My Hellion, My Heart

by Amalie Howard

  Irina’s ears caught on that last “I think,” and from the answering tightening of the earl’s jaw, so had he. It appeared his renown of late as an unrepentant rake was even known to the countess herself. What had happened in the past five years to change him so? He’d been nothing but a dutiful son and an esteemed peer of the realm with an unimpeachable reputation. Over the past few years, the whisperings of his declining morals had grown loud enough to be heard on different continents.

  The countess’s voice softened as she reached forward to stroke his sleeve. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

  Irina took in a clipped breath as Langlevit opened the box to reveal a magnificent ruby ring with his family’s crest. If she had remembered, she could have brought a gift, but then again, she no longer had any idea what his likes and dislikes were.

  “And now that we have dispensed with that,” Lady Langlevit continued, reaching for the pile of papers at her left. “It’s high time you married.”

  Irina choked on her next breath of air. Married?

  The earl’s cold gaze flicked to her for a moment. “We do not need to discuss this here.”

  “I’m afraid we must,” the countess said, causing the muscle in her son’s cheek to make an appearance once more. “Each time I have sent word to your residence, you have been busy. You know the stipulation, Henry. You must marry, or the title and estates will revert to the Crown. As of today, the clock is ticking.”

  “The clock has been ticking for many years,” he muttered.

  Lady Langlevit ignored him. “And you have left things to the last minute. Now, these are the settlement documents your father was required to present to the House of Lords when we married, proving he had indeed met the stipulation King Charles—”

  Irina stood while the earl’s mouth thinned to a slash. She cleared her throat, drawing his harsh glance. “Lord Langlevit is right. This is a private matter,” she said standing. “I will excuse myself.”

  “Please, that is not necessary,” Lady Langlevit began as her son also abruptly stood. His knee caught the end of the tea tray and disrupted a teacup from its saucer. Black tea spilled across the tabletop, dripping onto the priceless carpet as the servants rushed forward to mop up the mess.

  “No, please, do stay. I insist. This is now your home, after all,” he growled, his teeth gritted as he stared at the mess and tried to right the teacup. A footman intervened to take over the task, and the two of them wound up fumbling the teacup straight onto the carpet.

  Langlevit growled again, and Irina heard him swear beneath his breath. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. “I should leave,” he said and, with his face still a mask of fury, strode from the room.

  …

  Henry paced in his study, forcing himself to pore over the account ledgers of his various estates. Numbers always helped to clear his head. Usually, they did. But not today. Not after what had happened hours ago at Devon Place.

  He’d half wished upon his return that Mary and Camilla had still been there, but Billings had already seen them back. He’d briefly considered saddling his horse and finding them again at The Cock and the Crown to rid himself of the nervous energy that had built up like an angry squall within him, but for the first time in weeks, he’d resigned himself to his study for an evening of numbers and solitude.

  A useless prospect, it seemed. Even the numbers weren’t helping.

  Nor was the copious amount of whiskey he’d consumed.

  Henry could only think of her.

  Irina Volkonsky had become even more beautiful than when he’d seen her last in St. Petersburg, as if the promise of womanhood had been fulfilled several times over. Her curves were fuller, her features less sharp. Her eyes now carried secrets, as did that seductive mouth. When she’d deliberately turned the snifter and pressed her lips to the place he’d drunk from last, tantalizing him with that whiskey-dampened mouth, it had taken all of his control not to toss that bloody tea tray aside and settle her into his lap.

  If his mother hadn’t entered at that moment, he likely would have. He’d given free rein to his baser instincts for so long that he had no inclination to curb them. If a woman offered a sampling of her charms, he would take it. It was that simple. He did not refuse pleasure in any form, and he had not been mistaken in what Princess Irina was offering.

  But she was still his mother’s ward.

  He had been her protector five years ago for the better part of a year.

  She was a child.

  Henry swallowed hard, remembering the provocative swirl of her tongue against the snifter and the purposeful gaze that had held his. No, she was no child, that much was clear. He drew a cleansing breath. But she was young, and there was a reason he preferred the company of courtesans to young ladies: the exchange of coin kept things simple. Those women also weren’t afraid of him…of his basest desires or of the outlet he needed. They accepted that once the act had concluded, there would be no intimacy.

  It was Henry’s hard-and-fast rule when it came to women, and it was not one that the princess would understand…not one that any gently bred lady would understand. Because at the heart of it, he was a monster. A madman who needed to be alone. So regardless of his blasted attraction to Irina, he would keep his distance. For her sake. And his.

  “Focus,” he hissed to himself. The princess was off-limits, and that was that.

  Henry forced himself to stare at the intricate columns of numbers, totaling the expenses and profits of each estate. Many showed past-due dates. He’d shirked his duties for too long, it seemed. A reluctant grin tugged on his mouth as he recalled the disdain with which Irina had said she wouldn’t want to tear him from his affairs. Her insult had been clear. Though her appearance had changed, inside she had retained the quick wit and sense of humor she’d had as a girl. He suspected the streak of stubbornness was still there, as well. Along with her insatiable curiosity. He remembered how easily she’d soaked up details about his distillery. Unlike most people whose eyes would glaze over, or who would pretend to care only to impress him, she had shown genuine interest. The intelligence in those violet eyes had not disappeared with time, either.

  And the princess obviously had developed a fondness for whiskey. He recalled how she had rolled the liquid on her tongue, exploring and separating the flavors. He’d wanted her whiskey-spiced tongue in his mouth. He still did. With a soft growl, Henry tried futilely to push the thought from his mind.

  A soft rap on the door drew him from his lustful thoughts. “What is it, Stevens? I said I did not wish to be disturbed.”

  “My apologies, my lord,” Stevens said, opening the study door. “Lady La Valse is here and insists on seeing you at once.”

  He almost gave the command to send the lady on her way, but hesitated at the last moment. Françoise La Valse and he shared an understanding. Perhaps she was a blessing in disguise. A widowed viscountess with wealth of her own and a voluptuous body that was built for passion, they served as each other’s companions whenever either of them were in London.

  She, like him, had no interest in anything beyond the pursuit of pleasure, and that suited him fine. Though he knew it aggrieved his mother when he accompanied Françoise openly to the theater or the opera, Henry did not give a hoot for the thoughts of the ton. Neither did Françoise, for that matter. The fickle ton would tolerate both of them because of their wealth and titles. Henry glanced at the open books on his desk. The numbers would still be there tomorrow. And right now, his body needed a lot more than any whiskey could possibly assuage.

  “Show her in,” he said with a curt nod.

  It was the right decision, he decided, as Françoise closed the heavy door behind her and discarded the floor-length fur she’d been wearing. She was naked beneath it. Seeing his look, she laughed low in her throat and unpinned her auburn hair from its combs. “Stevens was rather miffed when I insisted he not take m
y coat. That would have caused quite a scene in the foyer, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure,” Henry said, amused. “Give me a second to clear my desk.”

  Françoise walked forward to perch a rounded hip on the edge of the mahogany desk, entirely comfortable with her nudity. She studied the documents nearest her—the marriage settlement papers his mother had presented that afternoon at Devon Place and sent over to his house that evening. “I see you’re still stuck with this ridiculous obligation.”

  “It’s impossible to circumvent,” he said. “I must marry by the end of this year or forfeit it all.”

  “If you do take a wife, I hope it will not affect our arrangement.” She trailed a finger lazily down his shirtfront. “I’d hate to have to find a replacement.”

  Henry said nothing. He did not want to reassure her when he knew it would be a lie. If Rose accepted his proposal, he would be far more discreet in his choice of a mistress. He would be no freely philandering jackass, humiliating his wife among her peers with a lover so well known as Lady La Valse. No, if Rose agreed, his ongoing affair with Françoise would be over.

  Shifting provocatively on the desk, the lady in question hooked a leg around his thigh and tugged on his cravat. “I’ve become quite fond of you.” Her hand drifted to the front of his trousers. “Or parts of you, at least.”

  Henry drew in a breath as her hands stroked him. He cleared all the papers to the floor and ensconced himself between Françoise’s willing legs. He’d look at the numbers, and the bloody settlement papers, later. Right now, he only wanted to sink himself so deeply into a fog of pleasure that he wouldn’t have to think. And Françoise was nothing if not an enthusiastic participant.

  The Earl of Langlevit fully intended to exorcise all thoughts of Princess Irina Volkonsky from his head, and as Françoise began to open the fall of his trousers, then tug at his shirt, his intentions succeeded. She pulled his shirt up, intending to push it over his head and toss it to the floor. Henry grasped her hands to still them.

  She gave a light laugh. “Oh, my shy earl. What are you hiding under there? Why must you always remain clothed?”

  Françoise knew. She had to. There was not one person in his circle of peers who did not know of his injuries sustained on the Peninsula. The munitions bunker that had exploded, killing several of his men. Burning them alive. With his own injuries, Henry had only been able to carry out one boy, the youngest of his regiment. It had slowed his escape from the bunker, but he could not have left the boy to be devoured by flames. The scars from those burns stretched over the breadth of Henry’s back and shoulders, and for many years had pained him. A deep, reaching pain that had made standing and sitting, and even lying down, difficult.

  “I like to be ready for any unwanted intrusions,” he said to Françoise, the lie weak.

  She shook her head and relented, her hands returning to the buttons on his trousers. “Should Stevens walk in while you are pounding into me, I shall not allow you to stop. Let him watch,” Françoise said, her teeth nipping the lobe of his ear.

  Her bold words hardened him as she finished her task and reached inside. But even as he took what she’d come here to offer, losing himself in the rhythmic thrusts and building pressure of the act, then the rushing break of release, he did not think of the gorgeous woman perched so lasciviously on his desk.

  As he withdrew and buttoned his trousers once again, then draped the long fur coat back over Françoise’s shoulders, it was not the widow’s naughty words that kept him aroused. It was Irina’s mouth, and the deliberate way she’d caressed that glass with her tongue and lips.

  Had she meant to seduce him, or just tease him? And how many other men had the princess seduced in such a way? Henry gritted his teeth as Françoise closed the coat tightly around her and touched her hair, as if to make sure it had been well re-secured with its pins and combs.

  She stopped to stare at him. “My, you look positively unsatisfied. Perhaps I should stay the night?”

  Henry shook his head, an immediate reflex that would have come across as insulting to any other woman offering her company. Thankfully, Lady La Valse did not suffer a sensitive ego. Henry might take women to his bed at all hours of the day, but at night, he slept alone. Always alone. The probability of a visiting night terror, the ones that so often stalked him as he slept, was too high. They gripped him in his sleep more forcibly than when he was awake, it seemed, and Henry would rise from the terrifying stupors drenched in sweat, his sheets a tangled mass, the air around him snowing feathers from the pillows he’d torn to shreds with his own possessed hands.

  Once, following his return from the Continent, he’d allowed a passing fancy to sleep beside him after their encounter was finished. Her terrified screams had snapped Henry from his hellish nightmare, only to find that he’d shoved her from the bed. Though she was more frightened than hurt, Henry knew it could have been far worse had she tried to awaken him. She would have suffered the same fate as countless pillows.

  He had not made the same mistake again, nor would he ever.

  Françoise eyed him skeptically now, but before she could say anything, Henry continued, “I’m only bothered by this marriage business, that is all.”

  She rose to the tips of her lady’s boots and kissed his cheek. “I understand. I don’t care for the institution myself and can’t tell you how lucky I am to be done with it. I’d feel guilty saying such, but I do believe my husband, God rest his soul, was relieved to be done with it, as well.”

  Henry huffed a laugh. Françoise’s husband, the late Viscount La Valse, had been a stunted old knave. The marriage had solely been a profitable one for both him and Françoise, the latter of whom had reportedly thrown an intimate party at her home the day after the viscount’s death.

  “I’ll see myself out. Good night, my favorite earl,” she said as she made her way toward the study door.

  He watched her go, slightly relieved to be alone again. At least now some of the well of restlessness inside of him had been drained. He would miss Françoise’s easy humor. When he married and broke things off with her, she would not be sad. She had other earls and marquesses and dukes at her beck and call, and probably a whole brigade of the demimonde and gentry.

  Henry left the desk and the scattering of papers upon the floor and walked toward the windows overlooking the gardens. It was late, the moon full and bright. He was not tired in the least and knew he would remain awake a few more hours, or even well past the first light of dawn, his lust unslaked, his mind prowling the undignified response he’d felt for Irina that morning in his mother’s day room.

  The numbers. He would have to attempt the ledgers again. Perhaps more whiskey.

  He turned around and got to work.

  Chapter Four

  Hadley Gardens had changed drastically since the last time Irina had set foot inside its splendid walls. No longer the gilded interior it had once been for the previous duke, Her Grace, the Duchess of Bradburne, had completely redesigned the interior into shades of mint green, robin’s-egg blue, and buttercup yellow. Only the ballroom remained as sumptuous and ornate as Irina remembered it, though for some reason it did appear a bit smaller and far more crowded than she’d last seen it, during one of the balls she and Lana had attended together just before her marriage to Lord Northridge.

  At fourteen, Irina should not have been able to attend any society functions at all, but Lana had not possessed the heart to say no, and Her Grace had explicitly requested Irina’s presence. In truth, Irina thought Lana had allowed her to tag along in society simply because she did not want to be parted from her, even for a few hours. After spending nearly eight months apart in England as they hid from their duplicitous uncle and his vicious cohort, Baron Zakorov, both Lana and Irina had clung to one another for weeks once they had reunited.

  Irina, however, had soon returned to St. Petersburg and their limited fam
ily there, while Lana had remained in England, traveling only time and again to Volkonsky Palace. Lana had offered to let Irina live with them, but even at that young age, she had known married couples needed their space. And Irina had wanted to return home and be among familiar people and sights and sounds.

  Besides, the Earl of Langlevit was often in St. Petersburg. He had been their father’s friend and confidant, and had been in the city when she and Lana needed him most, for their quick, midnight escape. It was not as if she wouldn’t see him again.

  Or so she had thought.

  “There you are!” A vibrant voice rising above the din inside Hadley Gardens’ ballroom broke Irina from her reverie. She spun around to find a familiar face grinning widely, lips parted in astonishment. Lady Lyon, the countess she had met in Paris last year, embraced Irina openly, rather than bow and smile as most ladies would have done.

  “Gwen,” Irina said, breathless from the firm squeeze of her hug. “I did not realize you’d be here. How wonderful to see you again. As you can see, I followed your strict order and came straight to London.”

  The countess laughed loudly enough to draw glances of concern from those nearby.

  “It is the opening ball of the season, my darling, I would not miss it! The sheer number of hopeful debutantes and randy bachelors promises fine entertainment for one evening,” she said then leaning closer, whispered, “Look there. Next to Lady Rochester. Lady Eugenia Fairbanks. It’s her third season, you know.”

  Irina eyed the pretty young woman, who was standing next to a potted shrub decorated with what appeared to be elegantly folded paper birds. Lady Eugenia stood primly to the side of the dance floor, a cup of punch in hand, watching the merriment with slightly desperate interest.