Page 65 of My Hellion, My Heart
Irina could not possibly be accepting him. Had Remi lured her out here to propose? Or perhaps he wasn’t proposing at all. Perhaps his aim had been to win the latest wager, one that would put Irina at risk. Thank God Henry had decided to quit Essex and return to London. He could not leave her alone for a minute without her walking straight into disaster.
“I know that it would be wonderful between us.” This from Lord Remi. The bastard. “We’re perfect for each other, and you know that. Let me show you.”
Rose squeezed Henry’s arm. “We must do something,” she whispered. “The princess will ruin herself.”
It was in the back of Henry’s mind the moment he’d seen Irina and Lord Remi darting onto the terrace. Why in hell did these bloody ballrooms have to have so many balconies and terraces anyway? They should be chained off during balls. Better yet, blown to rubble entirely.
He’d taken Rose’s arm and asked her to go with him to the terrace once Irina had disappeared through the French doors. The press of the crowd was unsettling, yes, but more disturbing was Lord Remi’s grip on her arm. Henry could not have left Rose standing there in the ballroom, either. She knew barely a soul. So, he’d led her outdoors and then, when the terrace had been empty, down the stairs to the lawns. Rose had said nothing all the while.
Except now.
“Henry,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied. Of course, he knew he must do something. What he wanted was to put his fist through Remi’s teeth. He wanted to pick him up and hurl him as far from Irina as he could and then stand guard over her to prevent his returning. However, he knew both of those options were out of the realm of possibility. So instead, Henry stepped under the rose trellis and cleared his throat.
Irina whirled around, her figure a dark stamp against the night shadows in the garden’s entrance. Lord Remi remained steady, not reacting visibly to the interruption at all.
“Hen—Lord Langlevit,” Irina said, slipping up and nearly addressing him by his first name. She then saw Rose. “And Lady Carmichael.”
“Your Highness,” he said, attempting to keep his voice under control. It still sounded like grinding rocks. He clenched his fists. “I believe Lady Dinsmore is searching for you.”
It was much more civil than the string of curses he wanted to sling at both Irina and Lord Remi. What the devil had she been thinking, accepting Remi’s invitation to the gardens? Knowing the manner of wagers that were now on every bachelor’s mind, how could she risk it?
“Yes, I am sure she is,” Irina said, beginning to detach herself from Remi’s side.
Lord Remi, however, was not so avid to leave the garden entrance. He stepped in front of Irina, blocking her from reaching Henry’s side. “Lord Langlevit, I am afraid you have rather rudely interrupted what was going to be an important moment.”
“Max, don’t,” Irina said sharply.
“You were saying quite the opposite a moment ago, my dear,” he murmured.
A ferocious pulse quickened through Henry, the need to destroy coming back, untempered.
“Careful, Remisov,” he growled.
There was a beat of silence, and then Lord Remi chuckled. “A name I’ve not heard in quite some time. You have been poking around, my lord. Turn up anything interesting yet?”
Henry took a step closer, his footfalls churning up the earthy scent of grass and night dew. “I’ll show my cards in due time. Until then, I believe I will deliver Princess Irina to her chaperone.”
“I told you, Langlevit—we were in the middle of something.”
His control snapped and Henry strode forward, coming toe to toe with the young, arrogant lord. “And I am telling you that whatever it was, is over. Stand aside or, God help you, I will move you myself.”
The poor lighting made it impossible to see into Lord Remi’s eyes, but Henry held the man’s pitch-black stare for a handful of moments, neither of them breathing as the air turned thick with threat.
“That is enough,” Irina finally said, pushing past Remi and then farther, past Henry. At some point, Henry had released Rose’s arm, and a back segment of his mind tickled and stung with the recollection that she was here, in the garden entrance with them. It was the only thing that kept him remotely tethered to rationality.
“I will see myself inside,” Irina announced, and with a muttered apology to Rose, disappeared under the trellis and back toward the terrace steps.
Henry followed, wanting only to be certain she did in fact make it back inside the ballroom safely. He stood on the other side of the trellis, watching as she did.
“You have an appalling sense of timing,” Lord Remi said lazily, and when Henry turned back to him, caught the tail end of an equally lazy—and sarcastic—bow. “Good evening,” he said as he stood tall again, turned on one heel, and walked deeper into the garden.
Within seconds, he was out of sight.
The muscles along Henry’s shoulders, bunched and tense for the last several minutes, did not relax at his departure, setting off a painful ache near his old wounds. Every inch of him remained on edge, ready for attack, and it was only the soft touch of Rose’s fingers on his elbow that made him gather himself.
“Henry?”
