Page 52 of My Hellion, My Heart
“Then you will be forced to marry me.” His smile was lazy as he approached. “Allow me.”
She frowned at him as he reached for the bracelet. “I’m already marrying you, remember?”
“Yes, I can tell you are eagerly awaiting my proposal,” he said as he deftly fastened the clasp. He kept a firm hold on her wrist. “Where were you this afternoon?” The sour waft of wine drifted toward her.
“I told you I went for a ride.” She narrowed her eyes at him, noticing the high color of his cheeks and his bright eyes. “Are you foxed?”
Max ignored her question and instead brought her fingers to his lips. “I followed you to Langlevit’s estate. Hartstone, is it not? But somehow, I managed to lose you.”
“I may have ridden through his estate, what of it?” She wrenched her hand from his. “And why would you follow me in the first place?”
“You seemed agitated,” he replied mildly. “I was worried.”
“Max, I am a grown woman.”
“Who seems intent on putting her reputation at risk by riding on strangers’ properties alone and unchaperoned.”
She shot him a glare. Max was the last person who would give a hoot about reputations, hers included. Otherwise he never would have written in that damned wager. Scowling, she swallowed the accusation on the tip of her tongue. Seeing how he was her sole source of information on the White’s wager log, Max would know instantly that she’d heard it from someone else, and she wasn’t prepared to have that conversation.
“The Earl of Langlevit is no stranger, and anyway, he is in London.”
Max looked at her strangely for a moment before shaking his head. “Langlevit is here in Essex. Lord Northridge has just told me that he will be in attendance at dinner tonight.”
“Is that so?” Irina’s throat grew constricted at the announcement, but she forced her face to remain composed, knowing Max’s perceptive gaze had not slipped from hers.
Taking hold of her nerveless fingers, Max squeezed gently. “Irina, if Langlevit gets wind of what we are planning, it will all be for naught.” He softened his voice. “I’m not blind. I know you care for him, but he has chosen another. You need to let him go. Deep down, I know you know this. In a few months, we will be done with this dreary old place and back in Europe where we belong, with nothing but pleasure awaiting us. Will that be so bad?”
Irina said nothing. She didn’t know when it had happened, but she didn’t think England was so dreary anymore. At least not this part of it, and even London was a bit beautiful and stately in certain areas. Her grand scheme to return to St. Petersburg after bringing London to its knees had somehow lost its luster, too. Irina felt lost. She cared for a man who wanted her body but could never return her affection. She craved a storybook ending that was out of reach. She had never been one for fairy tales, but for once, her heart pined for the impossible.
But Max was right. Perhaps there were no happy endings to be had.
“You’re right,” Irina agreed softly. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
Chapter Fifteen
Course after succulent course was served in the lavish dining room at Worthington Abbey, but Irina tasted none of it. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. When they were not busy at the task of moving food around on her plate, she kept them fisted on her lap, working the delicate folds of her dress. The low undertones of conversation hummed about her, but she heard none of that, either. Her entire attention was focused onnotnoticing the man seated across from her.
But he was all she’d noticed since the minute she’d arrived.
Stealing a glance at him, she thought the Earl of Langlevit looked a far cry from the man in the middle of the woods earlier that afternoon, though he was no less attractive. He was devastatingly so. His tailored evening clothes did little to detract from the pure male presence of him, and his volatile energy remained leashed beneath the surface of his now polished and poised exterior. Irina wondered how she’d never noticed that about him. Though relaxed and laughing at something the duchess had said, he was still all coiled, bunched, and bracing intensity.
“Are you not hungry?” Lana whispered from her left. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“No,” she said. “It’s delicious. I’m distracted, that’s all.”
“Distracted, Your Highness?” Max said loudly, making her want to kick him underneath the table as all eyes centered on her. “Is it a diverting distraction?”
“Quite boring, in fact,” she said, glowering at him. “A needlepoint project.”
Max grinned. “Needlepoint is my absolute favorite thing in the world. Please, do share.”
Irina nearly rolled her eyes. Max full well knew she had no inkling of anything remotely related to needlepoint. She opened her mouth to bluff her way out, but her rescue came from another direction.
“It is my understanding that Princess Irina prefers the sword to the needle,” Henry said, his eyes settling on her.
“That is true,” she said after an awkward beat of silence, though she could not discern whether his tone was disparaging or complimentary. “I’m afraid I’m not adept in most ladies’ pursuits, and Lord Langlevit is right—I do seem to take an exceptional aversion to needles of all sort.”
To her surprise, the duke erupted in laughter at the other end of the table. “You find yourself in good company then, Princess, for my wife cannot sew a stitch to save her life.”
