Page 13 of My Hellion, My Heart
“Lord Bainley, I’d like to go back inside.”
“Why? We both know why you wanted to come out here.” His tone was suggestive, the lascivious look on his face even more so.
“I assure you I am not interested in whatever you have to offer.”
His mouth curled, his fingers tightening on hers. “Is that so?”
Irina’s entire body tensed. She’d dealt with overeager suitors before, but something glittered dangerously in Bainley’s eyes, something she instinctively recognized as a pernicious will. Her uncle had been a man of similar temperament, one who was accustomed to taking what he wanted no matter the cost. Men such as these would not be deterred.
Not without force.
Irina reached into her reticule at the same time that his head descended toward hers, only to halt an inch away as the lethal tip of the diminutive folding knife she’d extracted pressed purposefully into the side of his breastbone.
“Are you mad?” he asked, his eyes goggling between the knife and her face.
“Mad enough, it seems,” she said quietly. “Now please, Lord Bainley, do us both a favor and go back inside, or I assure you, the outcome will not be a pleasant one.”
After a fraught moment, he stepped back out of reach, a sneer on his face. “You really are a frigid bitch, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called many things, but at least I’m not a man who forces himself on unwilling women.”
“You’ll regret this.” He turned on his heel and stormed off.
With a relieved groan, Irina leaned heavily against the railing and tucked the steel blade into its mother-of-pearl handle. She had just threatened a peer with bodily harm. Though she doubted a weasel like Bainley would spread that bit of gossip about; his pride would never recover from being cowed by a woman. Irina didn’t doubt, however, that he would do his best to shame or discredit her. Men like Bainley were nothing if not predictable.
She stared at the knife in her palm. The tiny contraption had belonged to her father—a clever combination of a penknife and a fruit knife. It gave Irina comfort to have it close by, and she’d taught herself to use it over the years. She never wanted to be in a situation as she had been when she’d been taken unawares by her uncle’s men. Frightened and defenseless. And so, necessity had dictated she learn to protect herself from evil men like Zakorov and lesser ones like Bainley.
“I couldn’t have handled that better myself.” A shadow emerged from a darker corner of the terrace. She gripped the blade’s handle but relaxed as Langlevit came into view. Irina didn’t move when he came to stand beside her. Curiously, she didn’t feel the same leashed energy she’d felt earlier. He seemed calmer, less agitated. Or maybe she’d been imagining she’d sensed anything at all. She had no intuition when it came to this man.
“Come to rescue a damsel in distress?” she asked lightly.
He pursed his lips. “Alas, this particular damsel did not need my gallant assistance. She seemed to be doing quite capably on her own.” He reached out a hand toward the knife gripped in hers. “May I?”
Grudgingly, Irina handed him the penknife. “It was my father’s.”
“Do you carry this with you at all times?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She exhaled slowly and met his stare with guarded care. “For protection.”
Irina expected him to reply that she was being nonsensical or that it was ridiculous for a woman to have such a weapon on her person, but instead the earl nodded. He was well aware of what she and Lana had been through. He and Lord Northridge—Lana’s husband—had been the ones to rescue them from her uncle’s clutches and foil his murder plot. Irina had held the earl in profound esteem ever since.
Henry leaned his arms against the baluster, and even in the dim lighting, she could see the dark superfine pulling taut over the sleek muscle beneath. His long fingers traced the jeweled detail of the intricately carved hilt. Though he appeared to be relaxed, Irina could feel the readiness in him…that instinctive constant awareness of his surroundings and those around him. It was something she understood, something she also felt. Henry ran his thumb gently over the penknife’s razor-honed edge.
“Sharp and beautiful,” he said with an unfathomable look, handing it back to her. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Of course,” she answered, tucking the sheathed blade back into her reticule. “I’m skilled with many weapons. Knives, bows, pistols, swords—I’ve mastered them all.”
An amused eyebrow lifted in her direction, a reluctant twitch tugging the corners of his lips as he chuckled softly. “I wish I could say I am surprised, but I am not. You always did have a singular mindset once you set your sights on something. I still rue the day I taught you to play chess. It took all of three lessons for you to become the master and me the pupil.” He laughed again and angled his face toward hers, the glow of the light from the ballroom reflecting in his eyes and making her heart thud painfully against her ribs. “So exactly how good is your skill with the bow?” he asked. “I seem to recall you mentioning it was your least favorite.”
“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.
