” she said, blinking rapidly. “I will not lie and say your…attentions have made me feel nothing.”
Good. It would have been an obvious lie. Her response had been more magnificent, more honest, than any woman he’d ever encountered before.
“However, you’ve made your promise to Lady Carmichael, and regardless of the nature of your agreement, I will not help you treat her with such disregard.” Irina spoke with a lofty air, as if she were addressing a royal assembly instead of the man whose naked body had just been pressed against her, whose hands had pleasured her, coaxing her to blissful release.
“Do not kiss me again,” she added. “It will only serve to further lower my opinion of you. And of myself. Good afternoon, Lord Langlevit.”
And with that, she dug her heels into her mount and shot across the clearing, kicking up clods of dirt and grass in her wake. He watched her disappear into the trees, along an overgrown path that would lead back toward the lane instead of Hartstone.
Henry’s opinion of himself had already been as low as he’d imagined it could sink, and it had been a long time since it had bothered him. Since he’d felt a scorching disgust for what he’d let himself become.
But with that cold and brutal set down, Irina had swiftly reminded him.
…
Irina was so furious and so intent on escaping both the man she’d left behind as well as the bright prick of her conscience, she didn’t realize she’d ridden clear past Stanton Park. She and the mare came to a lathered stop in a meadow she did not recognize.
“Sorry, Primrose,” she murmured to the horse as she dismounted, stroking her damp flanks. “We’ll walk back, shall we?”
Her body ached. Her heart, even more so.
Henry wanted her.
Of course, he did. Irina had seen the evidence of that clearly. Heat swamped her as the memory of the glimpse she’d caught made her breath hitch. In Paris, she’d seen enough nude sculptures to know what the male form looked like, but none of them had prepared her for the staggering and unapologetically erect eyeful of him she’d gotten.
He wanted her in ways she could not begin to imagine.
Irina’s core went liquid. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him as well. In her bed. On the floor of that clearing. Anywhere. She craved his hands on her as they had been, and hers on his glorious body, exploring her fill. She wanted to give him the same incandescent pleasure he’d given her.
“Deep breaths,” she told herself, coloring at her wanton, indecent thoughts. Irina drew a restorative breath as she approached the drive for her sister’s estate. One of the stableboys—Percival, or Percy, he was called—rushed up the lane to take the horse. “Give her a good rubdown and some extra mash, Percy,” Irina said to him. “She deserves it.”
“Fer sure, Your Highness.”
The boy led the mare away, and Irina straightened her hair on her walk to the manor, hoping to God she didn’t look like some light-skirt who had just been ravished by a devilishly charming highwayman. It wasn’t far from the truth. Langlevit may not have been a highwayman, but he was every bit as much a rogue. A handsome, seductive rogue who had made her completely forget herself.
Intent on ruination, he’d accused.
Little did he know that at the sight of him in that waterfall, she’d been desperate for it. She flushed at the memory. Irina’s lips burned. The space between her legs tingled. Though frustrated afterward, Henry hadn’t seemed displeased while he’d been kissing her. He’d been…tender. For a moment while he’d been touching her, it had felt much like him needing her. And when she’d found her release, he’d held her close.
Right before pushing her away.
Irina sighed. The man was impossible to fathom. Hot one minute, cold the next. As arctic as a winter storm. She huffed a laugh. He deserved some of her old nicknames more than she did. Despite what he’d confessed about his platonic arrangement with Rose, in a few short months, he would be a married man. And if everything went to plan, she would be married, also.
To Max.
“Where have you been?” her sister shrieked as she entered the foyer, already dressed in a lovely light blue gown and looking frazzled. “Rolling around in a barn? Hurry, we’re going to be late.”
“Late?”
“Dinner with Lord and Lady Bradburne.”
Irina groaned. She’d completely forgotten. The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere and have to be social, but she’d promised her sister, and Max couldn’t very well go alone. With his cutting sense of humor, he’d likely end up offending someone.
Frowning as she went directly to her chamber, she recalled what the earl had told her about the latest wager and felt instantly irritated. Though why she was annoyed Max was participating baffled her. She was the one who had encouraged him to do so. Max was simply playing the part of a gentleman in her thrall. He was a performer at heart, after all. Still, it rankled slightly that he would pen in a wager for such a scandalous bet.
A kiss, of all things. And apparently not a chaste one, either. What had Max been thinking when he’d made the wager? Had he entered it, too? She had no intention of kissing him in public. Or kissing him at all. Something like that could indeed lead to her ruination, though one could argue she’d already been well and truly ruined in that clearing. Her body shivered in vivid response at the memory of the earl’s stro
king touch, and she willed herself to forget it. It had been a mistake.
Oddly disgruntled, she washed in the slipper bath while her lady’s maid readied her gown for dinner at Worthington Abbey. For the evening, she had chosen a pale lavender silk Parisian concoction with a high waist and long sleeves. The modest bust line only served to accentuate the stunning feature of the dress—a rather shocking expanse of her back. A special corset had been cleverly designed to accommodate the scandalously low rise. The gown was one of Irina’s favorites, and why she felt the need to wear it, she had no idea. Perhaps because she knew she could never wear it in London, not after Henry’s warning. It was far too daring, and as much as she had scoffed at the idea of being in peril, she had noticed an increased level of intensity on the heels of those damned wagers. Not that she’d ever admit that to anyone.
Particularly Henry.
“A loose knot will do,” Irina told Jane as the maid finished combing her hair. “Quickly, and use those matching combs.” It only took five minutes for Jane to complete the task, and Irina thought she’d done a perfectly acceptable job. Her dark hair was secured at the crown, with a few tendrils pulled loose at her ears.
“Don’t you look beautiful,” a sardonic voice said from the doorway. Max stood there, dressed in showy evening clothes and looking quite dashingly handsome.
From the coy looks she kept darting in his direction, Jane obviously thought so, too. Max winked at her and nodded toward the door. The maid scurried from the room as Irina rose, attempting to clasp a diamond bracelet to her wrist. She vaulted an eyebrow. “Do you wish to incite my sister’s wrath and cause a scandal?”
“Then you will be forced to marry me.” His smile was lazy as he approached. “Allow me.”
She frowned at him as he reached for the bracelet. “I’m already marrying you, remember?”
“Yes, I can tell you are eagerly awaiting my proposal,” he said as he deftly fastened the clasp. He kept a firm hold on her wrist. “Where were you this afternoon?” The sour waft of wine drifted toward her.
“I told you I went for a ride.” She narrowed her eyes at him, noticing the high color of his cheeks and his bright eyes. “Are you foxed?”
Max ignored her question and instead brought her fingers to his lips. “I followed you to Langlevit’s estate. Hartstone, is it not? But somehow, I managed to lose you.”
“I may have ridden through his estate, what of it?” She wrenched her hand from his. “And why would you follow me in the first place?”
“You seemed agitated,” he replied mildly. “I was worried.”
“Max, I am a grown woman.”
“Who seems intent on putting her reputation at risk by riding on strangers’ properties alone and unchaperoned.”
She shot him a glare. Max was the last person who would give a hoot about reputations, hers included. Otherwise he never would have written in that damned wager. Scowling, she swallowed the accusation on the tip of her tongue. Seeing how he was her sole source of information on the White’s wager log, Max would know instantly that she’d heard it from someone else, and she wasn’t prepared to have that conversation.
“The Earl of Langlevit is no stranger, and anyway, he is in London.”
Max looked at her strangely for a moment before shaking his head. “Langlevit is here in Essex. Lord Northridge has just told me that he will be in attendance at dinner tonight.”
“Is that so?” Irina’s throat grew constricted at the announcement, but she forced her face to remain composed, knowing Max’s perceptive gaze had not slipped from hers.
Taking hold of her nerveless fingers, Max squeezed gently. “Irina, if Langlevit gets wind of what we are planning, it will all be for naught.” He softened his voice. “I’m not blind. I know you care for him, but he has chosen another. You need to let him go. Deep down, I know you know this. In a few months, we will be done with this dreary old place and back in Europe where we belong, with nothing but pleasure awaiting us. Will that be so bad?”
Irina said nothing. She didn’t know when it had happened, but she didn’t think England was so dreary anymore. At least not this part of it, and even London was a bit beautiful and stately in certain areas. Her grand scheme to return to St. Petersburg after bringing London to its knees had somehow lost its luster, too. Irina felt lost. She cared for a man who wanted her body but could never return her affection. She craved a storybook ending that was out of reach. She had never been one for fairy tales, but for once, her heart pined for the impossible.
But Max was right. Perhaps there were no happy endings to be had.
“You’re right,” Irina agreed softly. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
Chapter Fifteen
Course after succulent course was served in the lavish dining room at Worthington Abbey, but Irina tasted none of it. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. When they were not busy at the task of moving food around on her plate, she kept them fisted on her lap, working the delicate folds of her dress. The low undertones of conversation hummed about her, but she heard none of that, either. Her entire attention was focused on not noticing the man seated across from her.
But he was all she’d noticed since the minute she’d arrived.
Stealing a glance at him, she thought the Earl of Langlevit looked a far cry from the man in the middle of the woods earlier that afternoon, though he was no less attractive. He was devastatingly so. His tailored evening clothes did little to detract from the pure male presence of him, and his volatile energy remained leashed beneath the surface of his now polished and poised exterior. Irina wondered how she’d never noticed that about him. Though relaxed and laughing at something the duchess had said, he was still all coiled, bunched, and bracing intensity.
“Are you not hungry?” Lana whispered from her left. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“No,” she said. “It’s delicious. I’m distracted, that’s all.”
“Distracted, Your Highness?” Max said loudly, making her want to kick him underneath the table as all eyes centered on her. “Is it a diverting distraction?”
“Quite boring, in fact,” she said, glowering at him. “A needlepoint project.”
Max grinned. “Needlepoint is my absolute favorite thing in the world. Please, do share.”
Irina nearly rolled her eyes. Max full well knew she had no inkling of anything remotely related to needlepoint. She opened her mouth to bluff her way out, but her rescue came from another direction.
“It is my understanding that Princess Irina prefers the sword to the needle,” Henry said, his eyes settling on her.
“That is true,” she said after an awkward beat of silence, though she could not discern whether his tone was disparaging or complimentary. “I’m afraid I’m not adept in most ladies’ pursuits, and Lord Langlevit is right—I do seem to take an exceptional aversion to needles of all sort.”
To her surprise, the duke erupted in laughter at the other end of the table. “You find yourself in good company then, Princess, for my wife cannot sew a stitch to save her life.”
“Yes, my dear, I leave the knitting and mending to you,” the duchess replied, not at all perturbed by the duke’s teasing, and winked at Irina. “His Grace admittedly has far better needlework than I. It’s no secret that I much prefer fencing to crocheting, though I have found that knitting needles make excellent darts in a pinch. I keep a pair in my reticule for that very purpose.”
The duke lifted his glass with a laugh, eyeing his wife. “To the women who fence and do not knit, and to us unfortunate men who adore them.”
“Here, here,” everyone said, laughing.
Irina grinned and sipped her wine. No wonder her sister had become so close to the duchess over the last handful of years. She was lovely, and her rakish sense of humor was much like her brother, North’s. For the first time all evening, she found herself relaxing slightly.
Lana shook her head. “I, for one, do not agree. I do love a good cross-stitch. Though I also adore fencing. Arguments can be made for both.”
“A toast to my radiant wife,” North crowed. “Ever the diplomatic peacemaker.” He paused, reconsidering his toast for a moment, and frowned. “Unless she is cross. Especially while pregnant. Then everyone should run for their lives.”
Lana laughed and lifted her water goblet. “I make no apologies.”
“Nor should you,” he agreed and rolled his eyes at the last moment, making Lana throw her napkin at him.
Laughter broke out once more while the last course was cleared and the dessert course brought in. “It’s your favorite,” the duchess announced to Irina from down the table as the footman placed a selection of delicate French chocolate truffles in front of her. “Lana told me that you have a weakness for chocolate.”
“Ever since she was fourteen,” Lord Langlevit agreed. Irina’s eyes shot to his and fell away just as quickly. She needed to remain impervious. “I saw her eat an entire dozen once.”
“Irina,” Lana admonished though her eyes were twinkling. “Such habits are meant to be kept secret.”
“I never was much good at those,” Irina said and took a delicate bite of one of the morsels. She nearly swooned in her seat at the decadent taste of the rich ganache melting on her tongue.
Max lounged back in his chair. “Oh, I beg to differ, my dear. You are truly wonderful at keeping secrets.” He smirked in a suggestive manner, drawing everyone’s notice, including Lord Langlevit’s. Irina didn’t understand if he was deliberately being perverse by baiting Henry or whether he simply wanted to torture her. “Especially ones of importance,” he added, ignoring her glare.
What was he playing at, the wretch? He downed his wine, and Irina watched as his glass was refilled by the hovering footman. Max had been in his cups when he’d visited her chamber, and he’d already had a few glasses of wine at dinner.
“Lord Remi.” She placed her fork down.
My Hellion, My Heart Page 18
