Wicked in Your Arms (8 page)

Did he mean his words? A glimpse of his face hardly indicated that she'd managed to impress him. And yet if she hadn't impressed him with her singing, then why had he spoken up? It was unfathomable that he should wish to spare her from Persia's ridicule. Why should he care how others treated her?

His face still looked carved from stone. The jaw square hard and chiseled, but his eyes glowed molten.

“Quite the highlight of my evening,” he added with a sharp nod of his head. Goose bumps broke out across her skin and the tightness in her chest eased.

She fought off the ridiculous urge to smile. “Th-thank you.”

“Quite so!” Jack exclaimed. “I told you she was a fine singer.”

“Indeed. It was a lovely ballad. Reminds me of the songs my nanny used to sing to me when I was a girl. She was Welsh, too, you know.” The dowager began to rise. The viscount rushed forward to assist her. “You remind me of her.”

Panic fluttered in Grier's belly. The dowager didn't understand Welsh, did she?

“Also like my dear nanny, you've practically lulled me to sleep.” She stopped before Grier and smiled rather sleepily. “Thank you for a splendid end to the evening.” She gave Grier a fond, two-fingered pat on the cheek.

After her departure, the other guests also began to rise.

The prince departed without a word or glance. She watched the broad expanse of his back as he vanished from the drawing room, still wondering why he had bothered to speak out on her behalf.

Her father, the duke, and Lord Tolliver moved toward the library for a round of cards.

“That's my girl.” Jack gave her shoulder a squeeze of approval as he passed her. She shouldn't have cared, but the simple gesture made her feel a warm glow of pleasure. Almost like he might really care for her as a father cares for his child.

Persia sent her a baleful glare as she swept from the room, apparently unhappy that Grier did not completely fall on her face tonight. All thanks to Prince Sevastian.

Marielle took the marquis's elbow and guided him through the room. His knees popped as he passed Grier, but that did not stop him from looking her over with a salacious light in his eyes. Grier tore her gaze from Lord Quibbly with a shudder.

“Are you coming?”

Grier nodded.

Cleo looped her arm through Grier's and grinned. “You were wonderful. Even the prince said so.”

“Yes. Why do you think he said those things?”

“Because you were good. Obviously.”

Grier gave her a doubtful look. “He doesn't strike me as the type to praise someone for being merely
good
.”

Cleo squeezed her arm. “Perhaps he fancies you.”

“Unlikely.” Grier snorted.

“Well, who cares? The evening was a success. Lord Tolliver certainly looked at you with approval.”

“Yes,” she murmured. All due to the prince. A fact that would greatly mystify her late into the night.

Chapter Eight

G
rier couldn't sleep. The wind howled a mournful tune outside her window, the perfect lulling song to help one fall asleep. Only she couldn't sleep. The only thing she could think about was the prince's rumbling voice.
You were marvelous, Miss Hadley.

Her face flushed with warmth. Giving up on the notion of sleep, she tossed back the coverlet and donned her robe, tightening the sash about her waist. The corridors were empty as she made her way downstairs, the house silent as a graveyard.

She paused at the library doors, making certain the gentlemen had long since quit their cards and retired for their beds. Not a sound greeted her. Intent on selecting a book, she entered the quiet room. The fire in the hearth still burned high. A log crumbled and sparks flew and popped. She must have just missed the others.

She edged closer to the fire, drawn by its heat. Holding out her hands, she sighed with pleasure, letting them get almost too warm.

“Careful. You're standing close.”

Grier gave a small shriek and jumped, a hand flying to her pounding heart.

The prince lounged on a chaise just behind her. Stretched out, booted feet crossed in a relaxed pose, he looked beguiling. Not at all his usual stiff self.

“I didn't see you there,” she said breathlessly, her pulse racing against her neck.

He gripped a handful of papers loosely above his chest. Several others littered the small rosewood table to the right of the chaise. A few even littered the carpet. She'd obviously interrupted him reading.

She'd never seen him like
this
before. He'd removed his jacket and neck cloth. Her mouth dried at the sight of smooth flesh peeping out from his loosened shirt. He looked human—an absurdly handsome man who was suddenly much too approachable.

“H-hello,” she added, feeling silly but unsure what to say. Her breath shuddered past her lips.

“Hello,” he returned, his deep voice a feather's stroke on the air.

He removed the papers from his chest and dropped them all on the table. “Have you come to sing for me, Miss Hadley? Perhaps you wish to honor me with a solo performance?”

For some reason his question made her feel shaky inside, driving home the reminder that they were all alone. “No. I thought I would pick a book to read. What are you doing?”

He motioned to the mass of papers. “Going over correspondence from home.”

She stepped closer, fidgeting with the ruffled edge of her night rail. “
All
that?”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending the ink-dark strands into wild disarray. “I receive this much every week. I'll spend a good portion of my day tomorrow replying.”

She arched a brow. “Indeed?”

“With my grandfather ailing, many matters need my attention. I've lingered here for much too long.” For a brief moment, he looked frustrated, before the calm mask fell back into place.

She frowned, seeing him in a new light. Apparently his life wasn't all leisure and vain indulgences as she had assumed.

“I won't disturb you further.” She crossed her arms, suddenly chilled. “Good night.” She took only one step before his voice stopped her.

“Please. Stay. You came for a book, did you not? Pick one.” He motioned to the many books lining the shelves.

“Thank you. I will.” She turned and tried to focus on the titles, angling her head to read the spines. The letters swam before her eyes. She could only think that
he
sat a few feet behind her. That she wore only her night rail. That he looked delicious and relaxed and thoroughly accessible.

That they were all alone.

She snatched a book off a shelf and whirled around, prepared to flee to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

“What did you find?”

She blinked, stopping. “What?”

“Your book. What did you select?”

“Um.” She glanced down and turned the book around in her hands. Her stomach sank. “
A Comprehensive Study of Oxen Husbandry
.”

He snorted.

Heat swamped her face.

“Sounds fascinating,” he murmured. “A real page turner. I must read it after you've finished.”

It took a moment for her to realize he jested. One side of his mouth curled faintly. He actually possessed humor?

She stifled a chuckle and patted the thick volume. “Nothing like a little reading on animal husbandry to help one sleep.”

“Are you having trouble sleeping, Miss Hadley?”

That gave her pause. “The wind . . .” She motioned lamely to one of the windows. “It's so loud tonight.” Better that excuse than the truth. She wasn't about to admit that thoughts of him kept her awake.

Then she heard herself asking before she could reconsider, “Did you really enjoy my singing?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Are you fishing for more compliments? I said as much.”

“Yes, but did you say that because you felt sorry for me or because you truly thought I was good?”

At this question, the other side of his mouth curled upward. “Perhaps . . . both.”

“Hmm.” She murmured, unsure how she felt about that. “Well, good night then.”

“Your song.” His voice stopped her. “What was it about?”

She smiled. Before she could contemplate the wisdom of such honesty, she admitted, “It was a tale of buxom milkmaid with . . . er, an insatiable appetite.”

This time he laughed outright.
She made the Crown Prince of Maldania laugh.
Her chest swelled.

“Little hoyden. I suppose I shouldn't find it so amusing that you regaled us all with a tawdry song.”

“No, you shouldn't,” she countered. “It's not often I entertain members of the
ton
with naughty songs. Especially princes.”

Immediately she regretted the reminder, however playful she had meant it to be. His laughter faded, and the stoic prince was back.

He looked back down at the mass of papers, as if that somehow reminded of who he was—and who she
wasn't
. “Good night, Miss Hadley. I've much still to attend to this night.”

Feeling dismissed, she gave a curt nod and skirted past the chaise.

Minutes later, secure in her bed, she opened her book and started to read, doubtful that she would find any rest tonight.

Chapter Nine

T
he following evening, the ladies retired to the drawing room after dinner and the gentlemen departed for cigars and brandy in the library.

Persia made it a point to rebuff Grier and Cleo, gathering Lady Libbie and Marielle close and herding them to a chaise near the fire.

Cleo whispered near her ear. “Lady Libbie is purported to have a fortune nearly as large as our own.”

Grier arched a brow and surveyed the lovely young woman. The firelight gilded her curls a lovely gold. She would meet no difficulty in securing an offer even without a fortune. Her title and beauty alone would see to that. “Indeed.”

“No competition for us though. At least as I hear it. She's not here for the viscount.”

“No? The duke then?”

“Well, perhaps. He should like to win her hand, I imagine.” Cleo leaned in again, her voice dropping even lower. “She's baited her hook for a bigger fish than that. It's said the prince has already spoken with her father. They occupied the library at great length yesterday. Just the two of them.”

Grier's heart plummeted to her stomach. She drew a ragged breath and rose to her feet, uncertain why such news should affect her. Did she think a few stares and stilted words from him meant he might actually be interested in her as a bridal candidate? He had already let her know she was acceptable for dalliance and nothing more. Lady Libbie would be an ideal match. Precisely the type of lady the prince had traveled to England to find. She possessed it all—wealth, breeding, youth, and gentility.

Grier approached the dowager and babbled an excuse. “I'm afraid I'm still wearied from travel, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” her hostess clucked. “According to your father the journey north was quite the trial. No wonder you're wearied.”

“I shall stay on a bit longer.” Cleo settled herself down on the sofa beside the dowager.

With a murmured good night for all, Grier lifted her skirts and departed the room. Her fingers caressed the deep green silk of her skirts as she moved up the stairs. The modiste insisted she wear deep, lush colors—that bold colors would complement her coloring. But tonight, beside the light and pastel colors of the other young ladies, she'd felt obtrusive.

It was as though she were proclaiming herself different. The
older
groom-hunting female with unfortunate dusky skin and unfortunate auburn hair that could hardly be contained in its pins. She despised this feeling of being somehow . . .
less
. She'd never thought anything was wrong with her before, contrary to the stinging remarks her neighbors made about her.

She genuinely liked who she was. She didn't want to change. Even after she married, she'd still be herself. She would find a gentleman who didn't mind that he'd married a woman who steered clear of needlepoint and watercolors. The prince would never be that man.

Her steps slowed as she approached the study. Male laughter rumbled from the parted doors. She couldn't help peering within the male-only sanctuary.

She told herself it was simply curiosity. That she was not looking for anyone in particular. Her gaze swept over the half-dozen assembled gentlemen sitting in the smoke-fogged room. The prince stood near the hearth. Ever his stern, unsmiling self, he seemed at ease, if not a bit bored in his setting.

Her father's jarring voice was instantly recognizable. Her gaze sought and spotted him—the precise moment he caught sight of her. She jerked back into motion, hastening down the corridor. She didn't make it very far before she heard her name.

With a deep breath, she turned and faced Jack.

He approached, his expression stormy. “Grier? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why aren't you with the rest of the ladies?”

She released a heavy breath. “I'm tired.”

His eyes flashed. “Tired? You can sleep later. You agreed—”

“Yes,” she snapped. “You needn't remind me. I'm to court the dowager's grandson and any other gentleman of worthy rank.” Her voice sounded as tired as she suddenly felt. “I can do that well enough tomorrow. I won't even see the gentlemen again until then. It's just the ladies in the drawing room.”

He motioned wildly behind him. “You should be in there with Cleo cozying up to the dowager, winning her over so that she pushes her grandson into proposing!”

“Fear not,” she bit out, feeling the heat creep up her face. “I'll get a proposal. Some fine lord desperate for funds won't pass up the fortune you're offering. Who I am,
what
I am, or how I behave won't overly signify. If it did, neither one of us would have been permitted past the gates.”

He rubbed his hands together with excitement, not registering her bitter tone. “It is splendid. We're actually at a house party with the Crown Prince of Maldania! I never thought such a day would arrive.” His gaze snapped back to her. “You need to put on your best performance. A fat dowry alone won't do the trick with these swells. Use your feminine wiles. You're your mother's daughter. You must have some skill in that arena.”

The heat in her face was blistering now. His words shouldn't sting her—her skin was tougher than that—but they did. “Don't speak of my mother.”

He shrugged. “I've a right to do so. After all, she and I were—”

“Another word on the subject and I'll leave.” She knew next to nothing of her mother's relationship with Jack Hadley and she preferred to keep it that way. The knowledge that they conceived her was enough. She wanted to keep the stories Papa told her about her mother as her only facts. Not whatever sordid tale Jack would spin.

Jack puffed his chest and tugged at his waistcoat. “You need to make your mind up if you really want to do this.”

“I do!”

“Then make yourself amenable and stop being such a contrary creature.” He looked her up and down. “Aside of my fortune there's not much to recommend you to this lot.”

“Nor you,” she bit back. “You eat your soup like a pig at a trough.”

For a moment it looked like he might explode at her, but then a grin split his weathered face. “Yes, I've my share of flaws. Perhaps that's what makes us family. As ourselves, we're thoroughly defective.” Without another word he turned and left her standing in the corridor.

Defective
. The word sat like a boulder in her stomach. Yes, that's how the prince probably saw her. In that moment, she wished she'd never met her father. Never discovered just who he was. The mystery of him that she'd lived with for most of her life was better than this reality.

But then Trevis swam before her eyes and she recalled that she'd come because she had to. There had been nothing left for her in Wales. She couldn't have remained on as Trevis's game master after everything.

Her fate rested in her hands now.

Turning, she fled down the corridor, away from her father, away from the library and the deep voices of the men.

She would forge her destiny in her own way and time. Not because Jack Hadley demanded it of her.

S
ev stepped from the shadows, watching thoughtfully as Miss Hadley fled the corridor. As far as he was concerned, her father was as foul and brutish as the lowest fishmonger. And yet Miss Hadley stood toe to toe with him. Dignified even. Regal as a queen.

He winced and shook his head, quickly banishing that thought. He'd seen queens. Known several, including his own mother and grandmother. Miss Grier Hadley was nothing like them. Not at all refined and distinguished. She'd never be deferential to her husband. She'd never speak with slow gentle tones that charmed audiences.

He would keep searching until he found a woman like that. He'd promised his grandfather as much. He'd keep searching until he succeeded in finding a suitable female to be the future queen of Maldania. That was the foremost concern. Who would be the future queen. Not who would be the woman he'd bind his body and soul to before God. He doubted such a woman would ever exist for him. Nor did he have the luxury of finding her.

Even knowing this, believing it with every fiber of his being, he found himself walking away from his shadowed corner, away from the library full of men eager for his company.

With hard, firm steps he followed in the wake of Miss Hadley.

S
hortly upon fleeing her father, Grier quickly realized she was lost in the labyrinth of hallways. With her head spinning and temper high, she hadn't paid much attention to which corridor led to her bedchamber.

Biting her lip, she studied each door. She seemed to recall that her bedchamber had been toward the end of a corridor and on the right. Yes, definitely the right. Selecting a door she imagined looked familiar, she closed her hand around the latch and eased it open to peer inside.

She was mistaken. The chamber was not hers.

In fact, it was not a bedchamber at all. Several instruments stared back at her, nestled among furnishings of faded and worn fabric.

Moonlight bathed the room, streaming through the parted draperies. She stepped more fully into the pearlescent light, her steps muffled on the carpet. A reverent hush lingered in the room, as if every instrument within waited in anticipation for her to attend them and create music. As if they'd been waiting years for someone to care about them again.

A wistful smile curved her lips. She drifted further inside the bereft room, letting her fingers stroke the strings of a beautiful harp. Papa had loved music. Almost every household in Wales possessed a harp. Many an hour he sat before the fire and played either the harp or his hornpipe for her.

Her smile wavered a bit as thoughts of him rushed over her. She missed him. Especially on an evening like this—when faced with Jack Hadley and the glaring reality that he would never be
that
kind of father to her. Never doting and affectionate. That was something she'd lost and could never reclaim.

A lump thickened her throat as she accepted that she may never know that kind of unconditional love again. She fought to swallow, but try as she might, she couldn't dislodge the thick lump.

Without lifting the instrument, she strummed a few chords of the harp, closing her eyes against the surge of emotion rising within her.

Papa, if you were still here none of this would be happening. I'd be safe with you at home. I wouldn't so desperately crave acceptance and respectability because the love you gave me always meant more than any of that. I could tolerate it all when I had you.

She couldn't help the pathetic thoughts from winding through her head. It was weak and useless thinking, but she allowed herself the feelings. For now. Tomorrow she would be her stalwart self again and forget that deep down she longed for something as ephemeral as love.

Footfalls sounded behind her. Grier whirled around, almost expecting to find Jack returning to castigate her further.

It wasn't Jack. No, worse than that.

She inhaled thinly through her nostrils and blinked burning eyes, determined that he not see the evidence of how close to tears she was.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Following me now? Haven't you someone else to bother?” She blinked free the lingering burn in her eyes. “Someone who might welcome your attentions? You're a bloody prince after all. You shouldn't be caught speaking with me.”

He stared, saying nothing. Her chest tightened as she gazed upon his face, his features starkly handsome in the room's gloom, even tense and brooding as usual.

She gave a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “What do you want?”

He merely stared.

She stared at him in frustration, wondering why he did not speak . . . wondering why he was here at all. Had he come to insult her with another indecent proposition? An ever so helpful reminder of where he thought she belonged in the order of things? Or had he come to bewilder her further by treating her almost kindly—as when he complimented her singing.

The prince slid a hand inside his deep black waistcoat and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to her with a steady hand. She stared at the pristine white square rather resentfully.

“What's that for?”

“There appears to be a . . . glimmer in your eyes,” he explained, his words stoic, like he was uncomfortable pointing out the fact that she was on the verge of tears.

“There is not,” she snapped.

Just the same, she snatched the fabric from his hands, careful not to brush those blunt-tipped fingers. She turned and dabbed at her eyes.

After a moment, she peered over her shoulder, tensing, waiting, dreading for him to ask why she was upset. The last thing she wanted to do was unburden herself to him. As if he would care.

She dropped her gaze to the soft patch of linen in her hands and looked back at him curiously. Well. Perhaps he cared a
little
. At least enough to extend her the courtesy of his handkerchief. A fact which did not mesh with the opinion she'd formed of him.

Frowning, she motioned back toward the doors. “Any number of individuals would gladly grovel at your feet. You are wasting your exalted company on me.” She offered him back his handkerchief.

He shrugged, and accepted it, replying with an idleness that set her teeth on edge, “One can only abide so much groveling.”

“So you seek someone who will not pander to your ego, is that it? Is that why you've followed me? You wish to consort with someone who will denounce you for what you are?”

“And what am I?” His gold cat eyes danced with something dangerously akin to merriment as he stopped before her. Close. Too bloody close. “Do enlightenment me.”

She could smell him. He smelled like no man she'd ever smelled. Not that she went about sniffing men, but she'd stood close to a few. He smelled clean and crisp and . . . and
manly
. Was that a scent? A faint whiff of brandy teased her nose. Was this what a prince smelled like, then?