Page 26 of My Hellion, My Heart
“Whose authority?”
“Mine, of course,” she quipped. “Which means I won.”
Henry favored her with a benevolent nod. “Since I do not wish to call your honor into question, I shall offer a tie. Otherwise I will be forced to call you out at dawn, and I hope to keep my present body intact given your boasts of your consummate skill.” He shot her an arch stare. “Which by the way still needs to be demonstrated.”
“A tie?” Irina snorted. “That means no one wins.”
“Or it means we both win.”
Her animated eyes met his, and once more Henry fought the stirrings of lust. There was another, far more pleasurable race he envisioned in which they would both be victors. Irina, riding him as she had the horse, with nothing but abandon and enthusiasm spurring her on. The tantalizing mental image of Irina caught in the throes of passion atop his body nearly unseated him. Henry growled low in his throat and adjusted his suddenly uncomfortable position on the horse. If he wasn’t careful, the rest of this journey would be the bloody death of him.
He cleared his too-tight throat. “Why did you learn to fight?”
“I wanted to be able to defend myself,” she replied after a prolonged moment, her humor fading rapidly. Henry almost regretted the question and the swift change in her demeanor, but his interest was piqued. Irina carried her father’s penknife on her person at all times for protection, she’d told him. Did she truly believe she was in any danger? Henry frowned. Her vicious uncle, tried and convicted of treason against the Russian Tsar and the murder of her parents, and summarily executed, could not hurt her.
“For what reason?” Henry probed gently.
The muscles in her throat worked compulsively as if it were a fight to expel the answer. “After what happened, I don’t ever wish to feel defenseless again. If I’d known what I do now, those men who kidnapped me would be dead.” She grew quiet. “I was the reason my sister nearly died. Because I was weak.” Her voice broke on the last word, her fists tightening on the reins. Frustrated anger streaked across her face. She’d confided something she hadn’t meant to say.
“You’re not weak.”
“I’m not now.”
Irina’s stare was fierce, her gaze probing his as if daring him to contradict her. In delayed understanding, Henry realized that her past, much like his, tormented her daily. He understood the sway of those inner demons more than she knew, the ones she tried to keep tightly reined, and the residual fears that plagued her. Her uncle could no longer hurt her, but she’d done all she could to ensure that no one else would. Pity and admiration for her courage surged in equal measure in his chest.
“I can see that,” he said softly.
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” she whispered, her voice shaking with suppressed fury, which seemed to be directed more at herself than at him. A mask of shadows descended across her face as she slowed her mount and stopped. She would not look at him. “I think I will ride with the countess for a spell after all if that suits you, Lord Langlevit.”
Henry bowed and signaled to Billings. “Of course.”
His frown was thoughtful as they resumed their pace once she was ensconced in the carriage. Though clearly Irina loathed it, she preferred the confines to whatever she’d seen in his face or heard in his voice after her whispered confession.
It was yet another thing they shared in common—she didn’t like being vulnerable.
Chapter Eight
Stanton Park, Lord and Lady Northridge’s Essex home, was somehow more stunning than the last time Irina had visited years before. Though Lord Northridge’s family estate, Ferndale, had its considerable charm, there was something about the lushly tended gardens here that reminded Irina of the ones at Volkonsky Palace. Irina eyed the carpet of vibrant blooms that graced the massive courtyard from the window of Lana’s upstairs nursery. Most of the similarities, she knew, were due to her sister’s specifications.
Watching the delicate swatches of flowers, Irina felt a pang of nostalgia for her home. As much as she loved seeing Lana and playing with her nieces and nephew, there was something about London that didn’t sit right. It carried a thread of ugliness that lingered beneath all the brightness, like a tiny piece of lint caught in her eye. Some days, she felt like she never should have come back. There was nothing truly of interest to her here.
Except for Henry.
And the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking…as if she were something he could never dream of having. Irina knew she’d been infatuated with a phantom from the past, but now, the more she got to know him, the more she craved him. Something in his spirit called to hers, an instinctive feeling that he needed her as much as she needed him. Irina wanted to peel back all his layers, break down all the walls he’d surrounded himself with, and unveil the real Henry hidden behind it all. Hell would freeze over before that happened, she thought with a sigh.
“Is there something in the courtyard that deserves such a scowl?” Lana asked, sipping her chamomile tea.
Irina looked away from the windowpane and pushed a smile to her face. “I’m not scowling, merely thinking.”
Lana motioned for the nursemaid to collect Oliver and Kate from the nursery floor where they were nearly falling asleep. “It’s long past the time for their nap. You’ve quite worn them out from your games earlier.”
“Where is Sofia?” Irina asked as the nursemaid shuttled the two from the room. She hadn’t seen her eldest, seven-year-old niece all morning. “Still with her tutors?”
“Still terrorizing her tutors, you mean,” her sister said with a laugh. “She’s exactly like her father. Same devilish charm and love of pranks. We’ve been through two governesses already. She simply refuses to do as she’s told, arguing her position with logic better suited to a thirteen-year-old.”
Irina lifted an eyebrow. “That she gets from you. She only mimics what she sees.” She bent to press a kiss on Lana’s head before resuming her seat in the sofa opposite. “And you shouldn’t worry too much about that, anyway. She’ll be a strong woman, like her mother.” Her eyes narrowed on Lana’s drawn face. Motherhood had been kind to her, but her normally glowing complexion was pale. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Mostly tired. The nausea is unbearable. I don’t recall it ever being this bad with Oliver or Kate. Dr. Hargrove has prescribed lots of rest and chamomile tea to settle my stomach.”
