Page 9 of My Hellion, My Heart
But she was still his mother’s ward.
He had been her protector five years ago for the better part of a year.
She was achild.
Henry swallowed hard, remembering the provocative swirl of her tongue against the snifter and the purposeful gaze that had held his. No, she was no child, that much was clear. He drew a cleansing breath. But shewasyoung, and there was a reason he preferred the company of courtesans to young ladies: the exchange of coin kept things simple. Those women also weren’t afraid of him…of his basest desires or of the outlet he needed. They accepted that once the act had concluded, there would be no intimacy.
It was Henry’s hard-and-fast rule when it came to women, and it was not one that the princess would understand…not one thatanygently bred lady would understand. Because at the heart of it, he was a monster. A madman who needed to be alone. So regardless of his blasted attraction to Irina, he would keep his distance. For her sake. And his.
“Focus,” he hissed to himself. The princess was off-limits, and that was that.
Henry forced himself to stare at the intricate columns of numbers, totaling the expenses and profits of each estate. Many showed past-due dates. He’d shirked his duties for too long, it seemed. A reluctant grin tugged on his mouth as he recalled the disdain with which Irina had said she wouldn’t want to tear him from his affairs. Her insult had been clear. Though her appearance had changed, inside she had retained the quick wit and sense of humor she’d had as a girl. He suspected the streak of stubbornness was still there, as well. Along with her insatiable curiosity. He remembered how easily she’d soaked up details about his distillery. Unlike most people whose eyes would glaze over, or who would pretend to care only to impress him, she had shown genuine interest. The intelligence in those violet eyes had not disappeared with time, either.
And the princess obviously had developed a fondness for whiskey. He recalled how she had rolled the liquid on her tongue, exploring and separating the flavors. He’d wanted her whiskey-spiced tongue in his mouth. He still did. With a soft growl, Henry tried futilely to push the thought from his mind.
A soft rap on the door drew him from his lustful thoughts. “What is it, Stevens? I said I did not wish to be disturbed.”
“My apologies, my lord,” Stevens said, opening the study door. “Lady La Valse is here and insists on seeing you at once.”
He almost gave the command to send the lady on her way, but hesitated at the last moment. Françoise La Valse and he shared an understanding. Perhaps she was a blessing in disguise. A widowed viscountess with wealth of her own and a voluptuous body that was built for passion, they served as each other’s companions whenever either of them were in London.
She, like him, had no interest in anything beyond the pursuit of pleasure, and that suited him fine. Though he knew it aggrieved his mother when he accompanied Françoise openly to the theater or the opera, Henry did not give a hoot for the thoughts of theton. Neither did Françoise, for that matter. The fickletonwould tolerate both of them because of their wealth and titles. Henry glanced at the open books on his desk. The numbers would still be there tomorrow. And right now, his body needed a lot more than any whiskey could possibly assuage.
“Show her in,” he said with a curt nod.
It was the right decision, he decided, as Françoise closed the heavy door behind her and discarded the floor-length fur she’d been wearing. She was naked beneath it. Seeing his look, she laughed low in her throat and unpinned her auburn hair from its combs. “Stevens was rather miffed when I insisted he not take my coat. That would have caused quite a scene in the foyer, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure,” Henry said, amused. “Give me a second to clear my desk.”
Françoise walked forward to perch a rounded hip on the edge of the mahogany desk, entirely comfortable with her nudity. She studied the documents nearest her—the marriage settlement papers his mother had presented that afternoon at Devon Place and sent over to his house that evening. “I see you’re still stuck with this ridiculous obligation.”
“It’s impossible to circumvent,” he said. “I must marry by the end of this year or forfeit it all.”
“If you do take a wife, I hope it will not affect our arrangement.” She trailed a finger lazily down his shirtfront. “I’d hate to have to find a replacement.”
Henry said nothing. He did not want to reassure her when he knew it would be a lie. If Rose accepted his proposal, he would be far more discreet in his choice of a mistress. He would be no freely philandering jackass, humiliating his wife among her peers with a lover so well known as Lady La Valse. No, if Rose agreed, his ongoing affair with Françoise would be over.
Shifting provocatively on the desk, the lady in question hooked a leg around his thigh and tugged on his cravat. “I’ve become quite fond of you.” Her hand drifted to the front of his trousers. “Or parts of you, at least.”
Henry drew in a breath as her hands stroked him. He cleared all the papers to the floor and ensconced himself between Françoise’s willing legs. He’d look at the numbers, and the bloody settlement papers, later. Right now, he only wanted to sink himself so deeply into a fog of pleasure that he wouldn’t have to think. And Françoise was nothing if not an enthusiastic participant.
The Earl of Langlevit fully intended to exorcise all thoughts of Princess Irina Volkonsky from his head, and as Françoise began to open the fall of his trousers, then tug at his shirt, his intentions succeeded. She pulled his shirt up, intending to push it over his head and toss it to the floor. Henry grasped her hands to still them.
She gave a light laugh. “Oh, my shy earl. What are you hiding under there? Why must you always remain clothed?”
Françoise knew. She had to. There was not one person in his circle of peers who did not know of his injuries sustained on the Peninsula. The munitions bunker that had exploded, killing several of his men. Burning them alive. With his own injuries, Henry had only been able to carry out one boy, the youngest of his regiment. It had slowed his escape from the bunker, but he could not have left the boy to be devoured by flames. The scars from those burns stretched over the breadth of Henry’s back and shoulders, and for many years had pained him. A deep, reaching pain that had made standing and sitting, and even lying down, difficult.
“I like to be ready for any unwanted intrusions,” he said to Françoise, the lie weak.
She shook her head and relented, her hands returning to the buttons on his trousers. “Should Stevens walk in while you are pounding into me, I shall not allow you to stop. Let him watch,” Françoise said, her teeth nipping the lobe of his ear.
Her bold words hardened him as she finished her task and reached inside. But even as he took what she’d come here to offer, losing himself in the rhythmic thrusts and building pressure of the act, then the rushing break of release, he did not think of the gorgeous woman perched so lasciviously on his desk.
As he withdrew and buttoned his trousers once again, then draped the long fur coat back over Françoise’s shoulders, it was not the widow’s naughty words that kept him aroused. It was Irina’s mouth, and the deliberate way she’d caressed that glass with her tongue and lips.
Had she meant to seduce him, or just tease him? And how many other men had the princess seduced in such a way? Henry gritted his teeth as Françoise closed the coat tightly around her and touched her hair, as if to make sure it had been well re-secured with its pins and combs.
She stopped to stare at him. “My, you look positively unsatisfied. Perhaps I should stay the night?”
