Page 67 of My Hellion, My Heart
Pushing her hands down, Henry stood and paced to the start of the arbor. “Of course I care for Irina. I always have. I probably always will. But she is a child who is infatuated.”
“You keep saying that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She is nineteen and of marriageable age,” Rose said calmly, flicking an eyebrow upward at his tone. “She is a woman, even if you choose to convince yourself otherwise.”
Visions of Irina clamped up against him: her lips glued to his, the soft feel of her warm, willing body in his arms as she’d been at the waterfall. They tortured him. He swallowed thickly, driving the stirring, all-too-seductive image from his brain.
“I want nothing more than for her to marry,” he ground out.
“If she has to choose a husband, why should it not be you?”
He strode back toward her, his voice cool though his pulse leaped frantically at her suggestion. Because he could not be a proper husband. Because he could hurt her with his bare hands. Rose did not know the vile truth of what he was capable of—how close he had come to unknowingly harming the courtesan who had warmed his bed. If he hurt Irina while caught unawares in the savage throes of a nightmare, he would never forgive himself. Rose’s condition of separate residences had been a godsend…for him and for her.
“Because I am engaged to you, Rose.”
“A farce.”
“What’s to say that love won’t come in time?” Henry asked, resuming his seat beside her. “Or passion.”
“I do love you.” She laughed at him. “But you’re like a brother to me.”
“And?”
“You know I don’t fancy you that way,” she said, traces of amusement still in her eyes. “Very well, I shall prove it to you. Kiss me.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Kiss you now?”
She nodded. He wasn’t sure what her endgame was, but he leaned in all the same, and brushed his lips across hers. Henry lingered, counting the seconds in his head. “There,” he murmured after five very appropriate seconds and pulled away. “Perfectly pleasant.”
“Perfectly perfunctory, you mean,” Rose said, laughing again. “That was appallingly similar to the one you gave me when we were twelve at the country fair. And honestly, I have no wish to ever repeat that again.” She eyed him, tipping her head to the side. “Tell me the truth—did you feel anything?”
Henry wanted to be offended—his kisses had never been called appalling before—but he only laughed. “No,” he admitted.
“Neither did I. Honestly, it was like kissing a stone statue.” Henry gave a short bark of laughter at the revolted look of mock distaste on her face. “As the alchemists say, we have no chemistry, Lord Langlevit,” Rose continued, “and though I will love you as a friend until the end of time, I have had mygrand amour, and I am content to be a happy widow for the rest of my days and live contentedly with my son.”
“What are you saying?”
She nodded firmly to herself. “I cannot in good conscience stand by and watch you throw away a chance at love because you’re too blind and stubborn to see it. I refuse to let you use me as some kind of excuse. I cannot do this, Henry. I will not marry you.”
Oddly, Henry did not feel anything at Rose’s words. He felt no disappointment, only a strange sense of relief. He did not stop to analyze the odd response, however. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
“It was too much to ask of you.”
“I agreed because you are my friend, and I wanted to help you.” Rose leaned in. “But you and I both know that I would make you a terrible wife. You need someone who can keep pace with you. I cannot climb a tree without getting stuck and needing to be rescued. I abhor sweat and dirt in any measure. I’d rather be indoors perfecting my cross-stitch than riding outdoors, or playing bridge instead of fencing. I would bore you to tears in a matter of months.”
“You would not,” he said loyally.
Frowning at him in silence, Rose pursed her lips. “What are you so afraid of, Henry?”
He did not reply for a long time, but when he did, his voice was quiet. Henry couldn’t tell her the real truth, so he told a partial one. “That my heart is damaged beyond repair.”
“We’re all flawed in some way or another, you know. No one is perfect, and no one expects perfection, least of all, I suspect, Princess Irina.” She stood and reached a hand out to him. “Promise me you’ll at least try.”
“I am not the man for her, Rose.”
