Page 11 of My Hellion, My Heart
Irina nudged him with her elbow. “I don’t keep pets. I keep friends. This is Lady Lyon.”
“I remember you,” Max said with a gracious bow over Gwen’s proffered hand. “Such beauty does not slip easily from my memory.”
“And as your friend, I must tell you that is a terrible line,” Irina said, fighting a roll of her eyes. Gwen only laughed heartily again.
“Terrible, yes, but effective. Lord Remi, tell me you agree that Lady Irina must choose a beau by the close of the season.”
He murmured his agreement, and the two of them fell in easily, exchanging deft comments and replies regarding Irina’s failed seasons. She let the words slide off, uninjured by them. She liked Max and Gwen, and while she let them have their fun, she didn’t join in. The fact was, she had arrived at the Bradburne Ball with the Lady Langlevit more than an hour ago, and so far, not one gentleman in attendance had approached her for a dance. Her reputation for turning men down had made its way through the evening’s guests, it seemed. Why bother to ask a known iceberg for a dance when there were so many other warm and willing ladies in attendance?Iceberg.She was not cold. Just…selective.
She had peered through the crowds, attempting to convince herself that she was only assessing the invited guests. But twice now her eyes had landed upon the back of a tall, straight-backed man with sandy brown hair and broad shoulders, causing her pulse to skip. Until the man in question turned, revealing an unfamiliar face.
He was not here. He would not be coming.
It had been over a week since that awful episode in the countess’s day room. A week since she’d so bawdily sipped from his snifter. Every time she thought of it, she cringed. Had she appeared silly instead of sexy? Had Langlevit gone home, amused by her inexperienced demonstration?
Every time she doubted herself, however, she recalled his expression as he’d half stood from the chair. She still could not determine if it had been a look of barely contained anger or lust, or perhaps even disgust. She simply didn’t know. She didn’t knowhim. Not anymore. Perhaps she never truly had.
“Ah, look. She is pining away for a dance partner. It is the only excuse for not listening to us, I think,” Max said, pushing into her thoughts by placing his empty glass on a passing tray and touching the small of her back.
“Come, Your Highness, allow me,” he said, guiding her away from Gwen, who twitched her fingers in a playful wave—whether it was meant for Irina or Max, Irina did not know.
“Oh, bother,” she sighed. “Now that you’ve asked me to dance I suppose there will be a tide of men lapping at my ankles, insisting they have their chance.”
She smiled at her own sarcasm, hoping Max wouldn’t see through it. But, truly, she didn’t want to dance with a pool of men who would likely nip at her toes with their own. So long ago, at the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne’s wedding ball at Worthington Abbey, her first dance of the evening had been with the Earl of Langlevit. He had not wanted to be there. She was certain he did not enjoy crowds, and it was most likely why he was not in attendance at this ball tonight. She remembered the easy glide of their feet and the firm, protective press of his large hand against her waist as he had led her through a quadrille.
“Oh, there will be. Leave it to me. I meant what I said last year about you becoming the excitement of the season,” Max replied.
She glanced up at him as they waltzed among the other couples. “You really haven’t given up on that betting scheme of yours?”
“Forgotten it? My dear princess, it is already in the works.”
She tripped on a step. Max righted her and corrected their turn.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He winked down at her. “Your friend Lady Lyon is correct. This season needs a spectacle, and you will be its star.”
Irina frowned. She hadn’t heard Gwen say the season needed a spectacle. Then again, she had been drifting off in thought while Gwen and Max had twittered back and forth. She might have missed it.
“Why me? Why not some other wallflower?” she asked, feeling a strange pulse of worry. Men would be wagering bets. On her. For herhand.
“Because you are young and beautiful and exotic and rich, and”—he spun her around, lifting her feet from the floor and eliciting a gasp of surprise from a nearby couple—“because I am surely going to need the entertainment. My goodness, London is a box. No beauty. No air. Just these closed-up ballrooms and crowded assembly rooms and smoky parlors.”
She sighed again. “Paris suits you better.”
He shrugged. “It would be a bore without you.”
Irina continued to dance, resisting the urge to kiss his cheek for the compliment. Perhaps in Paris it would have gone unnoticed, but not here, and she did not want to dish any embarrassment or scandal upon her sister or her current chaperone. Irina adored Countess Langlevit and for a long while, especially during those months in Cumbria, had considered her family.
As Max turned her again, this time more properly, she caught a blurred image of another tall, straight-backed man with broad shoulders and hair the color of beach sand. Immediately, she wondered how she could have possibly mistaken the other two men earlier in the evening for Lord Langlevit. He stood near the base of the grand entrance staircase in conversation with the Duke of Bradburne. This time, her pulse did not skip. It throbbed. Painfully.
He was beautiful. As Max turned her again, she noticed not only the evening kit the earl wore, though perfect, of course. What she noticed first and foremost was his presence. He wasn’t the tallest man in the crowd, nor the largest or most muscular. It was the intensity of him that radiated outward, invisible but so verythere. How could any woman not notice it? It went deeper than his handsome looks and impressive figure. It was as if his very body, even when he was just standing there murmuring with His Grace, Lady Bradburne’s husband, sent out continuous waves of energy.
“You are clutching at me as if you’re about to fall over,” Max said, and Irina realized how tightly her hands had clenched around his arm and hand.
“Sorry, I…” but her mind refused to provide a creative excuse. Max followed her gaze and cleared his throat.
“Ah. The elusive Langlevit.”
