Page 34 of My Hellion, My Heart
Max peered at her. “You are serious.”
“You were the one who suggested it in Lady Langlevit’s foyer,” she whispered again, suddenly feeling the urge to flee. The last time she’d proposed, it had been to Henry, and he’d roundly rejected her. My God. If Max rejected her, too, Irina would not be able to staunch the sobs that waited just behind her mask of indifference.
“I did,” he said, gliding smoothly as they danced. Thank heavens one of them was paying attention to their feet. “As a lark.”
She felt the floor beginning to soften, and all she wanted was for it to open and swallow her whole. He was going to say no, tell her it was a terrible idea. And maybe it was. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted it. If she were married, there would be no more need for her to present herself on the marriage mart. People would finally stop gossiping and leave her alone. She could return to St. Petersburg and live the life she knew and felt comfortable with.
She could go home and never have to see Henry again.
“However,” Max went on, and when she looked up to him again, saw his lips pursed. He was thinking. “The idea has merit. Let’s be honest: I would disappoint any young woman who entered a marriage to me who did not know of my…preferences. You know who I am, and you’ve always accepted me.”
She waited on tenterhooks, the ballroom around her spinning.
“I daresay we’ll be friends forever. Why not attach ourselves officially? I won’t stop you from falling in love whenever you find a handsome beau, and you won’t stop me. We could live separately and happily so. It’s done often enough.” A playful smile broke out on his lips.
“So you’ll do it?” she said, so relieved she felt sick to her stomach.
His smile darkened. “I only wish you’d had this clever idea before I bought those Hanoverians and the curricle. I’m afraid for the moment, I’m rather short of the two thousand pounds it would take to enter the pot.”
She wanted to jump and embrace him, she was so happy. Why hadn’t she thought of such a brilliant scheme earlier? “I’ll give to you,” she said breathlessly.
“If that is what you wish,” he said, his brows pulling together. Perhaps out of injured pride. As far as Irina knew, his mother afforded him a secret allowance twice a year, but clearly he had spent too much too fast.
“It is,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.
His smile returned. “Then we are in this together.” Max’s grin widened to something wolfish as he lifted her by the waist and spun her in an elegant circle. “Shall we stir up the competition then? Give London a show to end all shows before we waltz into the sunset?”
Irina stared at her friend, her pulse hammering. She had nothing to lose. It would be the best thing for them both. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”
Chapter Ten
The Kensington ball was always one of the top crushes of the season, and it was the sole reason that Henry held up yet another marble pillar in yet another crowded ballroom.
He tugged at his expertly tied—and tight as a garrote—cravat and took a long draught of his whiskey. He would give anything to be at Hartstone in quiet and privacy, running his course and his demons into the ground, instead of here, surrounded by people he hardly knew and making small conversation about nothing of consequence. But receiving a thousand and one invitations was part and parcel of an earl announcing a betrothal agreement during the height of the season. And he owed it to Rose to do it right.
Henry watched as she danced with Stephen Kensington, Earl of Thorndale, their host and his longtime friend. Rose was exquisite, there was no denying it. Her peach-tinted complexion set off her blond hair and blue eyes to perfection, and her slender form was full and curved in all the right places. She had a reserved sort of grace that came across as both admirable and unattainable. While Henry could appreciate her beauty as he would a fine piece of art, there was something missing.
Of their own volition, his eyes flicked to the laughing sprite dancing in the arms of Lord Remi, and his fingers clenched involuntarily around his snifter. He’d have expected the sight of Irina to become easier the more they saw of each other, but the invisible fist punch to the gut was always the same: swift and brutal.
Irina and Remi made a striking couple, his fairness complementing her dark beauty. Clearly, they had dressed to suit, she in a vibrant emerald green gown and he in a matching-hued waistcoat. Henry couldn’t curb the scowl that rose to his face. From what he had heard and seen, they had been taking London by storm the past three weeks. The two of them had become the light of the season andtonfavorites, their popular presence coveted at every ball and every social event.
As a result, it was no surprise that the betting book at White’s had also gained notoriety with gentlemen placing wagers for winners as they would a horse race. It made Henry sick to his stomach, but it had taken on a frenzied life of its own. Every possible thing was accorded a price—a smile, a dance, a laugh. He could no more stop it than he could an approaching storm. It would have to run its course. Something else would take their collective fancy. Eventually.
Henry could not fault them for their fascination with the princess. Irina lived with such vivacity and passion, and her beauty was only enhanced by her animation…thejoie de vivreshe possessed. Even while dancing, her hands did not stop moving, her eyes sparkling. It was the same abandon with which she did everything else. Kissing, for example. Henry scowled into his drink.
“Is the whiskey not up to your standard, Langlevit?” a man on the other side of the pillar drawled. “I fear Thorn may take offense at your glower.”
The Duke of Bradburne smirked, and Henry cursed how easily the object of his thoughts affected him. “Thorn is busy enough with my fiancée, and the whiskey is above measure, Hawk.” Though Lord Bradburne had inherited a dukedom and his father’s title, he was still known to his friends by a shortened name derived from one of his lesser titles, the Marquess of Hawksfield.
“Congratulations, by the way,” Hawk said, lifting his own glass. “We have not seen each other since your announcement. My wife has taken it upon herself to retire to Worthington Abbey every other fortnight to check on Lady Northridge. Our daughters seem to favor the country more to town, as well.”
Henry lifted his glass, accepting the toast. It was on the tip of his tongue to make a remark about Irina being as solicitous with Lana, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Hawk was not an unintelligent man. “How are your children?” he asked instead, opting for the safer turn in conversation.
“Much like my duchess—the girls are intent on putting as many gray hairs on my head as possible.” The duke smiled. “Though they are not nearly as mischievous as their little brother. How is Lady Langlevit? I heard she wasn’t feeling well as of late.”
Henry had known the whispers would quickly blanket London, but he still felt an edge of discomfort hearing it from his friend’s lips.
“My mother is as well as can be expected, thank you for asking. She needs peace and quiet, and most of all, rest,” Henry replied, a pang in his chest at the thought of her.
