Page 32 of My Hellion, My Heart
“I like knowing things about people,” he muttered. “Strangers are boring.”
“You like gossip,” she corrected with an arched brow, meant to chastise. However, Max merely shrugged his agreement.
“I will have some for you by the end of the evening, I promise,” he said. But Irina didn’t care for gossip about Henry’s betrothed. She knew enough already. He’d chosen Lady Carmichael and rejected Irina, and that was more than enough knowledge to keep her in a constant state of misery.
“And what do you mean, I will be the object of attention tonight?”
With that, Max’s frown over not having any good gossip on Lady Carmichael changed to an expression of mischief.
“Have you forgotten how popular you are now that men are wagering small fortunes on you?”
Irina felt a new sickness in her stomach that had nothing at all to do with Henry or his ice-cold heart. She had, in fact, forgotten all about that silly betting book at White’s.
“They are calling this newest wager ‘The Quest for the Queen.’”
She began to pace the foyer, her palms sweating in her gloves. She’d told Lana that she wouldn’t be anyone’s trophy, but that was exactly what she’d become. A bloody prize. “I am a princess, not a queen.”
Max sighed. “Yes, but that doesn’t have the alliteration, now does it?”
“What kind of wager is it?”
“The big one, darling. Each gentleman nominates himself as your future husband, and the winner will take all.” He grinned wickedly at her. “I have half a mind to enter and marry you myself. Think of it, we could go to Italy or Greece with our winnings.”
“Lord Remi,” Lady Langlevit said as she descended the stairs, Andrews at her side. He held his arm at a stiff right angle in order to allow Henry’s mother to lean on him for support. She reached the bottom step breathless, her eyes blinking in what appeared to be fatigue.
“My lady,” Max said, dipping into a low—almost unnecessarily so—bow. “I’ve come to escort you and Her Highness to Leicester Square, if you are not averse to the idea.”
She laughed, though to Irina it most certainly sounded strained.
“Are you feeling well enough to attend?” she asked, touching Lady Langlevit’s arm as she waited for her cape.
“Of course, of course,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It is my son’s engagement ball. I would not miss it for anything.”
Irina couldn’t argue with that. She knew the countess loved her son, and being an only child, Henry was all she had. She had been waiting a long time for him to marry and give her grandchildren.
At that thought, Irina felt the color in her cheeks drain. The stone in her throat tumbled and grew. Henry would have children with Lady Carmichael. He’d make love to her and stand by her as she increased, much the way Gray stood by Lana, admiring her so openly. So completely. Irina knew that Henry thought himself incapable of love, but hewouldlove…for his children, and for the right woman. The knot in her throat throbbed.
“The carriage awaits,” Andrews announced.
The drive to Henry’s home was too brief. Before she could extinguish visions of him holding a swaddled infant in his arms, gazing lovingly into its little face, and then shifting that adoring gaze to his wife, a faceless woman in Irina’s mind, they had arrived and the threat of uncontrollable despair loomed ever closer.
It was, she realized, the first time she’d ever been to his home on Leicester Square. Four stories of rusty brick facade with cream molding and trim, large windows on every floor, except for the attics where the roof scrolled down over smaller windows that belonged, no doubt, to the servants he employed. It was a grand home, and one glance was all it took for Irina to receive the impression of stoic, everlasting importance the architects had most likely intended generations ago.
Two liveried footmen stood at the front door, guttering torches hanging from sconces and warming her face as she approached. Her nerves were a bundle in her chest and stomach, and blast it, her palms were still damp. She required a drink, and the moment her cape had been shed and they had been escorted into the ballroom on the second floor, she whisked a tall flute of champagne from a passing tray.
“I thought you hated champagne,” Max said, still at her side. Lady Langlevit had been surrounded by guests longing to congratulate her as soon as they had entered the ballroom.
“I would drink ale from a barrel if I had to, Max. I have to get through this evening.”
He touched the base of the glass and stopped her from downing the contents. “Just stay sober, my darling.”
She glared at him, but decided to heed his advice. And when Gwen found them a few minutes later, already giggling with a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hand, Irina was glad she had. The last thing she needed to do was drink too much and lose control of her senses.
Gwen peered over the crush of people, presumably to get a look at the lady herself. “I hear she is unrivaled,” she whispered in a not-so-soft way. “Closing in on thirty years, but like her name, she is the perfect English rose.”
Lady Carmichael was a widow, Irina knew. The countess had explained about Henry’s best childhood friend, Sir Carmichael, and how the man had died a few years ago unexpectedly while on a foxhunt. His horse had slipped on a particularly rocky outcropping, and Sir John had fallen to his death. They’d had one son. Perhaps Lady Carmichael would be the one to finally calm Henry’s demons. Irina had only seemed to incite them.
“Darling Irina,” Gwen said loudly, drawing her from her thoughts. “May I present Lord Loftham and His Grace, the Duke of Moveton. Both have been pestering me for an introduction.” She indicated the two gentlemen behind her. “You’d think they expect you to disappear at the stroke of midnight the way they’ve been hovering.”
