Page 22 of My Hellion, My Heart
“Sod off, Max.”
Her friend took her hands gently, ignoring her unladylike retort. “He’s not good for you, Irina. The earl.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s written all over you.” His voice remained soft and quiet. “A fool could see it.” Irina exhaled as Max continued, his fingers stroking hers compassionately. “I know you were close once, and I know what he’s done for you and your sister, but you should know that he’s not a man given to emotion or mercy.”
“And how did you come by this sudden knowledge?” she hissed. “Let me guess, from your new friend, Lady La Valse?”
He squeezed her fingers, leaning close in earnest. “Please don’t be angry with me. You know she’s a means to an end. A diversion, nothing more. And she’s been a veritable fountain of information about most of theton, including Lord Langlevit. The stories I’ve heard about him paint a ruthless picture. She revealed he’s never quite recovered after what happened in France.”
“What happened in France?”
Max stared at her for a long while before responding. “I don’t know how much of this is true, but apparently, Langlevit disappeared into France a few years ago. He was gone for eight months, unaccounted for. Lady La Valse has reason to believe he was taken prisoner during that time.” He paused, and lowering his voice, added, “And that he suffered torture at the hands of King George’s enemies.”
Irina stared at him, unblinking. Max’s words horrified her.
“Lady La Valse is sure of this?” she whispered.
“She has friends in high places. Places like the War Office,” he replied, still hushed. “She knows enough. Whatever happened to him during those months he was missing affected him greatly. Lady La Valse says he’s closed himself off. That he’ll never open his heart to anyone.”
Taken prisoner. Tortured. Henry had beenbroken. Last night he said he would breakherif he stayed.
Irina’s heart trembled within her chest as she realized he’d likely only said that to protect her from him, as if his brokenness were somehow catching. But what he didn’t realize was that she was damaged, too. After what she’d endured at the tender age of fourteen at the hands of her kidnappers—being snatched and trussed like an animal—she had wounds and scars of her own, ones fissured so deeply that no one, not even her own sister, knew they existed. Irina understood what it felt like to feel deficient and hollow, as if gaps in her soul were missing.
“He wasn’t always like that,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone.
With one last empathetic squeeze, Max released her shoulders and resumed his grip on the reins. “Stay away from him, love. He’s heartless, and a man with no heart has nothing to offer. Come, we’ll have a quick turn, and I’ll see you back to Devon Place.”
Irina nodded dully. Max was wrong. Henry did have a heart. It was fractured and beaten and hidden deep, but it was there. She’d felt it thudding against hers when he’d kissed her. She saw it in the tender way he looked at his mother. She’d seen it on the balcony at Hadley Gardens—the barest glimpse of the old Henry wrapped up within its confines like the tiniest ray of light. Her throat felt tight.
The earl wasn’t heartless.
But maybe what Lady La Valse had told Max was true. Perhaps Henry would never open his heart to anyone again.
Chapter Seven
The moment he entered the outskirts of London, Henry’s mood lifted. He took deeper breaths and marveled at the simple satisfaction of filling his lungs with what actually felt like air and not smog.
The city’s chimney stacks pumping out coal smoke over the winter months had thickened the air to a toxic brume in some places, but he knew the real reason he breathed easier now that he was departing. With the congested press of the city behind him, Henry no longer felt penned in. Even riding in a near-empty Hyde Park that morning, with lawns, ponds, trees, and gravel footpaths stretching for miles, Henry had felt the constant need to check over his shoulder, to know who was behind him, how far away, and how fast they were riding.
An instinctive and constant awareness was the one thing that had kept him alive all these years. Although, it made what should have been a leisurely ride into a mission to keep a safe distance from any approaching riders. He had not even liked to have Françoise on his horse’s heels.
Why the horse and rider currently trotting just behind him on the post road north did not make him feel like a trapped animal, Henry was not certain. For years, ever since he’d set foot back on English soil, bruised and broken, he’d avoided having people walk or ride closely behind him whenever possible.
Something about Irina made things different.
He sat straight in his saddle, hands light on the reins, and listened to the steady clicking of her mount’s hooves. His mother’s barouche rolled along just ahead, trunks and boxes and valises lashed to the roof. Another, smaller carriage had set out earlier that morning carrying more luggage, a few maids, and Henry’s own valet.
However, Irina had appeared in the foyer of the Devon Place wearing naught but a pair of tall boots, riding breeches, a feminine waistcoat, and a long, swan-tailed riding coat. He’d had the instant thought that the odd ensemble suited her willowy frame to perfection. Then again, she could have made a burlap sack look fashionable.
“Does your backside ache yet?” he asked her now.
“It is not gentlemanly to inquire about the state of a woman’s backside, my lord,” came Irina’s tart reply.
He twisted around to meet her eyes. They flitted away from him, pretending to be interested in the trees off the side of the road.
“You should be inside the carriage,” he said.
