Wicked in Your Arms

by Sophie Jordan

  Grier and Cleo exchanged glances at the smirks her father earned from the half-dozen guests lounging in chaises and sofas about the room. Wealthy or not, invited or not, they were objects of disdain for the dowager’s guests.

  Grier pasted a polite smile on her face and tried not to feel like a mongrel who snuck inside to escape the storm. She belonged here just as much as anybody else. She was an invited guest.

  For some reason the image of Prince Sevastian’s face swam in her mind just then. He, of course, would disagree. He thought she was common and beneath such elevated company. The realization stung as it shouldn’t. She bit back a groan of frustration that he’d found a way into her head again.

  Shaking memories of him away, she lifted her chin a notch and inquired after the dowager’s health.

  The dowager offered a reply and smiled. Grier tried to detect artifice in the brittle curve of her ashen lips—the same artifice she met at every turn within the ton—but then she called a stop to such wonderings. Such thoughts were pointless. Of course the smile was a sham. The dowager didn’t want Grier or Cleo to wed her grandson. She merely wanted Jack’s fortune to save her family.

  It didn’t take much to assess the direness of the dowager’s situation. The evidence was there, all around Grier. The faded wallpaper wouldn’t be so obvious but for the few squares of brighter, cleaner paper where paintings had once hung. Sold to fetch much-needed funds, she surmised. Grier’s gaze darted to the maids standing in attendance. Likely to pay for the servants required to run this mausoleum.

  And there were other signs. The drawing room furniture, once of the finest quality, was worn and faded. Something she easily noted after residing with her father for the last month and being surrounded with the finest furnishings and most lavish decor.

  The dowager snapped her wrist and the viscount appeared, lifting up from a chaise across the room, where he had been in close conversation with a pretty brunette. The girl’s eyes followed him longingly as he moved to his grandmother’s side and bowed over Grier and Cleo. On the other side of the girl, her plump friend patted her arm consolingly and stared sourly at Grier.

  Grier frowned. Was the girl in love with him? Was he in love with her? Perfect. Another reason to feel uncomfortable.

  The viscount did his part admirably though. He smiled and bowed over their hands with perfect grace. His boyish good looks betrayed nothing. He showed no sign that his heart was otherwise engaged. A gentleman to the core. Unlike a certain prince whose memory she could not seem to dismiss.

  Grier angled her head and took a bracing breath, reprimanding herself for thinking of that brash scoundrel again. Would he never be far from her thoughts? Over the course of their journey to reach the dowager’s estate, his face and taunting words filled her head more often than not. Strange, really.

  Holy hellfire. She almost imagined that one of the two gentlemen stepping inside the drawing room even now resembled him.

  She blinked and looked again as he approached. The gentleman didn’t resemble him. It was he.

  He was here. Her prince was here. No! Not her prince. She swallowed tightly, cursing herself for that slip. He wasn’t her anything.

  Panic swelled up in her chest, tightening her throat. How was she to forget him when he attended the same house party with her? He would be here, underfoot the entire time. For well over a week. She would see him down the length of the dinner table, constantly hear his voice everywhere she turned.

  His gaze found her, those gold eyes widening with recognition. Something akin to amusement flickered in his eyes before it was gone, banked. His well-formed mouth flattened into an unsmiling line.

  She sniffed and held up her chin, struggling to appear unaffected. She stared coolly at him, through him, behaving like him—the austere, unfeeling royal. She behaved as though she didn’t know him at all. And she didn’t. Not really. Their one evening together scarcely constituted an acquaintance.

  Her sister lightly touched her elbow, and she dragged her attention back to the viscount, focusing on what he was saying.

  “. . . delighted you are here. When you did not arrive yesterday with everyone else, we feared the elements would keep you from joining us. Such wretched weather. I profess all the gentlemen present are heaving a sigh of relief at the arrival of two more such lovely ladies.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, my lord,” Grier murmured.

  The viscount pressed a hand to his heart. “I only speak the truth.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” an elderly man exclaimed, banging his walking stick upon the floor as he swept both Grier and Cleo a lecherous look.

  Lord Tolliver nodded. “The marquis was quite displeased at the lack of females present.”

  “Now it shall be a true country party.” The old man’s leer deepened, revealing missing teeth and a wet, roiling tongue that seemed to have difficulty staying inside his mouth.

  Cleo managed to get out a polite response, but Grier could only cringe at the old man. Surely she was not to consider him? The viscount was vastly more appealing.

  “Eh, lovely.” The marquis crooked a finger at Grier. “Come sit beside me.”

  Grier gave him a wobbly smile, eyeing the small settee upon which he sat with great reluctance. Never had she felt so out of place, wondering what the proper thing to do was.

  She felt the prince’s gaze on her back, burning through her clothing, branding her, seeming to call her out for the impostor she was. At that moment, she had never felt the truth of that more keenly. She was an impostor, fighting for position in a world that didn’t want her. Resolve firmed her lips. A world that didn’t want her yet.

  “Cease your flirting, Quibbly,” the dowager called. “Can’t you see you’re frightening the girl?”

  Frightening wouldn’t be precisely accurate. Repulsing would be closer to the truth.

  Grier smiled, but her lips felt brittle and tight on her face. Thankfully Jack provided a distraction just then, diving into a diatribe on their perilous journey across snow-laden roads.

  Her father did not exaggerate. Cleo had come down with an ague, delaying their departure a day. A day in which a winter storm arrived. The roads had been nearly impassable, but that hadn’t deterred Jack. Not from a house party at the dowager’s estate.

  Grier and Cleo settled back onto the comfortable sofa as a silent maid placed a teacup in her hands. Grier took a warming sip, listening as her father described the two hours they spent mired in a snowdrift while the driver, the groom, and her father labored to pull them free.

  “Quite the adventure,” a voice murmured beside her.

  She sent a sharp glance to her left.

  Stealthily as a jungle cat, the prince had positioned himself just above her, standing with soldierlike rigidity, his hands clasped behind him. She straightened her spine and looked away. His voice, however, was still there, puckering her skin to gooseflesh. “How fortunate we are to have you here safely with us.”

  She slid him another look, trying to decipher if he mocked her and unable to hide her shock that he even deigned to speak to her where it might be witnessed. Lifting her cup to her lips, she murmured softly, “Are you certain you wish to be seen speaking to me, Your Highness?”

  His gold eyes glinted down at her. “I see no harm.”

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  “Ah, Your Highness, have you met the Misses Hadley?” The viscount had apparently noted their exchange. He looked back and forth between them.

  She opened her mouth to deny having met the prince, but he spoke first. “Yes. In Town.”

  “Ah, of course.” The viscount nodded cheerfully. He really was a nice sort. Quite willing to be the sacrificial lamb. Or was he? His stare drifted, floating somewhere beyond her shoulder as he sipped from his teacup.

  She followed his gaze to the lovely girl she’d spied him talking with
earlier. At Grier’s stare she quickly looked away, a pretty pink stain coloring her cheeks. But not before Grier saw that she, too, had been looking at the viscount.

  Shifting uncomfortably, she faced forward again, feigning interest as her father regaled the room with their adventures. Only she couldn’t focus on him for long. Not when she felt the stare of the prince mere feet away. A hot itchiness spread across her face until she had to look up at him again.

  He stared at her with what was becoming familiar aloofness. Why did he bother to look at her at all?

  With a snap of her head, she faced forward again.

  After some moments, the dowager interrupted her father’s narrative. “My, how harrowing. Perhaps your daughters would care to see their rooms and refresh themselves before dinner?”

  Grier tried not to nod too earnestly at the suggestion. Cleo rose beside her. A maid appeared as if by magic from a remote corner of the room to escort them.

  As they left, Grier felt one intent stare drilling into her back. It did not require much imagination to conclude who watched her so intently. The very same man who stared at her so coldly and deemed her fit only for a tryst—not for mingling among the echelons of Society.

  This time she managed not to look back.

  Dinner was a tiresome affair, with too many courses to count. Even after a rest in her bedchamber, concentrating so hard on how she sat, ate, and conducted herself throughout the elaborate meal made Grier’s shoulders knot with tension.

  The duke was present. Apparently he’d spent the day hunting game in the woods with his dogs. Grier envied him that. It sounded decidedly more enjoyable than her choices: taking a nap or suffering the company of ladies who preferred to discuss the latest fashion plates and gossip from Town. Still, she could endure it. She would. The end goal would make it all worthwhile.

  As the highest rank present, the prince held the seat of honor at the head of the table. The duke sat beside him. The snatches of conversation drifting her way proved far more interesting than the conversation at her far end of the table.

  She was seated beside Miss Persia Thrumgoodie, the young lady she’d caught staring so hungrily after the viscount. All Grier’s attempts at conversation with her were met with stilted responses. It was like talking to a wall. She couldn’t decide if this derived from shyness or simple disdain.

  Grier again glanced with longing down the length of table. Not, she assured herself, because the prince himself sat there, looking handsome and formidable as ever in his all-black attire, but only because, at that particular moment, they were discussing the merits of bow hunting.

  One of her slippers tapped a fierce staccato beneath the table. It was difficult sitting still in her chair and remaining silent when a subject she was actually interested in was being discussed several feet away. But what could she do? Shout down the length of the table?

  She bit her lip and swirled her spoon in her leek soup, reminding herself that no one here would care to hear her thoughts on matters of hunting. In fact, they would be appalled to know she possessed knowledge on such an unladylike subject.

  Her father slurped loudly beside her. Several distasteful looks were sent his way. Grier felt the gulf between herself and all these lily-handed aristocrats widening.

  You need only find and marry your country gentleman and you’ll endure no more of this. With a title attached to your name, you’ll be free to be yourself. No one will dare ridicule you again.

  She turned her attention to the viscount sitting several seats away. The candlelight cast shadows on his boyishly rounded features. Was he younger than she? The notion sent a frisson of discomfort through her. The uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her belly. Again she thought of the prince and his comments. He’d called her old—made her feel like a veritable hag.

  She shook off such musings and blinked her attention back to the viscount—where it should be—resisting the temptation to look even farther down the table where the prince sat. The length separating them served as reminder enough of the distance between them. He had no business in her thoughts.

  Focusing on the viscount, she wondered if he enjoyed the hunt and what he would think of a wife who did. What would he think of a wife who eschewed parties and shopping on Bond Street and would rather flush out grouse?

  It was worth finding out. What else was she here for except to explore her options?

  “And do you, Lord Tolliver, enjoy the hunt as well?” Grier lifted her voice to carry to the viscount, sending a slight nod in the direction of the duke and prince, who talked without once looking down the table length, even though the subject of his conversation could be heard.

  Tonight it was as though she did not exist for the prince. He never looked her way. Unlike before, his aloof stare did not so much as stray in her direction.

  Lord Tolliver cast a glance toward his brother, his smile rueful. “I’m a passable shot and spent a fair amount of time chasing the hounds in my youth. Growing up alongside my brother, how could I not?” He took a sip from his soup spoon. “However, I confess I can hardly claim to be the expert huntsman my brother is. I spend a good amount of time in my library, nose buried in a book. I’m not much for the outdoors.” He chuckled then. “That must make me sound a dreadful bore.”

  She smiled and lied, “Of course not.” Not that she didn’t enjoy a good book then and again. But to claim no liking for the outdoors? That was not at all what she had been seeking, but then must her future husband have to hunt and ride as much as she to tolerate her love of hunting and riding?

  Persia cooed. “I love to read as well. Novels, mostly.”

  The viscount smiled. “Perhaps it’s unmanly of me to say, but I’m quite the fan of Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  Persia clapped her hands merrily, her chestnut curls bouncing on each side of her head. “Oh! But I adore her work!”

  Grier stifled a wince. Her reading preferences were mostly histories and biographies.

  She swept another spoonful of savory broth into her mouth. Unable to stop herself, she let her gaze drift to the table’s far end—and it collided with the prince. Heat flooded her face. Was he aware how many times she had been looking his way tonight?

  His inscrutable stare gave nothing away. He studied her over the rim of his glass of claret. Her fingers tightened around her spoon and she resisted the urge to toss it down the length of table at his head. It was unaccountable really, this effect he had on her.

  Looking away, she returned her attention to those around her and reminded herself that her purpose this week was to become better acquainted with the dowager’s youngest grandson . . . and any other gentleman worthy of consideration.

  With that thought firmly in place, she pasted a smile on her face and did not glance down the table again for the rest of the night.

  Chapter Seven

  After dinner that evening, they all moved into the drawing room. Grier took a spot on the sofa beside Cleo. Lady Libbie quickly followed the dowager’s directive and took up playing on the pianoforte. She played well, and the music soon became an airy background to the conversations in the room.

  No one paid Grier and Cleo much heed where they sat together on the sofa. With the exception of the viscount, who dutifully paid them his polite attentions, everyone seemed oblivious to them. Cleo sent Grier a smile and lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.

  “Are you riding in the morning?” Cleo asked when the viscount drifted away to converse with the marquis, Lord Quibbly.

  “Perhaps. Or I might just take your example and sleep in,” she teased.

  Cleo blinked wide eyes. “You? Never. Surely the world would end first.”

  Grier smiled. She always rose early and rarely missed an opportunity for a ride. Even in this weather, she enjoyed escaping outdoors.

  Understandably, Cleo enjoyed sleeping late since it was a luxury she never experienc
ed before. Before, she had children to dress and feed and countless chores to perform.

  “You should do so, of course,” Cleo said in all seriousness. “It feels marvelous waking up to sunlight streaming through your room. Much better than waking when it’s still dark and then stumbling around beneath the eaves for your shoes, in your too small room you must share with five others.

  “It does sound like something I should experience.” She grinned. “At least once.”

  “Quite.” Cleo nodded. “I heartily recommend it.” Her expression grew rather intent. “I vow to never go back to my old life where I’m forced to complete a day’s work before the sun even rises.”

  Grier nodded and hoped that Cleo demanded more than that for herself. A life of luxury and indolence wouldn’t guarantee her happiness. Cleo deserved more than that. She deserved love.

  And don’t you, as well?

  Grier pushed the small voice aside. She knew it wasn’t a question of what she deserved but more a question of what she could expect. Aside of her fortune, she possessed nothing to recommend her to these bluebloods. A fact made glaringly clear by how little notice they paid her.

  She was no beauty. She lacked grace and youth and breeding. Cleo was young and pretty and charming. She could expect a love match. It was within her reach, and Grier wanted that for her. For herself, she was more practical.

  Grier observed Prince Sevastian from the corner of her eye. He stood ramrod straight, one arm tucked behind him in a very military pose that appeared somehow natural to him, and she wondered at that. Did he never relax? Never let himself go in the slightest? In the privacy of his rooms, did he carry himself with the same stiffness?

  Her fingers twitched against her silk skirts, tempted with the impulse to muss his hair and loosen his cravat, to make him look more . . . human.

  He stood at the mantel beside the duke. Naturally, the two men of highest rank in the room would gravitate toward each other. The fire in the great hearth crackled behind them, casting a red glow on their dark trouser-clad legs.