Page 7 of My Hellion, My Heart
Chapter Three
At the appearance of the tall man in the doorway, Irina’s pulse slowed and galloped in intermittent fits and starts. Her arms felt like rubber as she placed the teacup delicately onto its matching china saucer. She’d known she would see him at some point during the season, but not today. Not so suddenly. Not when she wasn’tprepared.
All her carefully rehearsed imaginings flew out the window as she studied the earl and frowned inwardly. He did not seem the same as she’d remembered. Certainly, on the surface he was as handsome as ever, accounting for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but something was different. Something wasn’tright.
Two years ago in St. Petersburg, he’d been cold and aloof, but now he seemed as if he was holding himself together by the grace of one fragile thread. Harrowed or haunted by something. Lines of tension notched his wide brow, and his shoulders were rigid, as though bearing the weight of the world and more.
His eyes, warm amber she knew from memory, but now dark with shadows, settled on her. There was recognition there, along with something fiercer, something that made an icy tremor race across her spine. Lana had confided, in secret, the earl’s clandestine activities as an officer of the king, and Irina had heard even quieter talk about the unyielding core that had kept him alive on the Peninsula and inspired his promotion to Field Marshal. She saw it then in his eyes—a look that would make grown men quake—but Irina did not drop her gaze like a terrified mouse. Instead, she held his stare until he drew a measured breath and turned to the countess.
The tension slipped from his face and body as he crossed the room toward Lady Langlevit, his lips curving into a familiar smile. A shallow dimple appeared in his right cheek. Despite his earlier rigidity, the sight of it made Irina’s bones turn to water. A handful of years ago, she’d been the recipient of those tender smiles, usually only reserved for his mother, and then her, whenever he’d visited the estate in Cumbria. In her childish infatuation, she’d craved them like a flower craves sunlight.
“Mother,” he said and then aimed a short bow in Irina’s direction. The smile shifted into something a bit lazier, the dimple disappearing, and Irina couldn’t help but mourn its loss. Then again, she was a grown woman now, not a child. He obviously did not view her as anything more than an acquaintance. “Your Highness. You’ve grown.”
“Lord Langlevit,” she murmured, proud that her voice didn’t sound like an indelicate croak. “That is the usual side effect of time passing, I hear.”
One of his pale brown eyebrows arched, his smile widening at her glib response. There was no dimple in sight, though. A fake smile, then.
“So I see,” he replied, taking the armchair opposite them.
“Would you like some tea, dear?” the countess asked.
Langlevit shook his head. “Something stronger, I think. It is my birthday, after all.” He signaled to the hovering footman who brought him a snifter of what looked like whiskey.
The earl had always favored whisky when he’d visit the estate, Marsden Hall, in Cumbria. He would sip it slowly, as if just having a glass in his hand was enough. The whiskey was likely from his own distillery in Dumfries, Scotland. Irina longed for a glass to fortify herself, as well, but she sipped her tea instead, peering at him over the cup’s gilded rim. In other company, she might have been bold enough to ask for a few drops in her tea, but it would be unseemly in the countess’s presence.
“Happy birthday, my lord,” Irina said, surprised that she had forgotten what day it was. All those years ago, when she and the countess had been secluded in Cumbria, the earl had not been present for his birthday. But on March the twenty-first, she and Lady Langlevit had enjoyed a selection of divine French truffles in his honor. Irina had never tasted anything so decadent and wonderful as those chocolate morsels, and when the countess had explained that they were “Henry’s favorite,” she had decided that they would be hers, as well.
He nodded at her now, a tight incline of his head, his back and shoulders so straight they looked painful. It was all the acknowledgment he gave for her birthday wishes. His eyes did not even settle on her for more than a heartbeat. Irina felt a sinking sensation in her chest, quickly followed by a rising fire. Had he always been such a horse’s ass?
“Oh, Andrews,” Lady Langlevit called out to the butler, “would you please fetch the box from the mantel that was delivered earlier? And there is also a sheaf of papers in the study under the—” She paused abruptly and stood. Langlevit leaped to his feet, nearly spilling the contents of his glass over the pale blue-and-gold Aubusson carpet. “Sit, my darling,” the countess said, patting his arm on her way past. “Never mind, Andrews, I’ll see to the papers. I’ll just be a moment, my dears.”
Irina set her cup down again and folded her hands in her lap. Without the countess’s gentle presence, the tension in the room became nearly solid. The earl studied her with a hooded gaze, the long fingers of one hand drumming against his knee. Irina could feel the leashed energy vibrating off him. With his tousled, dark-blond hair and Cimmerian gaze, he had the air of a captive lion more than that of a man. He did not want to be here. She saw it in every tap of his finger. Well, he was not the only one. He sipped his whiskey, and she followed the movement, wishing once more for a drink of her own. She’d become used to the relaxed rules of society in Paris, where women were not restricted to sherry and wine.
Something flared in his eyes for a moment, and then he extended the glass to her. “Would you like a taste?”
The question threw her years into the past. Like his rare tender smiles, he’d offered occasional sips of his family whiskey to her on return from his visits to the distillery in Dumfries. A taste here and there, explaining how it was made and aged, walking her through the complicated process and the uses of different grains and barrels. She used to love listening to him talk about a subject he obviously had a passion for, and it was, she supposed, the reason she’d developed a liking for whiskey in the first place. Or why whenever she drank it, she thought of him.
Glancing at the silent footman who hadn’t blinked an eye at the earl’s highly improper question, Irina leaned forward, taking the snifter. She breathed in the rich aromas of oak and vanilla. Henry slouched back in his chair, crossing his legs and watching her with a slightly bored expression. His aloofness chafed at her. Had she not changed enough in appearance to warrant some sort of response from him? Something more than a mundane, “You’ve grown?” Of course, she had not expected him to lose his mind or dissolve into absurd compliments, but did she truly not look any different to him than she had when she was fourteen? She would not stand for his cool reserve. Not this time.
Keeping her eyes deliberately on his, Irina turned the glass to where the outline of his lips remained on the rim and brought it slowly to her mouth. She pressed her tongue lightly against the edge as she sipped the smoky liquid. She heard his indrawn breath, saw his throat bob from the corner of her eye, but did not release him from her stare until she’d placed the glass on the table between them.
Irina licked her lips and savored the mellow bite, enjoying the lingering finish of the fine whiskey. Her blood boiled from the phantom imprint of his mouth more than the taste of the liquor, but she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Henry’s eyes were narrowed on her, his nostrils flaring. She’d bet anything he wasn’t thinking of her as some naive child now.
“Far better than I remembered,” she said softly.
The earl half rose out of his chair, a muscle beating along his jaw, his eyes focused on her mouth. At that precise moment, however, Lady Langlevit swept back into the room. Irina let out a breath, uncertain what he’d been about to do. Her heart was racing at a fair clip, though, as if he had become that lion again, and she had become prey.
If the rumors about Langlevit were to be believed, he was no gentleman. At least, not anymore. Deep down, she knew she was playing a dangerous game. Though she was not ignorant of what happened between men and women, and she had flirted with the opposite sex in abundance, she had never been so forward in an attempted seduction. The word made her cheeks warm. She had not meant for it to bethat. She had only wanted to shake that cool, unflappable exterior.
Refusing to feel one ounce of shame for her scandalous behavior, she watched as the countess shuffled a large stack of documents, which she placed on the cushion beside her as she sat. Langlevit took one look at them and also resumed his seat, his mouth tightening.
“When did you arrive in London?” the earl asked Irina, his cool tone at odds with the storm brewing in those tawny eyes.
“Two weeks past.”
“Staying with Lord and Lady Northridge, I presume?”
The countess was quick to answer. “I’m glad you brought that up, dear. You see, Lady Northridge had planned to host Irina for this season, only she’s had another horrible scare. Upon orders from Dr. Hargrove, she has returned to Essex for the duration of her confinement.” With a pained sigh, she placed a hand to her breast. “After the last loss, it is best for her to rest as much as possible.”
