Page 16 of My Hellion, My Heart
He stood and with a nod to Northridge and the others at the table, including Irina’s friend, took his leave. He wanted nothing more than to return home to Leicester Square and remove his starched cravat, but it was not possible. His mother was hosting a dinner at Devon Place and Henry was required to attend.
Being an only child exacerbated the feelings of guilt his mother plied him with when asking him to attend such social functions. Having a brother or sister who could ease the weight of his absence would have been welcome. Had he an elder brother to take the title of earl, he would also not have to be the one to heed the rules of the inheritance.Notbeing Earl of Langlevit had its appeal. Though Henry wasn’t quite sure what he would do otherwise. Perhaps go north, to Cumbria. Disappear into the countryside and run the distillery. Drown himself in Scotch whiskey, milkmaids, grass, and fresh air.
The coach took but a few minutes to reach his mother’s house, and once Andrews had shown him in, stripped him of his coat and hat and gloves, and led him to the receiving room, the longing for such a simple, satisfying life had sprouted like a seed inside his stomach. It made him ache. It made him feel the press of the dinner guests more acutely and the air thicker than it truly was.
He’d gone to White’s in full dress in preparation for the dinner, and yet he still felt out of place among the other men here. Henry was experiencing the strangest feeling that he was nothing more than a wild animal stuffed into a fine suit, attempting to look and act human, when a high, alarmed voice cut through the chatter from the other side of the receiving room.
“To Essex already? But what about her season?”
He found the woman who’d spoken, Countess Vandermere, on a sofa, seated next to his mother and Lady Dinsmore. Henry was vaguely acquainted with her daughter, Lady Cordelia. Countess Vandermere had a shocked expression upon her face.
“I could not keep her from her sister’s side even should I wish to,” Henry’s mother replied. He declined a passing tray of wine and went to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey, one ear turned toward the conversation.
“Lady Northridge’s letter was not urgent, but it worries Her Highness. And it has been so long since they have seen one another,” Lady Dinsmore added.
They were speaking of Irina. Henry’s eyes traveled the length of the chamber, searching for her, but without success. She was going to Essex? His body seemed to deflate, that awkward sensation of being a beast inside a suit relinquishing a bit. The farther away from that damned betting book at White’s, the better.
“What is this?” Henry asked as he approached the women, a sip of whiskey already coursing down his throat and inflaming his chest. It felt good. Centering.
His mother met him with a wide, pleased grin. “Langlevit, I’m so happy you’ve come. I wanted to tell you in person, rather than send word. Princess Irina and I are departing for Essex tomorrow, first thing.”
“My daughter-in-law wrote that she isn’t feeling well. A little scare, that is all,” Lady Dinsmore said with a slight wave of her hand, though she could not erase the crease of worry upon her brow. “However, Princess Irina insists upon going.”
“It truly is a shame,” Countess Vandermere said with an overly dramatic sigh. “The princess cannot afford to miss a fortnight of the season. It is herthird, after all.”
Henry did not miss the slight flare of his mother’s nostrils at Countess Vandermere’s barb, despite her own daughter’s spinster status. He had heard whispered rumors that Lady Cordelia’s unmarried state was quite by the young lady’s own choice and not for lack of offers.
“A fortnight away from London will hardly diminish Princess Irina’s prospects,” Lady Langlevit replied tightly.
If Henry had any say in the matter, he’d suggest Irina’s stay in Essex extend to a month. Perhaps even the remainder of the spring months. Anything to keep her out of the paths of those idiotic men placing equally idiotic wagers.
“I shall accompany you,” Henry said. The draw of the countryside was too much to resist, especially right then, clustered together with a dozen or more other people in the receiving room.
“Oh, but that isn’t necessary,” his mother said. He shook his head.
“I have some visits of my own I need to see to,” he said, and at her curious stare, he propped one eyebrow. She answered it with a nod, their silent exchange finished.
It was one visit, really. Rose’s reply to his written proposal had arrived at Leicester Square the day before. It had been unfailingly polite, expressing surprise and gratitude, and quite unfortunately, a request to allow her time to consider the proposition. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Rose had never been the sort to jump into anything without first analyzing all avenues of possibility.
“I will ride alongside your carriage,” he said, already growing impatient for the departure.
“You are coming with us?”
Henry turned. His gaze landed first upon Irina’s clear, dark-blue eyes, then her dusky-pink lips, and finally upon the crimson dress she wore. There his eyes stayed, a beat too long, though plenty long enough for him to experience a twin surge of annoyance and lust. The dress was little more than a silk sheath hugging her body’s svelte curves, curves he felt entirely wrong to be noticing. The short sleeves sat off her shoulders, and while there were probably a number of women in attendance with the same style sleeves, certainly none of their shoulders were as naked as Irina’s. He pictured his fingers touching the velvet skin there, then his lips.
Henry swallowed another mouthful of whiskey to try and burn away the desire.
“I hope you are not opposed to the idea,” he managed to say, and in his attempt to avoid looking at her indecently bare shoulders, his eyes tripped to where the bodice of her dress gathered at her breasts in silky ripples. Breasts that mounded into two sumptuous rises that made his groin abominably tight.
“Of course not, Lord Langlevit,” she answered, her voice light and with a matching smile. Addressing him so formally only served to remind him of how informal she’d been on that balcony when she’d touched his arm and called him Henry.
Thankfully, dinner was announced, and before he could offer to escort Irina into the dining room, Lord Dinsmore swept in and offered his arm. Henry extended his arm to his mother, who accepted with an indulgent grin.
“I hope you are not fibbing about needing to pay visits in Essex,” she whispered as they walked.
“One visit, to be exact,” he replied.
“To someone I know?”
