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 was not a 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’s attention.
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.
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 the ton, 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, I know,” 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.
Irina went to the terrace edge and gripped the cool stone balustrade. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, sucking in air to clear her head.
“What has happened?” Max asked, his tone firmer than before. As if he were truly vexed.
“You don’t want to marry me,” she said, keeping her own voice low so no one below on the lawns, just beyond the terrace stairs, might overhear.
“Of course I do,” he replied, taking her arm yet again and leading her toward the steps. “Come. I think we need a stroll to get your head on straight, my dear.”
“I shouldn’t, Max. Lana made me promise—”
“It is me, Irina. Your virtue is utterly safe.”
“But if we’re seen—”
“This is the problem,” Max said, leading her down the steps and onto the grass. “What do you care if we are seen? Haven’t we made this decision already? I’m going to propose. You’re going to accept. We will be married. So if someone stumbles upon us in the shadows of this lawn, it won’t matter in the least.”
When he put it like that, no, it wouldn’t matter. If she were going to accept his suit and go through with the marriage, the whole guest list could come upon them skulking about in the gardens and there wouldn’t be a problem at all. And why shouldn’t she marry Max? She couldn’t have Henry, and he was the only other man she’d ever want as a husband. But was that a good enough reason? It was marriage. A lifetime of commitment, a forever choice. And she did not have to marry in order to go home and never see Lord Langlevit or his beautiful bride again.
She wasn’t ready. Perhaps if she hadn’t come upon Henry in that waterfall pool, or if he hadn’t touched her and brought her to raptures, or if she had not then been able to play billiards with him and then walk with him so companionably at Hartstone, she might be ready to give up. To let go of any hope. Any dreams.
She knew he cared for her. He had to care for her, even if he did not want her for a wife, even if he’d already proposed and decided to stick by his proposal. Even knowing all of that, Irina could not let go.
“Max, I’ve made a mistake.”
He stopped her just beyond the trellis arch, blooming with roses and ivy and blocking a clear view of the terrace.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t give up your chance at happiness because you’re still clinging to hope.”
“Marrying you is not my only chance at happiness.”
“And what of my chance?” Max released her and ran his fingers through his hair, clutching the blond strands at the crown of his head. “You have no idea what it is like, being rejected by your own kin. Your own father. To be sent away because you’re an embarrassment. You have no idea what it’s like to live on a clock, quickly winding down, knowing soon…you’ll have nothing.”
Irina tried to sharpen her eyes through the darkness, wanting to see his face. She only saw him release his hair, his arms falling at his sides.
“What do you mean, soon you’ll have nothing?”
He exhaled long and loud, and she got the feeling he was about to part with a secret. “I was disowned, Irina. My title stripped away. My cousin will inherit everything, and when he does…I’ll be cut off. My father made certain to tell me as much. Enjoy my sinning while I can, he advised. When he’s dead, I’m on my own.” In the shadows, she saw him hang his head. Irina’s heart ached for him. She took his hands in hers.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
“Irina, if I don’t have you…I thought that I would at least have you. That I wouldn’t be left alone,” he said. “In Paris, you accepted me for who I am. You’ve become my light in all of this.”
She squeezed his hands, uncertain how to reply. She didn’t know if his father was ailing or not, but soon Max would be cut off. If his cousin inherited everything, Max’s mother would be cared for but not to such an extent that she could send him thousands of pounds every year. He didn’t know how to work. He didn’t know how to earn a living wage. What on earth would he do?
“I thought you would be my friend,” he went on.
“Oh, Max, I am your friend,” she said, feeling torn and frustrated. It made her stomach churn angrily. Had he only wanted her for her dowry? She shook her head. No, Max had been there for her, and the idea for him to put his hand in the marriage pot had been hers. She’d led them both here…she’d given him false hope.
“I thought you wanted this,” Max whispered, and Irina could feel the gust of his breath against her cheek. She hadn’t realized they’d come to be standing so close. “I thought you wanted me this way. You care for me, don’t you?”
Irina closed her eyes, consumed with guilt. How could she not help him? How could she say no? She couldn’t. Max was her friend, and he needed her. There was only one answer to give: “I do.”