Page 44 of My Hellion, My Heart
“There’s a new wager that has recently been penned in that is of a particularly indelicate nature, and one that I fear may affect the young lady’s reputation.”
Henry stiffened. “What is it?”
“The first man to steal a kiss—witnessed, willingly surrendered, and not on the cheek—will win the staggering sum of five thousand pounds.”
Willingly surrendered? The whiskey sloshed in Henry’s glass as he lurched up out of his chair. “This is beyond madness,” he growled. “I’d like to set that bloody wager log on fire.”
“I am of a similar mind.”
“Who made the wager?” Henry asked, already imagining the satisfying feel of his hands around the odious man’s throat, whoever he was. These men had no honor. Irina wasn’t some trifling thing to be won. She was an aristocrat for God’s sake, and this kind of betting could put not just her reputation at risk, but her personal safety, as well. He would not stand for it.
“That’s just it,” Thorndale hedged. “It is the real reason I decided to seek you out. The wager was written in by one Lord Remi whom I believe is the princess’s friend. It struck me as odd that he would be the one to encourage such behavior.”
Friend?Henry thought viciously. The crystal glass shattered in his hand. He watched dully as blood welled from a narrow cut.
“Bloody hell, Langlevit,” Thorndale swore, tossing him a cloth napkin from the mantel. “You’ll give yourself a nasty bout of sepsis if you don’t take care of that.”
Henry wrapped the cloth around his hand but ignored the throbbing wound. “It’s of no import. When was the wager penned?”
“This morning.”
Henry’s lips thinned with ill-concealed fury. Max Remi was no friend of Irina’s. He was an opportunist and one out for his own gain with no thought for Irina’s wellbeing. When he saw the cur, he fully intended to put the bastard into the ground. But first he needed to put an end to Irina’s antics once and for all. She would go to Essex for her own safety, and that would be the end of it.
“Stevens,” he barked and tore from the room on the heels of Thorndale. “Ready my horse and send a footman ahead with my card to Lord Dinsmore.” He nodded to his friend who exited to his own waiting coach. “Thank you, Thorn.”
“Go easy on her,” Thorndale said with a tight smile. “It’s not her fault.”
Henry jaw clenched. Though she could not know about the wagers, he felt inexplicably angry with her for being so damned appealing in the first place. He’d watched her for weeks, laughing and flirting and scandalously encouraging the entire male set.
“Of course I will,” Henry bit out. He would never hurt her, but he fully expected to give her ears a blistering about her choice of companions and knowingly endangering herself at every turn.
After Thorndale took his leave, Henry rode like the hounds were after him, his brain agitated with the incendiary combination of drink and emotion. His injured palm stung, but the pain only served to spur him on. By the time he arrived at Bishop House and was escorted into the foyer, he was enumerating all the ways he’d drag Irina bodily back to Essex.
“Lord Langlevit,” Lord Dinsmore boomed, striding to the salon where he waited. To his credit, he passed a blind eye over Henry’s hastily re-knotted cravat and his excessively rumpled appearance. “What a surprise. I just this moment received your card. Is something amiss?”
“No,” Henry said. “I’ve come to speak to Her Highness. It is a matter of some importance.”
He shook his head. “I am sorry, but she decided to continue on to Essex. It seems she wished to visit my daughter-in-law and the countess. She left some hours ago.”
“Essex?” Henry echoed. “Does she travel with Lady Dinsmore?”
Dinsmore shook his head. “Lady Dinsmore required a rest from the carriage up from Peteridge, though we’ll set out in a few days ourselves. I do envy Lady Irina’s wherewithal, riding up north six hours upon horseback!”
He gave a little hop on his heels as if to punctuate his awe.
“She is ridingalone?” Henry asked in a deadly voice.
“Of course not!” Lord Dinsmore laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s in the capable hands of that cousin of hers, Lord Remi. No need to worry; he’ll see that she arrives safely.”
Chapter Thirteen
The journey to Essex had been hellishly long, and after a long, warm bath, all Irina wanted to do was sleep. Her backside was still sore from the ride. She did not know what had possessed her to continue on, but she had not wanted to remain in London. She didn’t want to see the inside of another ball or entertain the flirtations of some gentleman who was only out to win a few guineas. Irina corrected herself—far more than a few guineas. She had learned that some of the bets were astronomical. The bloody wagers were starting to take a harsh toll on her emotions.
And then there was Max.
Soon to be her betrothed.
The thought bothered her more than it should. Somewhere and somehow, something had shifted imperceptibly within her. It wasn’t that she did not love Max—she adored him—but the idea of becoming hiswifemade her feel strangely sad. Perhaps it had to do with what had happened in Peteridge with Henry. Irina had thought she had done an adequate job of distancing herself from him over the past few weeks, but all it took was one unguarded moment, and she was right back where she’d started. Half in love with a man who didn’t believe in love.
