Chapter Three
At the appearance of the tall man in the doorway, Irina’s pulse slowed and galloped in intermittent fits and starts. Her arms felt like rubber as she placed the teacup delicately onto its matching china saucer. She’d known she would see him at some point during the season, but not today. Not so suddenly. Not when she wasn’t prepared.
All her carefully rehearsed imaginings flew out the window as she studied the earl and frowned inwardly. He did not seem the same as she’d remembered. Certainly, on the surface he was as handsome as ever, accounting for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but something was different. Something wasn’t right.
Two years ago in St. Petersburg, he’d been cold and aloof, but now he seemed as if he was holding himself together by the grace of one fragile thread. Harrowed or haunted by something. Lines of tension notched his wide brow, and his shoulders were rigid, as though bearing the weight of the world and more.
His eyes, warm amber she knew from memory, but now dark with shadows, settled on her. There was recognition there, along with something fiercer, something that made an icy tremor race across her spine. Lana had confided, in secret, the earl’s clandestine activities as an officer of the king, and Irina had heard even quieter talk about the unyielding core that had kept him alive on the Peninsula and inspired his promotion to Field Marshal. She saw it then in his eyes—a look that would make grown men quake—but Irina did not drop her gaze like a terrified mouse. Instead, she held his stare until he drew a measured breath and turned to the countess.
The tension slipped from his face and body as he crossed the room toward Lady Langlevit, his lips curving into a familiar smile. A shallow dimple appeared in his right cheek. Despite his earlier rigidity, the sight of it made Irina’s bones turn to water. A handful of years ago, she’d been the recipient of those tender smiles, usually only reserved for his mother, and then her, whenever he’d visited the estate in Cumbria. In her childish infatuation, she’d craved them like a flower craves sunlight.
“Mother,” he said and then aimed a short bow in Irina’s direction. The smile shifted into something a bit lazier, the dimple disappearing, and Irina couldn’t help but mourn its loss. Then again, she was a grown woman now, not a child. He obviously did not view her as anything more than an acquaintance. “Your Highness. You’ve grown.”
“Lord Langlevit,” she murmured, proud that her voice didn’t sound like an indelicate croak. “That is the usual side effect of time passing, I hear.”
One of his pale brown eyebrows arched, his smile widening at her glib response. There was no dimple in sight, though. A fake smile, then.
“So I see,” he replied, taking the armchair opposite them.
“Would you like some tea, dear?” the countess asked.
Langlevit shook his head. “Something stronger, I think. It is my birthday, after all.” He signaled to the hovering footman who brought him a snifter of what looked like whiskey.
The earl had always favored whisky when he’d visit the estate, Marsden Hall, in Cumbria. He would sip it slowly, as if just having a glass in his hand was enough. The whiskey was likely from his own distillery in Dumfries, Scotland. Irina longed for a glass to fortify herself, as well, but she sipped her tea instead, peering at him over the cup’s gilded rim. In other company, she might have been bold enough to ask for a few drops in her tea, but it would be unseemly in the countess’s presence.
“Happy birthday, my lord,” Irina said, surprised that she had forgotten what day it was. All those years ago, when she and the countess had been secluded in Cumbria, the earl had not been present for his birthday. But on March the twenty-first, she and Lady Langlevit had enjoyed a selection of divine French truffles in his honor. Irina had never tasted anything so decadent and wonderful as those chocolate morsels, and when the countess had explained that they were “Henry’s favorite,” she had decided that they would be hers, as well.
He nodded at her now, a tight incline of his head, his back and shoulders so straight they looked painful. It was all the acknowledgment he gave for her birthday wishes. His eyes did not even settle on her for more than a heartbeat. Irina felt a sinking sensation in her chest, quickly followed by a rising fire. Had he always been such a horse’s ass?
“Oh, Andrews,” Lady Langlevit called out to the butler, “would you please fetch the box from the mantel that was delivered earlier? And there is also a sheaf of papers in the study under the—” She paused abruptly and stood. Langlevit leaped to his feet, nearly spilling the contents of his glass over the pale blue-and-gold Aubusson carpet. “Sit, my darling,” the countess said, patting his arm on her way past. “Never mind, Andrews, I’ll see to the papers. I’ll just be a moment, my dears.”
Irina set her cup down again and folded her hands in her lap. Without the countess’s gentle presence, the tension in the room became nearly solid. The earl studied her with a hooded gaze, the long fingers of one hand drumming against his knee. Irina could feel the leashed energy vibrating off him. With his tousled, dark-blond hair and Cimmerian gaze, he had the air of a captive lion more than that of a man. He did not want to be here. She saw it in every tap of his finger. Well, he was not the only one. He sipped his whiskey, and she followed the movement, wishing once more for a drink of her own. She’d become used to the relaxed rules of society in Paris, where women were not restricted to sherry and wine.
Something flared in his eyes for a moment, and then he extended the glass to her. “Would you like a taste?”
The question threw her years into the past. Like his rare tender smiles, he’d offered occasional sips of his family whiskey to her on return from his visits to the distillery in Dumfries. A taste here and there, explaining how it was made and aged, walking her through the complicated process and the uses of different grains and barrels. She used to love listening to him talk about a subject he obviously had a passion for, and it was, she supposed, the reason she’d developed a liking for whiskey in the first place. Or why whenever she drank it, she thought of him.
Glancing at the silent footman who hadn’t blinked an eye at the earl’s highly improper question, Irina leaned forward, taking the snifter. She breathed in the rich aromas of oak and vanilla. Henry slouched back in his chair, crossing his legs and watching her with a slightly bored expression. His aloofness chafed at her. Had she not changed enough in appearance to warrant some sort of response from him? Something more than a mundane, “You’ve grown?” Of course, she had not expected him to lose his mind or dissolve into absurd compliments, but did she truly not look any different to him than she had when she was fourteen? She would not stand for his cool reserve. Not this time.
Keeping her eyes deliberately on his, Irina turned the glass to where the outline of his lips remained on the rim and brought it slowly to her mouth. She pressed her tongue lightly against the edge as she sipped the smoky liquid. She heard his indrawn breath, saw his throat bob from the corner of her eye, but did not release him from her stare until she’d placed the glass on the table between them.
Irina licked her lips and savored the mellow bite, enjoying the lingering finish of the fine whiskey. Her blood boiled from the phantom imprint of his mouth more than the taste of the liquor, but she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Henry’s eyes were narrowed on her, his nostrils flaring. She’d bet anything he wasn’t thinking of her as some naive child now.
“Far better than I remembered,” she said softly.
The earl half rose out of his chair, a muscle beating along his jaw, his eyes focused on her mouth. At that precise moment, however, Lady Langlevit swept back into the room. Irina let out a breath, uncertain what he’d been about to do. Her heart was racing at a fair clip, though, as if he had become that lion again, and she had become prey.
If the rumors about Langlevit were to be believed, he was no gentleman. At least, not anymore. Deep down, she knew she was playing a dangerous game. Though she was not ignorant of what happened between men and women, and she had flirted with the opposite sex in abundance, she had never been so forward in an attempted seduction. The word made her cheeks warm. She had not meant for it to be that. She had only wanted to shake that cool, unflappable exterior.
Refusing to feel one ounce of shame for her scandalous behavior, she watched as the countess shuffled a large stack of documents, which she placed on the cushion beside her as she sat. Langlevit took one look at them and also resumed his seat, his mouth tightening.
“When did you arrive in London?” the earl asked Irina, his cool tone at odds with the storm brewing in those tawny eyes.
“Two weeks past.”
“Staying with Lord and Lady Northridge, I presume?”
The countess was quick to answer. “I’m glad you brought that up, dear. You see, Lady Northridge had planned to host Irina for this season, only she’s had another horrible scare. Upon orders from Dr. Hargrove, she has returned to Essex for the duration of her confinement.” With a pained sigh, she placed a hand to her breast. “After the last loss, it is best for her to rest as much as possible.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Langlevit murmured.
“The loss of a child is tragic, indeed.” Lady Langlevit patted his hand where it lay on the arm of his chair. “My Henry was the fourth in a long line of similar tragedy. I would wish such torture on no one.” The countess took a long sip of her tea and addressed her son. “As a result, I’ve offered to host Irina while I am in London. I’m in need of the company, and she is in need of a suitable chaperone.”
The earl’s entire body stilled. “Here?”
“Why not? I have more than enough room in this drafty old residence,” Lady Langlevit replied. She sent a warm, reassuring smile in Irina’s direction. The countess’s elegantly appointed house was far from drafty. “It will do us both good.” She eyed her son. “It would do you good to show your face in polite society, as well. Perhaps you can endeavor to act as Irina’s escort to a few functions.”
“I’m certain Her Highness will have more than enough suitors breaking down the door, as she did in Paris,” he said, his snifter paused at his lips. “I wouldn’t want to besmirch her reputation with attention such as mine.”
Irina stiffened, and Lady Langlevit stared at her son with an expression of mild disgust. “Really, Henry, what has come over you?”
“I certainly would not wish to inconvenience anyone,” Irina said, “much less take the esteemed Lord Langlevit away from his important affairs.”
She met his stare, arching an eyebrow to make sure her emphasis on the last word hadn’t been lost. She and everyone in London knew exactly what, and whom, he did with his time. His eyes remained fathomless for an eternal moment before an impassive look descended on the rest of that austere face. It rankled her to no end that he could dismiss her so easily, but two could play at this game. She hiked her chin and fought the slow bloom of embarrassment rising in her cheeks.
With a deepening frown that swung uneasily between the two of them, the countess signaled to Andrews to bring in the small velvet box she’d sent him for, which the butler placed on the small table between them. “In any case, before your mood sours further and ruins our lovely afternoon, this was your father’s, handed down to each heir on their thirtieth birthday. I wish he could have been here to present it to you himself. He would have been proud of you, I think.”
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 my 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.