Chapter Six
The spring flowers in Hyde Park were beginning to emerge, their bright colors offsetting the richer chartreuse of the underlying grass. It had rained the night before, and their petals were still dewy and glistening. Even the Serpentine gleamed, the early morning sun dappling its surface with playful shimmers. The hour was early, not yet noon, so the park was not crowded with the beau monde dressed to the nines and showing off their equipages. Most of the ton would be out in the late afternoon.
Normally, people-watching was one of Irina’s favorite things to do, but today she preferred to escape it. Her mind was tortured with other things as she rode along in Max’s phaeton. Thoroughly indecent things. Like the way Lord Langlevit had claimed her mouth the evening before. Her lips still tingled. She hadn’t simply been kissed—she’d been branded.
Irina had been kissed before, but none of them had ever been like Henry’s kiss. Their lips and teeth and tongues had ground together in an embrace that had been violent, carnal, and intoxicatingly arousing. She’d found herself responding to it, wanting to devour him as he’d been devouring her. If he hadn’t left when he did, she would have stripped bare and abandoned herself to ruination. Even now, warmth saturated her, pooling between her thighs and making her skin feel shivery-hot. Her breathing wizened to short pants just from the memory of the bloody thing. Irina’s fingers curled into the folds of her riding habit, and she squeezed her legs together.
“Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Max asked with a laugh. “Honestly, what has gotten into you today? You’ve been distracted ever since we left Devon Place. What is it? A delectable new suitor you haven’t told me about?” He eyed her, arching an amused eyebrow as he scanned her flushed cheeks. “Oh, do tell, you naughty minx. I should have known you were hiding something from me.”
Irina’s startled glance met his. Max was too perceptive for his own good, and his guess was far too close to the truth. Not that Langlevit was a suitor. In fact, he’d declared himself the exact opposite.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about Lana,” she fabricated wildly and then stifled the indelicate chortle that welled in her throat. The image in her head had most definitely not been that of her sister—not unless she’d turned into a handsome, if impossible to understand, earl. “And my return to Essex. What were you saying?”
His eye roll was worthy of an ovation. “You don’t get to escape that easily, little liar, but I was asking how well you liked my new phaeton.”
“I like it very much,” she said. In other circumstances, riding on the high perch of Max’s fabulous new carriage would be thrilling, but once more, it paled in comparison to her private thoughts.
“The horses are new, as well,” he said with a wink. “Got them at auction.”
She frowned at her friend. “Didn’t you recently purchase a pair of Hanoverians? And I seem to remember hearing something of a new curricle, as well.”
Max shot her an irrepressible grin. “Well, I can’t have matching horses without a splendid carriage behind them, can I? This one was worth it, trust me. And I may as well spend my father’s money if I’m not going to inherit it. I’m lucky my mother sends me any at all.”
“Reckless spending isn’t the way to get back into his good graces, especially if he discovers your mother is secretly funneling you funds.”
Max laughed. “It will be a cold day in hell before the staunch and closed-minded Count Remisov welcomes this prodigal stray back into the fold.”
Irina narrowed her gaze on him, not missing the pained look that was quickly concealed behind his usual smirk. She linked her arm into the crook of his. “It’s been years. I can’t imagine that he won’t welcome you home. Maybe we should both go back after this season.”
She’d made this same proposal a few times before, but he’d always put her off. He didn’t wish to speak of it, not even to her. It had to be painful, whatever it was.
“I only look forward, my young princess, never backward. St. Petersburg is part of the past, and there it shall remain. And my dear father can go flog himself.”
“Don’t you miss them? Your family?” she asked as he steered the conveyance toward Rotten Row where a scattered few other vehicles and riders congregated. She didn’t miss that he had neatly sidestepped her question. His estrangement had much to do with his choice of lifestyle, she knew, but blood was blood. She’d give her own life for the opportunity to see either of her parents again. But then, Count Remisov wasn’t exactly the forgiving sort. He’d always been a cold sort of man, and he and Max had never seen eye to eye, not even when she and Max were children. The count didn’t like being embarrassed by his son’s proclivities, and when the sixteen-year-old Max had disappeared with a well-known Russian prince for a week, he had disowned his only son. It was why Max had moved to Moscow and then Paris.
“You’re my family,” Max said with a bright smile and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Now come, let’s talk about something less depressing, shall we? Tell me of your new secret lover.”
“Max,” she gasped, swatting at him. “You are abominable.”
“Stop trying to elude me, my sweet. I know when you’re hiding something. A stolen kiss, perhaps?”
Irina bit her lip hard to stop from blushing. “No.”
“I will torture you until the end of eternity,” he said teasingly. “And it can’t be worse than the scandalous embrace Deroche claimed he got off you last season.”
Her mouth fell open into a soundless O. “You are a shameless rogue to sink to encouraging such gossip.”
“I cannot control what people choose to confide,” he said with a dramatic hand to the chest. “Out with it, darling.”
“Oh, very well, if you won’t be deterred. It was only a kiss.” She wouldn’t give him a name, she decided, or details, but it wouldn’t hurt to speak about it. To diffuse the memory of it a bit. “One of the gentlemen from dinner last evening. It was…nice.” She almost choked on the feeble word.
Max squinted at her, and then his eyes lit up. “Gibbons! I knew you would fancy him.” He pursed his lips. “He’s not much of a catch, but is endowed where it counts. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, stop!” Clapping her hands over her ears, Irina laughed at his expression and shook her head. “My poor delicate sensibilities.”
He snorted. “You forget I’ve seen you well in your cups, Princess, and your mouth is as bawdy as a sailor pulling into port.” He surveyed her and nodded approvingly. “This should move things along nicely.”
“What do you mean? What things?”
“The wagers,” he explained. “They are heating up at White’s.”
“How is it that you’ve gotten access there?” she asked, frowning. “It’s members only.”
“I have ways and means, little one.”
It did not surprise her. Well-accustomed to Max finagling his way to the most exclusive establishments across the Continent, Irina didn’t want to know what those ways and means were. He was attractive, wealthy, and had the right pedigree. His glib tongue seemed to do the rest quite easily, especially when it came to rich and connected patrons. “Who have you charmed this time?”
Max offered her a sage look. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“Good thing you are no gentleman,” she shot back, shaking her head. “Tell me more about the wagers, then, if you’re going to be so close-lipped about your diversions after interrogating me about mine.”
“Let’s be honest, sweet, your diversions are far tamer than my own, most of which are not meant for such tender, delicate sensibilities.” He winked at her, avoiding a second irritated swat of her hand. “As far as the wagers, Bainley claimed the first. A stroll on the balcony at the Bradburne Ball.”
She scowled, recalling the odious man. “Would that there’d been a bet for him to return with a blood-spotted shirt. He’s a despicable pig. Go on.”
“Lord Marlowe earned five hundred for a dance at the Huntington Ball.”
“Five hundred pounds?” she repeated, her eyes goggling. “For a dance?”
“A second dance,” Max corrected, tapping his forefinger against his chin. “Lord Crawley bet and won a thousand for a ride with you in Hyde Park.”
Irina’s jaw dropped again. She’d only ridden with Lord Crawley, a viscount who’d been an absolute gentleman, barely one afternoon prior. “Are you quite serious? A thousand pounds?”
“They’re mad for you, as we predicted, and these men have nothing better to do than compete to see who has the fattest purse. And by purse, I mean manhood.”
She swallowed her shocked giggle. “It’s barbaric.”
“It’s men.” His mouth quirked into a crooked smile, and he maneuvered the phaeton off to the side. “I’ve even lined my pockets at your expense.” Turning to her, he patted his waistcoat. “Won a hundred quid on how long it would take for Lord Everton to be shocked by your controversial opinions.”
Lord Everton had been one of the most aggressive in his pursuit since her arrival in London. Nothing was wrong with the man except that he was as stodgy as day-old pudding. Irina wasn’t surprised that anything she had said had shocked him.
“Apparently,” Max was saying, “your ideas on comparing women to breeding mares struck a particularly responsive chord in poor Lord Everton. His family owns a stud farm, you know.”
Irina clamped her lips together to stop from bursting out laughing and then gave in to the inclination. “Now that’s certainly worth a hundred pounds!”
Her unbridled laughter drew the attention of several people around them, including one who was riding hell-bent in their direction, his face blacker than the beast beneath him. The amusement died a swift death on her lips as Lord Langlevit pulled alongside the carriage. Her heart, however, surged to life in her breast, pounding against her ribs in a violent staccato. Never had a man had such a visceral effect on her. If she weren’t sitting, she was sure that her legs would not be able to support her.
“Lord Remi,” the earl said in greeting with a brisk nod and a shallow bow in her direction. “Your Highness.”
His deep voice sent shaky bolts of pure heat spiraling through her.
“Lord Langlevit,” Irina murmured, her fingers once more seeking the folds of her riding habit for courage or strength—she did not know which.
She was transparent as wet muslin to Max, and fearing he would notice the effect Henry had on her, Irina kept her face averted from him and forced a fixed smile to her lips. But she could not keep her lowered gaze from returning to Henry’s face and roving greedily over his proud chin and stern mouth…the very mouth that had taken hers with such delicious ferocity. She wanted to feel those commanding lips on hers again. As if he could read her scandalous thoughts, Henry’s eyes met hers for a charged instant, leaving her incapable of breathing before they broke away. Beads of sweat broke out on the nape of her neck as the fire within leaped to uncontrollable heights. He was not immune, either, she noticed. The knuckles of his fingers on the reins had gone white.
“Langlevit,” Max said jovially. “Lovely day for a ride, is it not?”
“I fear I won’t see much of it as I am departing for Essex within the hour,” he said. “Lady Irina is supposed to be riding with my mother. I’ve come to fetch her.”
“You did not have to put yourself out, my lord,” she responded lightly despite her wildly scattering pulse. “I am well aware of the hour and had planned to return shortly.”
“It was not out of my way.”
“Heavens, Langlevit,” a breathless female voice called out, and a stunning woman on a prancing white mare approached. Viscountess La Valse. Of course, Henry was not alone, nor was it, as he’d said, out of his way. He had been here already. With his lover. “You took off so suddenly, I had a devil of a time following you.” Laughing, she cleared her throat and threw a meaningful glance at the earl to perform the introductions.
“Princess Irina, this is Lady La Valse, a friend,” he said with a slightly sardonic look. “Lady La Valse, may I present Princess Irina Volkonsky.”
Irina noticed he said nothing after her name, and though small, the slight gutted her. Perhaps she should be grateful that he hadn’t called her his ward. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her chin and smiled graciously. “A pleasure, Lady La Valse.”
“Likewise, Your Highness.” She turned to Max. “And of course, Lord Remi, we need no introduction, not after our last adventure.” Irina’s gaze shot to Max. His mouth twitched in an unapologetic smile. Clearly, Lady La Valse was also part of his kissing and not telling repertoire. He truly was a shocking reprobate.
Max tipped his hat toward her. “Since we are being abandoned by these two, I suggest you allow me to accompany you to the opera tonight.”
“Wonderful idea,” she agreed and tugged on the reins, whirling her horse about with practiced ease. “Enjoy Essex, Your Highness.”
“Thank you.”
“We leave within the hour,” Henry told Irina curtly as he made to follow the lady.
That was it? We leave within the hour? She stared after him with an urge to fling her ankle boot at his arrogant head. How dare he parade his lover about without a thought for her feelings? Or maybe he’d intended to do so all along. Irina was so angry she would put a hole in the fabric of her habit if she continued wringing her hands. Aware of the sudden silence and the fact that they weren’t yet moving, she looked up, only to meet Max’s thoughtful stare.
His eyebrow vaulted irritatingly. “So, Gibbons, eh?”
“Sod off, Max.”
Her friend took her hands gently, ignoring her unladylike retort. “He’s not good for you, Irina. The earl.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s written all over you.” His voice remained soft and quiet. “A fool could see it.” Irina exhaled as Max continued, his fingers stroking hers compassionately. “I know you were close once, and I know what he’s done for you and your sister, but you should know that he’s not a man given to emotion or mercy.”
“And how did you come by this sudden knowledge?” she hissed. “Let me guess, from your new friend, Lady La Valse?”
He squeezed her fingers, leaning close in earnest. “Please don’t be angry with me. You know she’s a means to an end. A diversion, nothing more. And she’s been a veritable fountain of information about most of the ton, including Lord Langlevit. The stories I’ve heard about him paint a ruthless picture. She revealed he’s never quite recovered after what happened in France.”
“What happened in France?”
Max stared at her for a long while before responding. “I don’t know how much of this is true, but apparently, Langlevit disappeared into France a few years ago. He was gone for eight months, unaccounted for. Lady La Valse has reason to believe he was taken prisoner during that time.” He paused, and lowering his voice, added, “And that he suffered torture at the hands of King George’s enemies.”
Irina stared at him, unblinking. Max’s words horrified her.
“Lady La Valse is sure of this?” she whispered.
“She has friends in high places. Places like the War Office,” he replied, still hushed. “She knows enough. Whatever happened to him during those months he was missing affected him greatly. Lady La Valse says he’s closed himself off. That he’ll never open his heart to anyone.”
Taken prisoner. Tortured. Henry had been broken. Last night he said he would break her if he stayed.
Irina’s heart trembled within her chest as she realized he’d likely only said that to protect her from him, as if his brokenness were somehow catching. But what he didn’t realize was that she was damaged, too. After what she’d endured at the tender age of fourteen at the hands of her kidnappers—being snatched and trussed like an animal—she had wounds and scars of her own, ones fissured so deeply that no one, not even her own sister, knew they existed. Irina understood what it felt like to feel deficient and hollow, as if gaps in her soul were missing.
“He wasn’t always like that,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone.
With one last empathetic squeeze, Max released her shoulders and resumed his grip on the reins. “Stay away from him, love. He’s heartless, and a man with no heart has nothing to offer. Come, we’ll have a quick turn, and I’ll see you back to Devon Place.”
Irina nodded dully. Max was wrong. Henry did have a heart. It was fractured and beaten and hidden deep, but it was there. She’d felt it thudding against hers when he’d kissed her. She saw it in the tender way he looked at his mother. She’d seen it on the balcony at Hadley Gardens—the barest glimpse of the old Henry wrapped up within its confines like the tiniest ray of light. Her throat felt tight.
The earl wasn’t heartless.
But maybe what Lady La Valse had told Max was true. Perhaps Henry would never open his heart to anyone again.