Page 1 of My Hellion, My Heart
Chapter One
Paris, France
June 1820
Princess Irina Volkonsky ignored the scandalized glances and hushed whispers of French society’s crème de la crème as she downed the last of Lord Deroche’s whiskey. Savoring the bite of the liquor on her lips, she returned his glass and nodded to the ballroom floor where partners were lining up for the next dance.
“Shall we?”
“Again?” Deroche asked with a low laugh. “Three dances? You’ll ruin my spotless reputation, and I will be forced to offer my hand like the rest of these enamored whelps.”
Irina eyed him from over her fan and flashed him a sultry smile. “Let’s call a spade a spade, Deroche—you are well and truly ensnared by my charms.”
“Quite,” he said. The way his lips shaped the word made her eyes settle there for a moment. Those lips had been on her knuckles—and then on her mouth—moments before in an alcove on the balcony where they had retired for some air. Despite his play at sarcasm, Irina knew he wanted far more than a few kisses. She, however, did not.
“And you should know by now that I don’t care for such silly rules.” She stifled a derisive snort as they took their places for the set. “If two dances suggest special attention, and three imply I’m off the marriage mart, then heaven help us should we dance a fourth. I’d likely be impregnated.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?” His dark eyes met hers, widening slightly at her provocative and entirely deliberate response.
“Why should I? Gentlemen aren’t encumbered by such restraint.” Irina fluttered her eyelashes and peered up at him, the demure look at odds with her direct speech. She hadn’t shocked him, Irina knew. Her unconventional opinions seemed to amuse Deroche. “And honestly, it’s just so tiring the way people soften the blow when one straightforward word will do. In this case, an immaculate conception.”
An answering smile curved her companion’s lips. “Then I shall endeavor to solicit such a dance. Though I must warn you, my methods are hardlyimmaculate.”
Despite the heated flush that rose to her cheeks, Irina couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled in her throat. Unlike most of his peers, Deroche was good fun, but even with his diverting company, it seemed as though this season was shaping up to be exactly like the last: boring, lackluster, and a complete disaster. Irina was simply making the most of what was left of it.
She glanced over his shoulder as they paired for a rousing quadrille, feeling the burn of dozens of eyes upon them. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to wrangle an offer from Lord Deroche; she simply did not want to have to turn him down. Her guardians in Paris, Lord and Lady Marceau, close friends to her sister’s in-laws, the Earl and Countess of Dinsmore, had turned down no less than seven offers on her behalf since the start of the season.
Notwithstanding her title and her fortune, she’d been declared an Original, an Incomparable, and all manner of ludicrous names meant to awe and excite. Rich and eligible bachelors fawned at her feet, but none of them came remotely close to taking her fancy. Take Lord Deroche, for example. He was a fine specimen of the perfect catch—wealthy, titled, and devilishly handsome. But something was missing.
Something was always missing.
Deep down, Irina knew she was being unreasonable. She would eventually have to marrysomeone. Her coming out in St. Petersburg the year before had resulted in a dozen rejected proposals, and by the end of this season in Paris, she knew that some of the monikers she’d received during her first would return to torment her.Ice princess,stone heart, and her favorite,cold fish. She jutted her chin as the music began. No matter. She would weather this season as well.
By the end of the set her heart was racing and her earlier thoughts had vanished. She thanked Lord Deroche for the dance and, rejecting his wicked invitation for a fourth, retired to the ladies’ salon. While she’d enjoyed the innuendo and his attentions, Irina did not want to play games with someone as dissolute as Deroche. She’d likely end up with her skirts over her head and her already spare reputation in tatters. And as much as she claimed not to care for the precious thoughts of the beau monde, Irina still had her sister’s position to consider, if not her own. Lana was now a respected viscountess in English society, and from the tone of her last letter, she was not pleased with reports of Irina’s latest vagaries.
A trio of pastel-wrapped debutantes twittered as she walked past them toward a pair of empty armchairs. Irina paid them no mind as she sat. Her recent behavior was scandalous she knew, and despite her social standing, associating with her would be viewed as foolish. As a result, she was surprised when she was joined by a red-cheeked lady drowning in layers of aquamarine tulle.
The woman fanned herself vigorously and smoothed tendrils of fiery red hair that had escaped the jeweled combs at her temples. “I loathe the quadrille,” she announced with dramatic flair as she signaled for a glass of champagne from a nearby footman. “It does absolutely nothing for my complexion.”
Irina recognized her as Lady Lyon, an English countess close to her own age who had only recently married. No English rose, Lady Lyon was known more for her bawdy humor than her beauty, and though their paths had crossed before, they had never exchanged more than a few words.
Irina smiled and nodded her head in greeting. “Lady Lyon.”
“Please,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll before draining the contents of her flute. “No more titles. Countess this, lady that. Call me Gwen. And I shall call you Irina.”
Irina suppressed another smile. It was clear that the countess was shockingly into her cups, which would explain why she had voluntarily sat in the first place. And the use of given names after what could hardly be called an introduction was unheard of. Such a breach of stuffy etiquette suited Irina immensely. “Lady Lyon…Gwen…are you well?”
The countess’s pale blue eyes swung to hers. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She waved her glass and added, “Oh, you mean this? Not to worry, my mother was Irish.”
As if that explained everything.
At that moment, Irina realized she had found an unlikely kindred spirit.
“So?” Gwen asked, leaning forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “Deroche, eh? I hear he’s made of gold—everywhere it counts. Good catch.”
Irina laughed to herself at her suggestive wink. Three dances had indeed been enough to insinuate an interest in marriage. “I hate to disappoint, but no. Lord Deroche is a passing entertainment, nothing more.”
Gwen stared at her circumspectly, something like interest dawning in her eyes. “Are you ever in London?”
