Wicked in Your Arms Page 12

  He considered her for a long moment, and then she realized he was one of them, too. The bluebloods she referred to. Idiot. He didn’t understand what she was talking about at all. And why should he? The heat in her face only burned hotter.

  Instead of holding her tongue, she cleared her throat and forged ahead. “Should you not be in their midst hunting for your bride?” Lady Libbie.

  “It’s not much of a hunt,” he replied distractedly.

  She pulled a face. “No, not for you. I suppose not. For others of us it’s not so simple a task.”

  Were they actually talking? She and this prince? It almost felt natural. It almost felt like they were . . . friends.

  He angled his head, studying her as he uttered, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you will have no difficulty winning yourself a proposal.”

  Heat climbed her face at his words, at the rather intense look in his eyes. Her chest suddenly became too tight, air a struggle to draw in.

  Just not from you.

  She looked away, lest he read some of the disappointment that thought fed into her heart. The totally misplaced disappointment. She had no business longing for a prince. It was wishing for the moon.

  “When is your birthday?” he asked, the question smoothly inserted into the lag of conversation.

  Her gaze shot back to him. The wretch. She should have known it was too good to be true.

  “Not that again,” she snapped, suddenly turning cold when confronted all over again with the cad who’d declared her old. “Why must you insist on pressing me for that information? You already know my age—”

  “Not your exact age.”

  “What difference can my exact age make to you? You already know I’m eight and twenty. The same age as you.”

  “You’re right. It’s a trivial matter. So why won’t you tell me?”

  “Perhaps because it’s not trivial to you,” she retorted. “You only want to know if I’m older than you.”

  He stepped closer—until it was just the potted fern at her back and the breadth of his chest at her front. She was instantly assailed with the sheer masculine presence of him. “Are you ashamed?”

  “Why would I be ashamed of my age?” She sniffed, angling her chin. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Precisely. So tell me.” He smiled an infuriating grin down at her and she wanted to smack it off his handsome face—only the sight of it weakened her knees and made her stomach flip wildly. With that smile directed at her, it was easy to forget other people lurked near, only feet away.

  “Why do you care one whit how old I am?” she breathed.

  “Simply . . . curious.”

  She moistened her lips. “Curious to know if you dallied with a woman older than yourself?”

  At his slow, deepening smile, she knew she’d made a fatal mistake bringing that up. Instant awareness sparked between them. “Been thinking about that, have you?”

  Only every waking moment.

  “No,” she denied. “Not at all.”

  “I have,” he countered, encroaching even closer. “Every moment of the day.”

  He didn’t mean that! Her heart pounded violently against her rib cage.

  “Well—well—stop. You shouldn’t!” She looked wildly from him to the drawing room at large. No one seemed aware of them behind the fern. They were shrouded. Lost in their own private world. A very dangerous situation indeed.

  He shook his dark head. “I’m afraid I can’t stop. You see, every time I close my eyes, I see these dark eyes.” He gently stroked her cheek. “These freckles.” He brushed a finger over the bridge of her nose—against the brown freckles she’d done her best to ignore for most of her life. His finger drifted down and stroked her bottom lip. “This mouth.”

  “Stop,” she repeated, but her voice lacked conviction. It was little more than a puff of breath, released from her trembling mouth.

  His dark gaze slid up, locked on her eyes. “Really, Grier. Is that what you want me to do? You want me to stop? Be honest with yourself. I’ve decided to stop lying. Why don’t you? Can you really leave this house party knowing you and I will never see each other again?”

  It was the first time he’d uttered her name. And the way he said it . . . she trembled.

  He continued, his voice a purr, “Can we part knowing we will never satisfy this . . . thing that we feel between us?”

  “Ah, Sev, there you are. And Miss Hadley, didn’t see you there.”

  Grier jumped at the sudden arrival of another into their midst. Sev stepped back easily, as if his cousin were not interrupting an intimate moment. Only his eyes showed a flicker of regret.

  Her heart racing, face flaming, Grier quickly darted past him, convinced that anyone who took one look at her face would know she was a woman lost. She had to get away. Quickly. She needed to find someplace to regain her breath, to still her racing heart and remind herself just why she loathed the Crown Prince of Maldania and why she should detest his flirtations.

  He was merely toying with her, attempting to make another conquest.

  He thought her less than himself—a female of no worth. Common. She mustn’t forget that.

  No one called out to her as she slipped from the drawing room, further evidence that she was of no importance and would not be missed.

  “Your timing leaves a lot to be desired, cousin.”

  “Thought you might need rescuing.”

  Annoyance flared sharply inside him, a pinch in his chest. With great effort, he tore his gaze from Grier’s fleeing back. The light gilded her auburn hair in certain spots, and his palms tingled, longing to touch the strands, to feel for himself if they felt as silky and warm as they looked.

  “And why would you think that?” he asked with a mildness that he did not feel.

  “You’re inordinately fascinated with her. I confess it concerns me. You can’t possibly be considering her for a potential bride—”

  “Of course not,” he said with far more lightness than he felt. He’d been trained early to school his face into a perfect mask of impassivity. No one should ever know what he was thinking. “I’ve said as much.”

  “And yet you wanted me to find out as much information on her as I could.”

  He shrugged and admitted, “She’s of minor interest to me.”

  “As what? A mistress? Her father will not countenance that. He’ll only take a husband for her. Sorry, cousin. You’ll not be easing yourself between those thighs.”

  His hand knotted at his sides. Jaw clenched, he slid his cousin a dangerous look. “Malcolm, your assistance has been useful thus far. If I require advice I shall ask it of you. Tread carefully.”

  Malcolm flushed, doubtlessly thinking he did not wish to return to his rented rooms in the stews any sooner than he must. “Of course. Forgive me. Anyone can see she’s struck your fancy.”

  He looked sharply at Malcolm. “What do you mean, anyone?”

  “Well, not everyone here, I suppose, only the most perceptive. As a prince you’re a point of fascination. You can count yourself fortunate that Lady Libbie appears unaware of the many stares you’re sending Miss Hadley’s way.” His eyes grew cunning. “Nor do I think her father is aware.”

  Sev swiped a hand through the air at the reminder of the rich earl’s daughter. He was definitely taking things too far with Grier if he was risking such a promising match. One that would get him home where he belonged. “I’ll press my suit with Lady Libbie.” And forget about a pair of deep brown eyes and bewitching freckles. “No more dragging my feet.” He swept a glance across the room, searching for the golden-headed girl with fresh determination. “Grandfather should be quite satisfied with her.”

  “Yes. Yes, he would,” Malcolm agreed.

  Feeling the need to ease any tension between them, he offered, “Thank you for advising me
in this, Malcolm. I wouldn’t have gotten far without you.”

  “What are cousins for?”

  With a decisive nod, Sev murmured, “I’d best locate the lady and begin to woo her properly.”

  Ignoring the heaviness tightening his chest, he strolled out into the room, scanning for golden curls, even though he only saw rich auburn hair in his mind.

  Grier knew Jack would reprimand her severely for taking her leave so early in the night, but she could not abide another moment in the same room as the confounding Prince Sevastian. What did he want from her? Did he think she would toss convention aside and embrace an illicit affair the duration of this house party?

  She could tolerate no more of his teasing, no more of his gold-eyed stare, no more of his proximity. Not if she wished to keep her sanity. One look at his handsome visage and she was overwhelmed by the memory of his body pressed against hers those times she’d been so foolish to forget herself with him.

  Her shadow stretched long before her as she walked briskly down the corridor—as if she could escape her vexing thoughts the faster she walked.

  Her tread fell silent on the runner. She was close to her bedchamber now. The tension ebbed from her shoulders as she contemplated the warm bed waiting her.

  A sound disrupted the tomblike hush. Soft as smoke curling on the air, hushed whispers reached her ears, penetrating the silence. She paused, listening. They were the type of whispers that actually succeeded in achieving the opposite of their intent, which was clearly discretion.

  With a glance over her shoulder to make certain no one else lurked about, Grier moved to the door of the room where the voices originated. Pressing her ear close, she listened.

  “Listen carefully to me, Hannah, you’ll delay as long as possible. Do you understand?”

  “But Lady Libbie, your papa will beat me when he discovers I’ve been lying to him. Please take me with you.”

  Lady Libbie? Where was the earl’s daughter going?

  “I need you to stall anyone from finding out I’ve snuck away. Allow no one into my room. Tell them I’m exhausted.”

  At this, someone started sobbing—Hannah presumably. Lady Libbie sounded resolute and calculating, quite above tears.

  “Oh, come now, Hannah. Cease your weeping.”

  “Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I’m a selfish, wretched creature, I am! I should be thinking of you—so happy that you’ve found your prince at last! Ever since you were a girl you dreamed of this . . .” The rest of the maid’s words faded away.

  Your prince. A prickly sensation washed over her skin. Lady Libbie and Sevastian . . .

  Grier felt ill. She pressed a hand to her suddenly roiling stomach. She shook her head, told herself to walk away. Everyone knew he was here to court Lady Libbie. This shouldn’t come as a shock. It shouldn’t matter that he’d kissed her. It didn’t matter.

  “Oh, very well.” A sigh of exasperation drifted through the door. “You may come with us. I suppose you might serve some use. Your presence may help to still the wagging tongues when they learn of the elopement. At least I can claim to have had you as a chaperone, although I must confess I was looking forward to being alone with my love on the journey. Now I must contend with you. I do hope you won’t complain the entire time.”

  My love. Grier rolled her eyes. She hardly knew the prince. Did anyone truly know the man? He held himself as aloof as a Grecian statute.

  Of course, Grier had thought she might have had a glimpse of him, of the real man beneath the façade. Evidently she was just as foolish as Lady Libbie. The girl actually thought the presence of a maid would lessen the gossip surrounding an elopement? Fool girl. Did she think that would matter? One need only look at the virile prince to be assured that Lady Libbie did not reach the altar with her virtue intact.

  As she stood there, with her ear pressed to the door and her palms flat against the polished wood, the utter awfulness of the moment sank deep. Lady Libbie was running away. To marry Prince Sevastian.

  The man was a cad! Grier had begun to read something more into their exchanges. Something beyond a prince trifling with a woman of lower rank. She’d begun to think he felt something genuine for her. Clearly she’d been naught but a distraction until he and Lady Libbie made their escape.

  She stepped back from the door, her hands knotting at her sides as cold fury swept over her. He was quite the seducer. When had he even wooed Lady Libbie? She scarcely saw them together. She hadn’t imagined he spoke to any female at the house party as much as he spoke to her.

  She was filled with a sudden vision of him sneaking into the young lady’s bedchamber, kissing away her qualms and charming her from her night rail as he lowered her to the great bed.

  Feeling like a total and utter dupe, she strode from the door as quickly as her feet would carry her. How dare he flirt with her—kiss her—while planning to elope with another woman?

  Somehow this was different—worse—than knowing he was here to court Lady Libbie. She knew that he’d eventually wed the lovely girl or some other such acceptable female. He did not hide the fact that he was on the hunt for a bride. Just as she did not hide the fact that she was here to find a husband.

  But learning that he was strategizing an elopement in the same hour that he flirted with her—it was abominable. Were all men so duplicitous? Were they all as wretched as Trevis?

  It only made her feel all the smarter for choosing to wed for practicality. Security, respectability. She required nothing more than that.

  And yet her indignation burned hot to know that while he toyed with her he already had a secret understanding with Lady Libbie. The wretch.

  And why was he so anxious that he must elope with the lady? Did he lack all patience? Or was there another reason? Did he fear the earl would refuse his proposal?

  Well, whatever the scenario, she wouldn’t let him get away with it. She was not the spoiled and naïve Lady Libbie, believing him to be a romantic hero—the prince of her girlhood fantasies.

  No, Grier knew him for what he was. An arrogant brute whose kisses singed one’s soul, whose kisses could trick a young girl with less experience into believing he was the stuff of girlish fantasies.

  For a moment she had forgotten who she was. She had permitted him to tempt her, even letting his whispered words weave a seductive fog inside her head to such a degree that she had begun to ask herself what would be so very wrong with engaging in a brief liaison.

  She’d created quite a convincing argument. She was no green girl. Sentiment would not be involved. She would receive carnal satisfaction. Perhaps that was right, justified, given that she was preparing to enter a union that promised none of that.

  Her stride increased, every step quick and agitated. It only took secret whispers in a corridor to jerk her back to reality.

  Hardening her heart, she slipped inside her bedchamber to plan exactly how she might thwart the prince from stealing away into the night. She rationalized that a man so arrogant, so deceptive, so amoral, should not get what he wanted. At the very least, she intended to give His Bloody Highness a piece of her mind.

  He may very well abscond into the night with his wealthy and eligible bride, but not before she let him know what she thought of him, and that she was not someone he could toy with and then so easily forget.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sev retired early. He’d never located Lady Libbie as he’d set out to do, so he felt little desire to indulge in cards and drink with the gentlemen in the library. He would start fresh on the morrow and begin wooing Lady Libbie in earnest—and stay as far as possible from a certain female whose every breath, every look, managed to entice him.

  As he passed the library, he took heed of the viscount with his jacket removed and sleeves rolled up to his elbows at the card table.

  Sev had noticed the dowager’s grandson had a particular affinity for faro a
nd was quite willing to lay down a considerable wager. His horse, his curricle in Town . . . even his ruby cuff links. Fleetingly, he wondered if Miss Hadley knew of his proclivity and then he told himself it was none of his concern. Grier Hadley’s future was none of his concern. Whom she might or might not choose to marry was none of his concern.

  In his chamber, he gently shook Ilian awake from the chair in the corner. Sev dismissed the old fellow for the night with a fond pat on his bent back. It didn’t matter how many times he told Ilian not to wait up for him, the old man faithfully did so.

  He was tugging his cravat loose when a slight knock at his balcony door made him pause.

  Cocking his head, he stared hard at the draperies shielding the glass door, certain he had misheard. Someone could not be knocking out there. He was three stories from the ground—and it was practically midnight.

  The tapping came again, this time louder. His every nerve snapped into alert with familiar tension. The same tension he’d lived with for too many years to count. He’d survived both assassins and countless battlefields over the last dozen years only because he’d learned to be alert, constantly vigilant.

  He moved to the balcony door carefully, on the balls of his feet—and pulled back the drapes.

  There, with her arms crossed and standing in a belligerent pose, stood Miss Grier Hadley, snow falling gently around her.

  With a curse, he yanked the door open.

  “What in the hell—”

  “I’d like a word with you,” she demanded frostily, her lashes blinking with powdery flakes.

  He looked her slowly up and down. She wore men’s trousers tailored for her. They fit like a glove to her lean limbs. He swallowed a suddenly dry throat, quite certain he had never seen a lady’s parts quite so shapely.

  Stepping out onto the balcony, he looked down, confirming she had used no ladder to reach his balcony. “How did you get here?”