Page 2 of My Hellion, My Heart
“I haven’t been as of late, but my sister does live there, as well as in Essex.”
“Ah yes, Lady Northridge. Lovely woman.” She grinned. “I used to fancy your brother-in-law. Thankfully, North did not return my affections, otherwise he would have been ruined for any other woman.”
A reformed rake, Irina knew her brother-in-law had had an active past. He’d conceived a child with one of his mistresses and a few years later, had fallen in love with Irina’s sister, who had taken the child in as her own. Though she missed Lana and had seen her in St. Petersburg months before, Irina hadn’t set foot in England since she’d left four years ago. Her throat tightened painfully. There was a reason for it. One she refused to entertain at the moment. She drew a calming breath.
Gwen stood, her cheeks still violently flushed. “Well, I suppose I should go find my husband. No telling what trouble he has gotten himself into by now.” She peered down at Irina. “I like you. You should visit me in London next spring. Lord Lyon gives the most marvelous midseason ball.”
“I have no plans to—”
Gwen cut her off with an airy wave. “No plans? Wonderful, then I must insist.”
The young countess swirled away in a whirlwind of blue-green skirts. It wasn’t often that Irina met another female who left her feeling bewildered. She was usually the culprit of such mayhem.
Smoothing her hair and her dress, Irina exited the retiring room. Lost in thought about Gwen’s invitation and what returning to London would mean, she almost crashed into a gentleman’s back.
“Oh, please excuse me,” she said, the blunder one more potential thing for people to chide her for.
“It is I who should apologize to a lady of such mesmerizing beauty,” the gentleman said, turning to fawn over her gloved hand. “You are an Incomparable. The Ultimate. The Prize. The Toast of Paris and Thief of All Hearts.”
“Max, you wretch!” Irina shook her head and swatted at her childhood friend as he pressed melodramatic kisses to her knuckles. Distant cousins, they had been close as children and had reconnected at the start of the season in Paris. In a few short weeks, they had become inseparable.
“I should have pushed you down just now. Where have you been all night?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He arched a slim, golden eyebrow. “Didn’t seem like you were looking for me. Deroche, I hear?”
Irina groaned. “What iswrongwith people? We danced, that is all.”
“Four times I was told.”
“Three, and my best friend deserted me, so what choice did I have?” Irina eyed her longtime friend, noting his tousled blond hair and bee-stung lips. Her eyes narrowed, and she lowered her voice. “And where exactly have you been, Lord Remisov?”
“Remi,” he said, handing her a glass of champagne and escorting her to a quiet corner of the massive ballroom. “And none of your business.”
It wasn’t any of her business. She knew the type of lovers Max favored, and none of them were ever appropriate. Women, men, young, old, beau monde, demimonde, it didn’t matter. It was some kind of defiance, she knew, against the rules of his stringent father. Max was sowing his wild oats, so to speak, and had been for a while, leaving a trail of broken hearts across the Continent, from St. Petersburg to Paris.
“Max, you really should think about settling down. You have more than enough variety to choose from.”
“As do you, my sweet, and yet I don’t see you settling.”
She shook her head. “That’s different.”
“How so?” He sipped his champagne. “I’ve heard you turned down seven suitors.”
“I am a princess,” she grumbled. “With standards.”
“Size doesn’t matter,” Max said sagely.
Irina swallowed her shocked giggle. “Someone will hear you,” she said, blushing fiercely. “And that’s not what I meant.”
“Surely there is a gentleman here who has taken your fancy. There has to be someone you can fall in love with.”
Irina’s mood sobered. “Alas, falling in love is not as easy as the romance books make it out to be. Most of the men here want only one thing—a beautiful face or an enticing body to warm their beds. They care naught for a woman’s mind.” She took a sip of the champagne and grimaced. She didn’t know how Max enjoyed its frothy taste; she’d much prefer a good whiskey like the one she’d pilfered from Lord Deroche earlier. “A woman’s place is to be seen and not heard. Poppycock, if you ask me.”
“Which would be torture for you, I expect.”
“What would?” she asked, distracted by the sight of Deroche escorting a gorgeous blonde to the terrace. It supported her earlier assessment that men were only out for one thing. It didn’t surprise her that Deroche would seek it elsewhere. Still, it stung. Slightly.
“Not being able to speak.”
