Wicked in Your Arms Read online

  Apparently he’d been correct. Her impetuous nature nearly led her into a prince’s bed. She buried her face in the pillow and moaned her shame into its soft depths.

  Perhaps worst of all was her keen sense of disappointment. She practically found herself wishing he had seduced her. Then she would be in his arms right now, enjoying the delicious way his lips worked over her flesh, instead of alone in her big bed, tormented with longing.

  The scary part of it all was she wasn’t certain why she had bothered to resist his advances. Everything about him promised pleasure. Why run from it?

  She was on the verge of entering matrimony with someone. A staid, predictable fellow who would place her above censure. A loveless union based on convenience and finances and mutual respect. Why not indulge just once?

  So what if she surrendered to a brief, discreet liaison with a handsome man who stirred her blood? She was eight and twenty. It was high time she tasted passion. If not now, when?

  She would be a faithful wife when the time came. It wasn’t in her to renege on vows made before God. But that time wasn’t now. Not yet anyway.

  Sitting up, she swiped at the tendrils of hair hanging in her face and stared into the relentless dark. Perhaps she needed to make the most of her week here in the country and do more than snare a husband. Perhaps she needed to acquire a lover.

  “You retired early last evening.” Jack whispered the words close to Grier’s ear the following morning as he lowered himself into a seat beside her at the table.

  She smiled numbly, swallowing her sip of tea. “I was tired.”

  His dark gaze drilled into her. There was no mistaking his displeasure. It wasn’t the first time she broke away early. And yet beyond his displeasure, she thought she detected something else. Was that genuine concern in his eyes? “You’re not growing ill, are you?” he asked.

  She couldn’t find her voice for a moment. “No. I’m hale. Thank you.”

  “It’s a dreadful time of year. Everyone is coming down with an ague of some kind. You need to take care of yourself.”

  Irrationally, a lump formed in her throat. Not since Papa died had anyone cared enough to inquire upon her health. “I’ll take care. Thank you.”

  He gave a single, gruff nod. “Your sister stayed up quite late keeping company with Lord Quibbly.”

  Grier looked sharply at her sister, unable to disguise her astonishment. The marquis was nudging his seventieth year. Cleo couldn’t possibly entertain the notion of marrying him. Could she?

  Cleo smiled almost guiltily before looking away and selecting a piece of toast off her plate.

  “Lord Quibbly?” Grier queried. Was Cleo truly interested in a doddering, feeble man for a husband?

  “Indeed. The marquis is quite the authority on turnips.”

  “Turnips?”

  “Yes,” Cleo returned. “He has a fondness for them. I learned that his cook can prepare them several ways. And did you know there are several different species of turnips?”

  Persia tittered into her napkin from across the table. “Fascinating!”

  Marielle glared at her friend. “It’s a subject of great interest to many. Not just Grandfather.”

  “I’m certain it is.” Persia shook with restrained laughter, her glossy brown curls dancing about her shoulders.

  Grier studied her half sister in puzzlement. She could not fathom Cleo’s desire to align herself with a man old enough to be her grandfather. His own granddaughter, Marielle, was actually one year Cleo’s senior. But she did not countenance anyone making a mockery of her, no matter the reason.

  At the sight of Grier’s glare, Persia ceased her sniggering and returned a glare of her own, evidently not about to be cowed by someone she thought so little of.

  Somewhere in the dowager’s solarium, a bird released an exotic, trilling call. It was really a lovely setting to break one’s fast. Plants of varying colors and sizes shadowed the long table where they sat. Grier could almost imagine some native emerging from the thick press of foliage, his lovely dark skin tattooed with strange symbols.

  Not everyone had risen yet. Only half a dozen sat at the table laden with more food than she had ever eaten in one sitting, especially not so early in the morning. She usually broke her fast with a little porridge drizzled with honey. Possibly a poached egg. An entire roasted hog sat at the center of the table, a server cutting generous slabs that her father consumed as fast as he could chew. He did not make an attractive vision, juice dribbling down his chin as he shoveled ham and thick wedges of baked apples into his mouth.

  The prince was nowhere to be seen. She thought it unlikely that he was still abed. After yesterday, she knew he wasn’t the stay-abed-all-day sort. More than likely he was out for another ride.

  A commotion at the French doors leading into the solarium drew her attention. She winced at the sight of Lady Libbie’s red-faced father, having a fairly good idea why he appeared so apoplectic.

  He squared off in front of the table, his stout, barrel chest swelling to such a degree she feared one of the buttons of his waistcoat would fly free and strike someone. He reminded her of a bull, ready to charge at the first moving target.

  “Have any of you seen my Libbie?”

  Everyone exchanged glances, murmuring denials, their expressions avid with curiosity, hounds smelling for blood.

  “Where’s the prince?” Persia murmured in a singsong voice, clearly under the same misapprehension Grier had labored under the night before. “They seemed cozy the other afternoon.”

  The earl waved a hand. “I’ve already spoken to His Highness. He’s in the stables, just returning from a ride.” He fixed his stare on each of them at the table in slow turn, as if trying to see the truth within, as if one of them hid his daughter away somewhere—or at least possessed the knowledge of her whereabouts. Grier tucked her hands in her lap and struggled for an innocent expression.

  A maid approached then, wringing her hands and looking generally fearful. “Her maid is gone, too. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Hannah, too?” The earl’s voice rose shrilly.

  “They’ve run away! Oh dear!” Persia pressed her hands to her cheeks.

  “Well, they haven’t been abducted,” the earl spit out. “Someone has to know something . . . has to have seen something!”

  Grier’s foot tapped uneasily under the table. She was not about to interfere and bring undue notice to herself. Lady Libbie was no child. If she wished to marry someone else, then the decision was hers.

  One of the dowager’s grooms arrived then, as if Grier’s thoughts had conjured him. He approached hesitantly, lightly clearing his throat. “Um, my lord—”

  The earl whirled on him. “What, man? Speak up!” he barked. “Have you news of my Libbie?”

  “Well, I’ve some news, my lord, that might shed light—”

  “Out with it.”

  Everyone at the table leaned forward, heaving a collective breath of anticipation.

  “Your groom, John, is missing.” At the earl’s blank expression, he added, “He didn’t sleep in his bed, either.”

  “John,” he echoed, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

  Instantly Grier understood, vaguely recalling the handsome young groom. Holding her breath, she waited for the moment of understanding to dawn on the earl. She did not have long to wait.

  Color flooded his face anew. “That bloody bastard!”

  The viscount lurched to his feet from the table. “Contain yourself, my lord. There are ladies present!”

  The earl ignored the viscount. Blustering and cursing, he raced from the solarium, calling for his carriage.

  Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment until Persia suddenly rose in a rustle of lavender skirts. “Well, that was much too exciting for so early an hour as this. I think I’ll seek the dowager’s calming
company . . . see if she’s up for a stroll.” Her gaze lingered on the viscount for a moment, clearly waiting for him to rise and accompany her.

  The viscount looked from her to Grier, clearly weighing what he should do with what he wanted to do. As tempting as he found Persia, she clearly did not possess the requisite dowry. With a faintly apologetic smile for Persia, he settled back in his chair, evidently committed to his duty. “Enjoy your stroll, Miss Thrumgoodie,” he murmured in strained tones.

  Grier stifled a sigh, in that moment wishing he would simply do as he wished to do.

  Hurt flickered across Persia’s features before she managed to mask it. With a quick inhalation that lifted the charming swell of bosom modestly displayed within the confines of her morning gown, she started from the table with short, quick steps, her eagerness to spread the latest on dit apparently returning.

  A smile quirked Grier’s lips. The girl was no doubt anxious to be the first to share this latest gossip with the highest lady of rank in residence.

  Marielle rose. “I believe I might check in on Grandfather and see about venturing home today. He was looking a bit peaked last night. Too much country air usually gives him the sniffles. I’m afraid country living is not for those of delicate constitutions.” Marielle chafed a hand over one plump arm as though to imply she was affected as well. Grier resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. The girl was the picture of bountiful health. “I don’t know how the dowager can abide to spend so much time here. Perhaps I can convince her of the wisdom of returning to Town. I so fret for her in this winter clime. It’s much warmer in Town.”

  Grier could no longer fight her smirk. They couldn’t stand it. One of London’s wealthiest heiresses had run away with her father’s groom. A moment wasn’t to be wasted sitting on such a juicy tidbit as that. The dowager’s house party, it seemed, had come to a swift end.

  It was far too important to be one of the first to impart news of the scandal to Society. Grier watched in bemusement as Marielle’s plump figure fled the solarium, obviously eager to reach the dowager before Persia shared all the news.

  “Well,” Cleo announced airily after some moments, “appears we’ll be returning to Town earlier than expected.”

  Jack lifted his head from his plate at this. “Hmm, what’s that?” he asked, looking at each of them with blinking dark eyes. “We’re leaving early?”

  Cleo leaned close and lightly touched his sleeve. “I think the house party is on the verge of dissolving.”

  He grunted and returned to his meal. “Suppose it doesn’t matter where we are so long as you two are out and about in Society.”

  Bitter indignation ate up her chest and throat. Grier’s cheeks burned and prickled. Jack cared only for marrying them off and winning a place among the ton. Lately there had been a few times when she’d thought he might actually care for her. She thought fate might have been kind enough to give her a second chance with a new father who might, beneath his gruff exterior, actually love her.

  Suddenly feeling the need for some fresh air, she set down her spoon and rose. “Excuse me.”

  Cleo sent her an encouraging smile.

  Grier gave a nod before turning and striding away, her skirts swishing around her ankles. Unaccustomed to the love of a good father, her sister could tolerate Jack far better than she.

  She slipped away through the back of the house and took the servants’ path to the stables, chafing her hands over her arms as she went, musing that she should perhaps have fetched a cloak. Rather than go back and risk bumping into anyone, she hurried her steps to reach the shelter of the stables.

  Once there, she stopped on the threshold, taking comfort in the earthy aromas. The smell of leather, hay, and horseflesh. All familiar. All comfortable. It reminded her of the home she left behind.

  Her strides slow and easy, she strolled inside, down the wide lane between several stalls. She felt immediately better. More at peace. A beautiful stallion stuck his head over the door and nickered at her as she passed. She backed up a step to stroke his sable neck. He whinnied in approval and she cooed to him, deepening the stroke of her fingers against his velvety coat.

  “Aren’t you a handsome boy?” she murmured. “Such a fine lad, hmm?”

  “Never thought I’d be jealous of a horse.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grier whirled around.

  Sev stood before her, his cheeks raw from the cold winter air. His hair was tousled and windblown and midnight dark. Her stomach fluttered at the towering sight of him.

  She went back to patting the horse’s neck, struggling to appear unaffected at his sudden appearance. A definite challenge when she could only think of the night before in his bedchamber.

  “Did you enjoy your ride?” she asked in a voice that did not even sound like it belonged to her, so small and breathless.

  He advanced on her, looking dangerous and predatory with his piercing eyes and hard jaw. He didn’t answer her, didn’t speak. His silence unnerved her more than anything he could have said.

  She backed up until the door of the stall stopped her from moving any further. Still, he kept coming.

  Her hand tapped at her side nervously, tangling in her skirts. She looked desperately to the right and left. No one. No groom lurked about the many stalls. Not a single soul. They were all alone. For now at least.

  Suddenly it was last night again. Only this time she wouldn’t run away. This time she would be bold. She would take what she wanted. She would take him.

  They leapt at each other, came together in a fierce union of grasping hands and melding lips.

  Their mouths met in a furious mating. He fell against her and she slammed back against the stall door. The wood slats knocked from the force. His body flattened against hers, all warm, hard lines covering every inch of her.

  She ran her hands through his hair, reveling in the dark silken strands as cold as the wind whipping outside, almost icy against her palms—but that did nothing to chill the heat stirring inside her.

  “Grier,” he groaned, dragging his mouth down her throat.

  She sighed, arching her neck for him. Closing her eyes, she forgot everything. Everything but this. Him. Her.

  A sharp male voice cracked over the air and Grier jerked. Someone was approaching.

  She beat a small hand against Sev’s shoulder, forcing him to stop.

  He pulled away from her, chest heaving, staring at her hungrily with his heavy-lidded gaze as the angry voice grew nearer.

  Smoothing a trembling hand down her bodice, she stared wide-eyed at him. She shivered at the promise she read there, the promise that this wasn’t finished. That they weren’t done.

  “Dammit, boy, are you mentally deficient? How is it someone absconded with three horses and you heard nothing?”

  “I’m sorry, milord. I didn’t hear a sound all night.”

  The earl and a stable boy hurried down the lane between the stables side by side. The earl’s man traveled several paces behind, as if he wanted to distance himself from his angry master.

  The copper-haired stable lad seemed unaware that he should proceed with such caution. He sputtered profuse apologies for sleeping through the night and not waking when Lady Libbie and her cohorts snuck three horses from the dowager’s stables.

  The blustering earl finally reached the end of his control. He turned on the boy and knocked him to the ground.

  Grier choked out a small cry as the slight boy flew several feet before landing on his side. His small face crumpled from the pain. He curled himself tight and clutched his arm close to his thin chest.

  Grier hurried forward and crouched beside him, gently touching his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Leave him be,” the earl snarled. “He needs to be schooled on what happens when he falls short on his duties.”

  Grier lifted her gaze. “Yo
u’re vile. He’s just a boy.”

  “And you need to mind to your affairs, woman, and guard your tongue when addressing me. You’re lucky to even be a guest here.”

  A low growl emanated from Sev. “Have a care when addressing Miss Hadley.”

  The boy’s face flushed with both pain and embarrassment as he struggled to sit up. He leveled suspiciously wet eyes on his attacker. “You’re just angry because your daughter ran away with a groom!”

  The earl’s eyes bulged. “You insolent little whelp!” He lunged for the boy, his arm pulled back to deliver a backhand slap.

  She moved in and shielded the lad. “You’ll not harm him again.”

  The earl wagged a sausagelike finger in her face. “I warned you to—”

  Before he could even finish his sentence, Sev stepped in and knocked the earl off his feet with a deft punch to the face. The crack of bone on bone rang out in the stable.

  The earl landed with a solid thud on his backside.

  Grier gaped, certain she had just not watched Sev strike a gentleman in defense of a servant.

  “What’d you do that for?” the earl cried in muffled tones, clutching his afflicted nose where blood trickled thickly between his fingers.

  Sev shrugged. “Never been partial to men who bully children and women.”

  “Well, you can forget ever marrying my daughter!”

  Sev chuckled. “Were I even still interested in marrying your daughter, she’s presumably on the way to Gretna to marry your groom.”

  “I’ll have it annulled!” he cried.

  Sev shrugged again as he moved to take Grier’s elbow. “I don’t really care what you do—so long as I never see you strike another servant in my presence or speak to Miss Hadley with such disrespect again.”

  Grier’s head reeled. Why should he care how others addressed her?

  “Will you be all right, lad?” Sev asked the boy, who stared up at him with adulation.

  He nodded his coppery head. “Thank you, milord.”