Page 63 of My Hellion, My Heart
They were a beautiful couple, both looking completely at ease and comfortable next to one another. Lady Carmichael, so graceful and amiable. Irina could see the gentle kindness in the smile she beamed at him right then. Henry would be happy with her. The thought both pierced her heart and buoyed it at the same time.
“Your Highness.”
Max appeared before her within moments, blocking her view of the rest of the ballroom. He dropped into an exaggerated bow, and when she looked over his lowered back, she could no longer see Henry. Max rose to full height again, and she met his mischievous smirk.
“You have flour in your hair,” she said in a low whisper, watching as he discreetly pushed a gloved hand over the strands at his temple, dislodging the white dust.
“Don’t give me that look, Princess,” he whispered back. “I was only passing time until your grand entrance.”
Normally, Max’s dalliances would amuse her, but for some reason, she felt mild annoyance instead. “Who was it this time? Another footman?”
“A lovely young scullery maid,” he replied with an affronted look. “I’ll have you know, there’s more than enough of me to go around. I am not of a discriminating nature.”
“Perhaps you should be,” she muttered.
He shot her a dry look. “By contrast, you look utterly innocent in that dress,” Max remarked, perusing her from head to toe and extending his elbow. She took it and allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor. “Are you quite certain it was not designed for a first communion?”
“What did you expect me to wear, a negligee?” she asked in a whisper while nodding demurely toward Lord and Lady Dinsmore, the latter of whom wore a resplendent gown and an even more resplendent look of pride. Irina could only smile—Lady Dinsmore might enjoy soaking up the attention from theton, but she had been kind to Lana when she’d been employed as a maid within their household. For that, Irina would always be grateful.
“I expected something to whet appetites and increase interest, not dampen desires, my darling,” Max replied, swiping a flute of champagne from a passing tray. He did not offer her a drink, and she was both glad and bothered by it.
“I do not aim to please men when selecting a dress, Lord Remi. I aim to please myself, and tonight, it pleases me to wear this gown.”
He swallowed a gulp of champagne and slanted a look at her. “Touchy, are we?Lord Remi.My goodness, should I expect you to use my middle name next?”
Irina didn’t bother to reply that she didn’t even know his middle name. She had been surprised to see Henry among the guests at tonight’s ball, pained yet resigned to see Lady Carmichael at his side, though it was what she wished for him, and annoyed when Max had immediately swooped in to claim her. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her. It never had before. And tonight was the very sort of night she would usually most appreciate Max occupying her attention, especially when she was supposed to be social and greet everyone.
“Forgive me,” she said, feeling at odds with herself. “I don’t mean to be so waspish.”
“No, no, let’s use this mood of yours for good,” he said, chucking her chin and downing the rest of his champagne. “I think tonight is the night, my darling.”
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
He leaned closer, and she could feel the heat of his body and the strong, biting cinnamon scent of his cologne. “The moment word hits that you might have chosen a suitor, the stakes will go through the bloody roof. No one wants to lose the pot, Irina. They’ll be desperate to win your favor. It will be an absolute frenzy.”
The twist in her stomach returned, and her hands felt clammy again. “Chosen a suitor? Oh, I don’t know, Max, I’m starting to grow weary of all this betting nonsense.” She speared him with an arch glance. “Lord Langlevit mentioned something about a wager that you penned. A kiss, and not a chaste one. Why on earth would you do such a thing?”
Something like annoyance flickered in his eyes before it vanished. “To fan the flames, of course. And why does it matter? I’ll be the only one kissing you.”
I don’t want to kiss you.
Irina did not voice the thought, however. “I’m tired, Max, of all these bets and games and intrigues.”
“Tired?Irina, we haven’t even announced our betrothal yet,” he whispered underneath the strains of the violin music.
Now her heart constricted, and the closely packed crowd suddenly seemed to push in toward her. She looked into both familiar and unfamiliar faces, wanting only to see one man. The one face that would set her at ease.
“I’m not even sure,” she said, her breathing coming in short puffs, “about that.”
His grip on her elbow tightened, and he steered her toward a pair of open French doors. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? Irina, this was your idea.”
She allowed him to lead her toward the doors, the need to breathe in cool, clean air, free from perfume and cologne and body heat undeniable.
“I know it was, Max, Iknow,” she said, avoiding glances in her direction, people wanting to stop her to say hello and pay their respects, and countless other men seeking a smile or a dance, driven no doubt by wagers they had made. Irina felt sick to her stomach…sick of it all.
She’d been the one to suggest Max toss his name into the pot for the grand prize; it had been her scheme to marry, collect the winnings, donate them to the Bradburne Trust where it would be spread out to local hospices, and then retreat to St. Petersburg where they could live in privacy and in friendly separation—and away from Henry.
But now…perhaps she had been too hasty.
