Page 3 of My Hellion, My Heart
She grinned at Max’s insult. “You know me too well.” She linked her arm in his. “Why can’t I fall in love with someone like you? Handsome, when not rolling in stable barns. Clever and witty. And someone whose company I genuinely enjoy.” With a sigh, she added, “Perhaps I will have better luck in London.”
“London?” he asked with a surprised look. “I thought you hated the place.”
“I do. It’s gloomy and stodgy, but my sister’s last letter made me feel guilty for being away for so long. I feel I should spend some time there.”
Her heart doubled its pace at the decision she’d just made. She would go to London.A decision made is a decision kept.It was something her father had said numerous times when she and Lana had been young and still happily growing up in St. Petersburg. Many years had passed since her mother and father had died, but there was always a little prick of pain whenever she thought of them. Seeing Lana would help soothe it away.
She had just given birth to little Kate at the start of Irina’s first season and had been unable to act as chaperone, and earlier this season Irina had decided upon Paris considering Lana was again increasing. Sadly, a letter had arrived at the Marceau’s home two weeks before with horrible news: Lana had lost the babe. She’d been only less than two months into the pregnancy, but Lana and Gray were devastated. They already had three children in addition to Gray’s daughter, Sofia, and from Lana’s letters they were the center of their world. Irina had always known her sister would be a naturally wonderful mother, and had, admittedly, greatly missed feeling the glow of her care and attention. Now that Irina was older, she longed to do the same for her older sister. Going to London for the following season would be good for them both.
Swallowing hard, Irina wondered if she’d seehim.
From her correspondence with Lana, Irina knew the Earl of Langlevit had not yet married. Once she was in London, their paths would undoubtedly cross. He was an earl, after all. He’d be at balls and soirees and dinners, and as his handsome, unforgettable face forged its way into her brain once again, Irina imagined how she would react. She would be cool and aloof, a princess to the core. He would take her hand and brush his lips across her fingers. The image was so visceral, soreal, that the mere thought of it made her breath hitch painfully in her lungs.
“Or perhaps not,” she said, draining the vile champagne and rethinking just how dedicated she was to her father’s old saying about decisions made and kept. “Perhaps a second season in Paris may be best.”
“No,” Max said. “London sounds fetching. I haven’t been there in years, either. It will be a new start for both of us. And just think…after the two seasons you’ve had, the gentlemen there will be vying for your hand. You’ll have your pick of the litter.” He waved a dramatic arm, warming to the subject. “The competition will be so fierce that men will bet fortunes on whom you will choose.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“I am not,” he replied with an affronted look.
She laughed. “Well then, if that’s the case, I can assure you that entire fortunes will be wagered and lost.”
Irina had not accepted any offers for the past two years for a reason, and it was as unshakable a reason as it was a secret. As she’d expected, not one potential suitor had come close to the image of the man who held her heart in his keeping…who had held it there for the better part of four years despite her own good sense. No other man could compare to the Earl of Langlevit.
Not that he knew, of course.
She and the earl had crossed paths once during her first season in St. Petersburg. The Gorchev’s soiree had been a crush, and yet he had still managed to be the only person in attendance she seemed to be able to see. Irina had not expected Henry to be there; she hadn’t even known he was in the city. And just as quickly as a swell of pleasure and hope had filled her chest and spiked her pulse, it had been extinguished. Langlevit had bowed, made the necessary pleasantries, and had hardly looked her in the eye before moving on across the ballroom.
He’d kept his distance for the remainder of the evening. Seeing her again after so many years had meant nothing to him. Clearly, the Earl of Langlevit still thought of her as a child, as his mother’s ward. He would never see her as otherwise—not as a woman, and not as marriageable material. It had chafed her pride to no end when he’d left the soiree with not one, buttwounattached ladies of her acquaintance. The rumors about him being a profligate had run wild, but they had done little to temper the fire of her affection for him. In fact, the knowledge had made it burn brighter.
She’d imagined and reimagined scenes of when they would next meet. She’d seduce him thoroughly and lead him on a merry chase, whereupon he’d fall madly in love with her. But their paths hadn’t crossed since. Her fevered imaginings had become nothing but a dearth of hopeless wishes.
“I wonder how much they’d wager?” Max asked.
Irina turned back to him. “For what?”
“For your hand in marriage.”
She stared at him and shook her head. “Betting on a woman’s hand? You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? You’re a princess, Irina, and you’ve a reputation as…well…”
“Don’t say it, Max.”
“An iceberg,” he finished. She pinched his arm. “What? You love me for my honest summarizations.”
She sighed and held back a laugh. He was right. His blunt honesty was a gift. Most of the time.
“I am also of the male species and rather competitive,” he went on, finishing his flute of champagne. “Being well schooled in how competitive men think, I am quite certain that if there is a wager concerning who can melt Princess Iceberg’s heart, it will be a lucrative one. The more money in the pot, the more attention you’ll receive.” He leaned in close. “Think about it. They’ll be mad for you.”
Irina did, and her pricked pride flared to life. “They are all money-greedy goats.”
And it would be a game for the goats, nothing more. But isn’t that what the whole season was?
“Vying for a lady’s hand in marriage and winning her dowry is the game every man is playing, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, but the women make it so plain whom they intend to choose. There is no risk involved for the men,” he answered.
