Page 18 of My Hellion, My Heart
The last cutting remarks had slipped out, born of pent-up anger and her flirtation with Gibbons, nothing more. He regretted the words the moment they were said, especially when the apples of Irina’s cheeks grew splotchy and the tips of her ears went red. He might have thought she was merely furious if not for the sheen of tears causing her eyes to glisten.
Oh hell.
“Thank you for that illuminating lesson, Lord Langlevit,” she said, her voice barely audible. She placed the napkin that had been in her lap upon the table, and a footman rushed forward to pull out her chair. “If you will excuse me, I am not feeling entirely well.”
The men around the table all shot to their feet, though none faster than Henry. He threw down his napkin, too, but as Irina whisked out of the dining room, her chin held just as high as before, he remained where he was. To rush out after her would have caused a display much larger than the one that had just passed.
He took his seat again and avoided his mother’s glare, spearing him from the opposite end of the table. He didn’t need to meet it to be able to feel it. The next few courses dragged by, held back, it seemed, by the mundane conversation that slowly filled the awkwardness of the princess’s departure and Henry’s poor temper with her.
She hadn’t meant anything by it, and yet he’d bit into her as if she’d disparaged the entirety of the English Crown. Because she’d been ignoring him. Flirting with another man.
Henry stood up the very moment the last guest finished their lingonberry torte and suggested the men retire to the billiards room. As they filed down the corridor to the gaming room, Henry did not intend to stay for more than one round. It was excruciating to carry out and he played badly, but once he excused himself and slipped out of the room, he felt a rush of warm anticipation loosen the muscles in his legs and back. He had to see her. Knew she would be furious and he’d have to apologize, but…he had to speak to her.
If she was not with the other women in the salon, he had a sneaking suspicion where he would be able to find her.
As he descended into the kitchens, footmen and kitchen maids bowed and bobbed, the maids gasping in surprise to find him trespassing in their realm. He did not often do so. But he’d remembered something from the time Irina had been staying at his Cumbria estate, when she’d been disappointed that a bundle of her sister’s letters had been nearly ruined in a drenching rain on their way up from Essex. Two had been destroyed, the ink having run into illegible blurs, and the other two were only partly intact. Irina had gone into the kitchens and convinced the cook with her tears to let her sit down there and eat an entire lemon curd pie. Henry had found her hours later, asleep on a bench, crumbs still on her cheek.
“Her Highness is in there, my lord,” a young kitchen maid whispered as she dropped into an untrained curtsy and pointed toward an arched doorway.
He nodded his thanks and entered.
She was seated on the table, which was set in the middle of the pantry, with her back to the door. Irina’s legs swung forward and back lazily, and in the light of the room’s simple, four-arm chandelier, he noticed she’d toed off her slippers. Henry heard the clinking of a spoon against a glass dish.
“How are the truffles?” he asked, and Irina jumped, twisting around to see him and receiving a glob of chocolate on her upper lip for it.
She set the plate and spoon down and wiped at her lip, turning away from him. Not fast enough, though. He’d seen the red rims of her eyes.
Damn it all to hell. She’d been crying.
“Irina,” he started to say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The last thing he needed were servants peering in and listening around the corner. The wood of the door was a heavy slab and would muffle their voices well. Especially handy for when she shouted at him, which she was certainly going to do.
“Don’t,” she said, getting down from the table and gathering the hem of her dress so she could slip back into her shoes. “Please, just leave me alone.”
“I can’t. I need to apologize for how I acted.”
“Apologies won’t change anything. They are useless. Just like my being here,” she said and once slippered again, started for the door.
He was blocking her path and did not move.
“They aren’t useless, not when a person means them. And I do. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like—”
“Like I was a brainless ninny. How could you humiliate me that way?” Irina’s eyes flashed, and Henry suffered a cramp in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to humiliate her, and yet…he had.
“I meant it as humor,” she went on. “But I should have known better with all of you sitting there in your starched cravats, perched upon your high morals, blinded by your own importance—”
“Irina.”
“I don’t belong here; you’ve made that perfectly clear, Lord Langlevit. I don’t know London. I don’t know anything I thought I did—”
“Irina.”He took a step closer, trying to meet her fevered eyes, but they seemed to be pinned somewhere around his chest.
“You think I’m a fool, but I am no such thing.”
Every word out of her mouth was a fist closing tighter around his heart. “I do not think that.”
“I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I’ll say what I please and…and…”
And for the moment it appeared she had run out of steam.
