Page 4 of My Hellion, My Heart
“What is going on inside that scheming head of yours, Max?” she asked, seeing the glint of excitement in his eyes.
“Just an idea to spice up the season next year,” he replied. “Imagine…men attending every social function with the goal of winning your attention.”
She narrowed her eyes on her friend. “Because there would be money in it for them?”
“And a challenge they would not normally have,” he answered, cocking his head. “Of course, they needn’t know what I do: that you won’t have any of them.”
Not unless the Earl of Langlevit were to enter the game. He wouldn’t, though. She had no illusions that it would capture his attention, if such a farce even came to fruition. But if Max were right, she would have London in the palm of her hand while she was there. Perhaps the recalcitrant earl would be forced to take notice of her then. And if he didn’t, at least it would be an entertaining diversion before she returned to St. Petersburg.
Irina lifted her nearly empty flute high and toasted her friend. “You may be onto something, Max.”
Chapter Two
London, England
March 1821
It was barely noon, but Henry James Radcliffe, Earl of Langlevit, was already inside his bedroom, a glass of Scotch in one hand and his eyes hitched on two women removing each other’s dresses. The curtains were drawn to block both the bright sunshine and any possible view from the street below. No passing lady or gentleman need glimpse the lewd display currently unfolding in the earl’s bedroom. The show was meant for him, and him alone. And usually it worked.
Henry shifted in his wide leather chair, the small fire in the hearth behind him warming the back of his neck and causing small beads of sweat to form on his temple. The moment Camilla and Mary had been led inside Henry’s room, they had dropped their fur-lined capes and started to laugh. Neither woman had bothered to wear a chemise or petticoat underneath her muslin gown, and by all appearances it looked as though they had each dampened the thin white muslin as well. Their breasts and legs and the rosy areolas of their nipples had stood out in stark clarity through the sheer fabric. Poor Marbury, Henry’s faithful and close-lipped valet, had definitely gotten an eyeful before he’d been able to shut the bedroom door. These women had traveled across London, all the way from The Cock and the Crown, where Henry’s missive had been delivered earlier that morning, practically naked.
It was not the first time women from the gaming hell had done so. These two, however, he’d asked for specifically. Brunettes with dark blue eyes. Tall and willowy. Willing and able to serve his needs however he wanted.
He’d felt the stirrings in his groin and the hard thump of his pulse as the two women had sauntered across the room toward him, slow enough for him to look his fill. When they’d touched him, however, their hands running over his chest and stomach, he’d felt a whisper of panic.
It wasn’t working.
He’d sent them a few paces toward his bed and told them to give him a show. He just needed a few minutes to get his mind right. To let it go blank and serene. Once it did, the rapid beating of his heart would slow and that restless, nameless feeling of something invisible nipping at his heels would go away. He would pour himself into these women, let them drain him of every thought and every sound, until he was blissfully empty. And if he was extremely lucky, he’d also manage to erase the image of the beautiful face that had haunted him for the last two years.
“Are you paying attention, my lord?” Mary asked.
Henry looked at her and realized he had not been. Instead, he’d been staring at the carpet the two women were standing upon with their bare feet.
“Of course,” he said, lying, and swallowed the remainder of his drink.
Camilla grinned at him as she ran her skilled hands over Mary’s curved hips. It had taken them less than five minutes to artfully strip one another bare, and now they stood before him expectantly.
His heart was still racing, his mind whirling, and for Christ’s sake, he wished he wasn’t in bloody London.Hartstone.That was where he longed to be right then—utterly alone, breathing clean, quiet air. But he’d left his Essex estate weeks ago to come to town and sit dutifully in the House of Lords, and there wasn’t a damn breath of fresh anything, least of all air, to be had.
He knew he should get up from his chair and cross the room, that he should touch Camilla and Mary and let them distract him as best they could, the way the women from The Cock and the Crown usually did. It wouldn’t be enough.
When had it started to not be enough?
St. Petersburg,murmured the irritating, know-it-all voice in his head. Henry didn’t understand how or why spending less than one minute in Princess Irina Volkonsky’s presence two years before had affected him so completely. She had been nearly unrecognizable at first. Gone was the coltish fourteen-year-old he recalled, replaced by a startling beauty with noticeable curves and swells and…and he had acted like an utter buffoon.
Henry clenched his teeth at the memory, as he did every time he thought of it. Of his lack of good graces and what had been an utter loss of the ability to speak. Irina had not crossed his mind for so long—years, perhaps. Ignorant of her identity, it had been her laugh—a rich, bold, and unabashed sound—that had drawn his attention from across the ballroom. It was her confidence and the beguiling glimpse of bare shoulders in a silk gown he’d wanted to remove with his teeth that had ultimately held it.
The attraction had been immediate. Raw and visceral, and it had taken him completely by surprise. He’d sought no introduction, striding toward her like a man possessed with one singular objective—to stake his claim. But then she’d turned, laughter glimmering in those deep-violet eyes, and his world toppled inward as recognition landed on him like an avalanche.
Princess Irina Volkonsky.
His mother’s bloodyward. In hindsight, he’d done the only thing he could: resort to extreme courtesy while his blood simmered and his groin tightened ignominiously at the full, unobstructed view of her. Good Lord, she’d taken his breath away.
On the cusp of womanhood, she had grown into those long limbs, which now supported her with grace and poise. Her face had held a gamine quality, dominated by mesmerizing eyes that had deepened and matured. And that luscious mouth of hers…devil take him, it had caused him to swell more. What had he been thinking? She was a goddamned child. Could he have sunk any lower in depravity? Discomfited, he’d grappled for something to say like a stuttering oaf. And then, furious with himself, he’d shut up for good. He’d felt uncomfortably warm, and his clothes had suddenly felt ill-fitting, his cravat too tight.
Much like right now.
What in hell was wrong with him? Two women stood before him, ready for the taking, wanting only to give him pleasure, and Henry felt nothing but hollow panic. Perhaps he’d been too clear in what he’d demanded. Too precise. He should have asked for blondes, redheads, anything but what now seemed like pale imitations of the female he craved. And all because of one brief, silly line he’d read a week ago in the gossip column in theTimes, one his tortured brain had replayed over and over about a certain visiting princess.
