Page 62 of My Hellion, My Heart
Henry grinned at her, his golden eyes dancing as he stopped to remove a stone from the sole of his boot. Irina kept walking, clasping her hands behind her back. “There’s a winner’s board here at Hartstone,” Henry said from his crouched position. “John and I remain the reigning champions at a hundred paces. Neither of us has ever been bested. Care to try your skill?”
“How old were you when it was made?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Seventeen.”
Irina grinned. “Then I accept your challenge.”
They had almost caught up with Lady Langlevit when a screeching noise from the stables startled a brace of pheasants from a bush. They rushed skyward and flew directly into Irina’s path. She flailed and stumbled backward, catching her heel on the edge of the stone path. Gasping for breath, Irina felt herself falling. This was not going to end well. Henry was too far away to be of any use, and there was nothing nearby she could grab ahold of to stabilize herself.
Preparing herself, the breath was knocked out of her as she collided with a strong male body instead of the unforgiving ground. Somehow he had managed to catch her, breaking her fall with his body. Irina didn’t know that it had hurt any less. Like the flagstone at her feet, Henry was all hard, rigid planes.
Caught in his arms, she stared up at him, her breath sticking in her throat at the solid and warm feel of him. The heat of his body seared her, making her nerves tingle and burn. “How did you get over here so fast?” she gasped.
“I prefer foot racing to horse racing, remember?” he said, righting her to her feet. “Can you stand?”
“Yes,” she murmured, still staring at him in wonder. “I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly.”
“The course has helped me to hone my reflexes,” Henry said.
Irina smoothed her dress as he deposited her to where the countess was waiting. She eyed the two of them, concern in her gaze. “Good heavens, Henry, you should investigate. That sounded rather ominous.” She studied Irina. “Are you well, child? Good thing my boy is quick on his feet.”
“I am quite well, thank you, my lady,” Irina said. “And I am indeed grateful for Lord Langlevit’s timely assistance. Such a fall would have been humiliating. And painful. Thank you, my lord.”
Henry bowed, drawing her gloved knuckles to his lips. The moment drew out between them, and time seemed to slow to an interminable pace as he pressed his lips to the kidskin of her gloves.
“I am ever at your service,” he murmured. “Your Highness.”
Henry’s eyes caught and held hers. The heat from his mouth scorched and branded, and when he kissed her hand, Irina felt the chaste touch to the tips of her toes, as if he had plundered the inside of her mouth instead. It was suddenly difficult for her to draw a single breath. She didn’t know if she imagined him lingering over her hand or not, but he seemed reluctant to release her.
He did, however, and after bowing to his mother, strode away in the direction of the stables.
Chapter Seventeen
As Irina resettled into Bishop House on St. James’s Square in London, she felt a strange restlessness. She was glad to be in London, oddly enough, though she also wanted to be in Essex, with her sister. Lana, however, had insisted upon her return to town. One cannot spend one’s season in the country and expect to find a husband, Lana had said, before then launching into a strict lecture about not falling prey to any of the men placing wagers at White’s.
Irina wished Henry had never breathed a word about the damned wagers but had covered her irritation and regret at Lana’s well-meant lecture with a solemn vow to her sister to be sharp and cautious at every public function. She had promised Lana and Gray no less than four times that she would remain within Lady Dinsmore’s view when at a ball, and under no circumstances would she take air on a balcony, or stand within any alcoves, or remove herself into the lesser populated rooms of the host’s home.
There could be no telling which gentleman was out to win a wager and which one was a genuine admirer, so from this point onward, Lana had declared, she had to assume every gentleman was a schemer—and then wait and hope to be proven wrong.
Irina would not have much difficulty with that. If there was any man or woman in London who wasnota schemer, she would have enjoyed meeting them. Even she was a schemer, really. She’d been a part of the whole wager business to begin with, and if that ever got out to Lana or Gray, or good heavens, to Henry, she would be mortified. Why had she even considered any of it in the first place? She’d been frustrated and bored and…well, if she were being honest, she’d wanted the attention.Henry’sattention.
As she paced the upper floor of Bishop House, waiting for her maid to arrive and signal it was time for her to appear in the grand ballroom, she prayed there would be no wager business tonight. Lord and Lady Dinsmore were hosting a small soiree—small meaning no fewer than two hundred of London’s finest—and she felt a swarm of nerves in her belly at the thought that there were men in attendance planning to corner her somewhere and steal a kiss.
And not a chaste one, came the echo of Henry’s warning.
Her hands were fairly sweating within her silk gloves, an ivory white to match her gown, which was threaded throughout with small green flowers and vines. The needlework was simple and lovely, and she’d chosen the demure dress with the hopes that it would not garner her too much attention. Or lust.
Jane appeared at the end of the hallway, and from the small bob of her head, Irina knew it was time. Lady Dinsmore wished for her to make a grand entrance. The countess was thrilled to be hosting Irina while Lady Langlevit continued to rest at Hartstone and had decided to throw a ball in the princess’s honor. Irina was certain she was not going to enjoy the attention, especially now knowing that there were crude wagers in that book at White’s. Henry had only divulged the one about a kiss, but by the way he’d acted there were others. Others that were far more risqué.
She hadn’t seen Henry since the day at Hartstone a week before when they’d strolled together on the lawns, and when he had caught her in that fall. His reflexes had been cat-like. Honed, he’d said, on his course in the woods, which had only reminded her of the afternoon she’d seen him in the waterfall, and then when he’d pressed her against the tree and done things to her that had given her a taste of bliss.
What would it be like to be able to have more than just that one taste? Though she’d tried not to think about Henry that evening, the next morning—and every day after that—she had failed. She’d found herself imagining scenarios in which she and Henry were together, at Hartstone and in London, in public and in private. She would be on his arm at every ball and dinner, and at home she would be his to ravish as he pleased. And for her to explore him, as well. After viewing him in his full glory, Irina couldn’t help but long for the chance.
However, Henry was not hers to know. Not in that way.
He’d stayed in Essex with his mother, she was sure. And Lady Carmichael preferred the countryside to Town, too. Perhaps she would not see him again before his wedding. Something she was certain to be invited to. Unless she was already back in St. Petersburg by that time. One could only hope.
Bracing herself, Irina entered the sunken ballroom and descended the handful of marble steps, her eyes landing almost immediately upon a tall couple standing in the center of the ballroom. Why she saw them first among the scores of other guests that had turned to watch her entrance she could only put down to pure self-torture. It was Henry and Lady Carmichael. They were here after all. Her luck was already failing, it seemed.
