Wicked in Your Arms

  “An earl’s daughter certainly exceeds the thoroughly ineligible Hadley chits you suggested.”

  Again, that cool, unfeeling tone chafed her nerves.

  “The kind of chits you wed, not bed, eh? That it?” Malcolm chuckled.

  “Precisely,” the prince agreed.

  That did it!

  Before she could stop herself, Grier peeled back a handful of fronds and lifted her glass high, watching in rapt horror as her hand tilted the cup high over his dark-haired head, tilting, tilting . . .

  She watched as if the hand were not her own. The glass someone else’s.

  The moment the lemon water struck his head, he burst out with an exclamation in another language—an expletive, she was certain from the fierce growl-like sound. She took immense satisfaction at the reaction.

  Grier jumped back, letting the fronds settle back into place. She held her breath, every muscle freezing as if that would make her somehow invisible.

  Whirling around, he swiped a large hand at the frothy green fronds, clearly determined to see just who had dared to give him a soaking.

  His incensed gaze landed on her. The breath she had been holding escaped her in a hiss at the sight of his glowering face. Not precisely what she had been expecting. Where was the weak-chinned dandy? The pale-faced aristocrat who couldn’t even lift a dainty hand to blow his own nose?

  She scowled, exceedingly discomfited as she stared into a pair of fiery gold eyes. Gold. She would not have thought such eyes were possible.

  She finally found her breath again, recalling how to operate her lungs. A ragged breath broke from her lips as she faced a single glaring truth. His arrogance derived from more than his royal pedigree. He was gorgeous.

  Those extraordinary eyes gleamed like fire down at her. His gaze drifted to the cup she clutched in her fingers. The now empty cup. She rapidly tucked it behind her skirts.

  A sound that sounded suspiciously like a growl rumbled from him.

  Blinking, she snapped herself from her shocked stupor. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a sweetly false voice. “Did I spill my drink on you? How clumsy of me.” Grier extended her crumpled napkin to him in offering. “It’s such a mad crush in here. I must have been nudged.”

  She almost choked to hear herself suggest that she had spilled her drink accidentally—through a potted plant no less—onto him. Those gold eyes flicked around them, clearly taking measure and seeing that no one stood near her.

  Malcolm, his cousin with the shock of red hair, stared wide-eyed at her. There was more than scandalized horror in his gaze. It was almost as though he recognized her. And, she realized, he very well could. Especially if she’d made it onto his blasted list. Her father had dragged them about Town a good deal during the last fortnight, parading his long-lost daughters to a bevy of fortune-hunting bluebloods.

  “Um, Sev,” Malcolm began, but was silenced with a swiping hand.

  That gesture, that swift slice of his hand through the air, said everything about him. That he was a man accustomed to being obeyed. That he would expect nothing less than total deference. All for the mere matter of his birth.

  A foul taste filled her mouth as he stared down the straight line of his nose at her. Sadly, Grier knew firsthand that the matter of one’s birth was not a mere nothing in this world. It mattered. She’d learned at an early age just how much. Her lack of pedigree had marked her for ridicule.

  Only marriage to a respectable gentleman would show the world that she was more than a circumstance of birth, more than a nothing. She would become a proper, respectable lady, and no one would dare toss slurs upon her again.

  “Clumsy?” He arched a dark eyebrow superciliously. He studied the proffered handkerchief a moment, as though fearing it tainted, before plucking it from her hand and wiping at the back of his hair and neck.

  She held his accusing gaze, her eyes wide with feigned innocence even as anger simmered at a low burn in her veins. With only a few words the pompous jackass brought out the worst in her, flooding her with memories of all the times the village children had taunted her. “I do apologize,” she lied sweetly.

  “No need,” he replied brusquely, staring at her with cold eyes. “I shall dry.”

  She bobbed her head. “Indeed. No lasting damage.”

  More the pity. He deserved more than a soaking.

  He angled his head to the side, staring at her almost in bemusement. He’d clearly detected her lack of sincerity.

  Indifferent to the fact—even glad that he caught it—a satisfied smile curved her lips. Lifting her skirts, she turned and marched away. Even if she regretted her rash actions later, in this moment it felt good. She felt vindicated.

  That imperious voice of his rang in her ears as he demanded of his cousin, “Who in the hell was that?”

  “I was trying to tell you. That is Miss Grier Hadley.”

  A heavy beat of silence fell. And then: “Oh.”

  Her smile deepened. Oh, indeed. Let him feel embarrassed. Let him pursue her with an apology. Then she heard his next words, and all her smug humor vanished.

  “She’s entirely what one would expect from a woman of low breeding.”

  She hesitated for the barest moment, contemplating turning around and giving him a piece of her mind. Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she marched on, her steps quickening as she went, unable to hear any more. Unable to bear it.

  Chapter Two

  “What was she doing hiding behind a fern?” Sevastian patted his neck dry with a slight grimace. That damn lemon water was cold. He still had goose bumps.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Apparently eavesdropping. Good thing you ruled her out as a potential bride. She did not appear too impressed with you.”

  “Nor I with her.” He dropped the napkin on the table. “Accident my foot, the little liar.”

  Sev looked after her as she wended through the crowd. She stood taller than most females. He easily followed her upswept auburn hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to comment that she had not been what he expected, but then he realized he had not expected anything because he had not given either of the Misses Hadley a thought—other than to deem the pair as unacceptable bridal candidates.

  He shrugged. So she possessed fine eyes, even when spitting with temper. It mattered naught to him.

  His gaze narrowed on her slim back and he marveled aloud, quite unable to reconcile it, “The little hoyden tossed her drink on me.” Low-bred or not, what female did such a thing? To him? Such a thing had never come close to occurring before.

  “Quite so,” Malcolm said, sounding dangerously near laughter.

  Sev sent his cousin a quick glare. “Deliberately,” he stressed. “She deliberately doused me with her drink.”

  “To be fair, can you blame her? You did make the most unflattering remarks about her.”

  “You’re assuming she overheard.”

  “Given her reaction to you—”

  “Very well. Let’s assume she overheard then.” Sev stared after the woman as if she possessed two heads. “As I recollect, nothing said was untrue.”

  He recalled her face those brief moments they gazed upon each other. Nothing about her indicated a lady gently reared. Not her bold stare. Not her brown skin or the brown freckles upon her nose. Certainly not her manner of speech. She spoke too directly, defiance bright in her eyes. Indeed, nothing like a demure lady.

  He scratched his jaw. “No one has ever poured a drink upon me.”

  “You mean after ten years of war you’ve never suffered a drink in the face?”

  “That was war, Malcolm. I suffered bayonets, cannons, and bullets. Dodging lemon water was not part of the routine.”

  “I wouldn’t know of such things.” Malcolm plucked at a piece of lint on his sleeve. “And I don’t see how you came to know, either. You’re the crown prince. Y
ou should have been sequestered away and not fighting on a battlefield.”

  If his cousin couldn’t understand Sev’s need to rally his people and lead an army against insurgents determined to overthrow the royal house of Maldania, then he wasn’t going to explain it.

  “You do what you have to do,” he muttered. “Come, introduce me to this Lady Libbie.” Clasping his hands together behind his back, he strode across the room, all the while keeping an eye trained on the intrepid Miss Hadley.

  “Very well. I think she may be just the thing you’re looking for. Quite pretty, too—”

  “Pretty is not a requisite, Malcolm.”

  “Very well.” His cousin shook his head in wonder. “All business then.”

  Sev’s roaming gaze caught sight of Lady Kirkendale standing to the far side of the ballroom near one of many shadowed alcoves. She beckoned him again with her fan. Not a requisite in a wife, but he found it most desirable in a bedmate of a less permanent nature.

  A slow smile curved his mouth as he feasted his gaze on the buxom matron.

  With the war behind him, it was time he performed the next duty required of him. His grandfather had tasked him with such, and Sev would not disappoint him. Not after everything he’d already lost. They’d both lost. Sev’s father, his brother, his uncles, and various cousins . . . All gone. Either to assassins or on a battlefield.

  His gaze trailed Lady Kirkendale as she drifted past one of the alcoves, looking over her bare shoulder several times, the invitation in her eyes unmistakable as she moved toward the threshold that would take her deeper into the house.

  The memory of his grandfather, ailing and anticipating his return with a bride in tow—a proper bride—made his chest tighten uncomfortably. It was the only thing keeping the old man alive.

  Now was not the time for dalliance, and yet the prospect of matrimony, of taking that next step to secure his throne—to claiming what should have been his brother’s—filled him with a helpless rage.

  He’d do it. Of course. It was right. Necessary. He always did the right and necessary thing. Nothing could distract him from his course . . . However, he’d take what diversions he could.

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of auburn hair and burgundy gown that had left such an unpleasant impression upon him moments ago. He forced his gaze straight ahead, training his eyes on Lady Kirkendale—a means for him to release his frustrations, his helpless rage over the fact that his life was not his own. His grandfather had ingrained that in him. A crown prince never served himself.

  The thought settled like a heavy stone sinking into his gut. “Let us have this introduction with Lady Libbie in a little while. I’ve something to do. I won’t be long.”

  Malcolm followed his gaze to Lady Kirkendale’s departing back with a smirk. “Of course. Hopefully Lady Libbie doesn’t take an early departure.”

  Sevastian slid his gaze back to his cousin. “See to it that she doesn’t.” He tugged on his cuffs. “I won’t be long. I’ll have that introduction . . . and perhaps even a private word with Lady Libbie’s father if she proves to be all that you claim. Mind you, I’d like to be back home before the snows melt. This whole business has already taken entirely too long.”

  Something flashed over Malcolm’s face, and Sev felt a stab of guilt knowing that the palace—Maldania—was somewhere Malcolm would never visit again. No matter how he might wish to.

  Sev shook off the sentiment. He couldn’t allow himself to feel responsible for Malcolm, too. He had enough to worry about—an entire country of people. Besides, he’d already done more than his grandfather would condone in striking up a relationship with his ostracized cousin.

  Guests parted before him as he cut through the crush. Sev spared no one a glance as he left the ballroom. Just the same, he was well aware that they all looked after him. Such was usual. He was the Crown Prince of Maldania and handsome, if the tittering females who fawned over him were to be believed.

  His boots strode a straight line, his steps muffled on the runner. Hopefully a quick tryst with Lady Kirkendale would aid him in feeling not so . . . afflicted. Perhaps a brief assignation would let him feel again and find release from the numbness encasing him.

  He shook his head at his unrealistic ponderings. They were useless dreams. Funny that he would still allow himself to dream. That was another thing his grandfather taught him. A prince had no right to dream anything for himself. Even if he took ease in a soft, willing body, his world would remain the same. As Crown Prince of Maldania, his life could never be his own. The choices he made were not for him. Country came first. Duty and responsibilities faced him at every turn. He couldn’t escape it.

  After working her way through the ballroom, Grier ensconced herself safely at another of the many buffet tables—this one tucked well away from the brute prince upon whom she’d poured her drink.

  She didn’t care what royal blood flowed through his veins, the man was a boor. She didn’t regret dousing him with her lemon water. It wasn’t as though she’d ruined her chances to snare herself a prince. Recalling his severe expression, she knew entertaining such a notion was laughable.

  He obviously didn’t consider her eligible . . . nor did she wish him to. She need only remember his wretched voice as he spoke to his cousin, his accented tones so scathing at the mere suggestion of her as his bride, and her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She almost wished he stood before her again. She might toss something more tangible than a glass of punch at him. He deserved no less.

  She inhaled through her nose, immediately missing the open space of home as she drew in the aroma of overperfumed bodies. She longed for crisp, woodsy air. Verdant green hills and mountains undulating around her.

  She quickly reminded herself she couldn’t return to Wales. Nothing was left for her there except more of the usual disdain. Papa was dead three years now. And Trevis . . .

  Well, she simply couldn’t go back.

  “Grier, how many biscuits are you going to eat?”

  At the exasperated voice, Grier shook off her troubling thoughts, vowing yet again to forget the past and focus on her future. “I lost count at twelve.”

  Her half sister Cleo shot her a beleaguered look as she slid up beside her. “Very amusing.” She plucked the frosted delicacy from Grier’s fingers as she was just about to take another bite. “Permit me to spare you that one.”

  Grier moaned and tried to snatch it back.

  “Weren’t you just at the table over there?” Cleo gestured across the room. “Will you do nothing but eat tonight?”

  “The other table ran out of biscuits,” she lied, trying to reclaim her food.

  Cleo stuffed the biscuit into her own mouth and swatted Grier’s hand when she reached toward the table to select a new one. “We’ve an agenda, if you don’t recall. We need to mingle,” Cleo chided around her mouthful. Candlelight struck her brown curls and made them appear as lustrous as freshly tilled soil.

  Grier sighed. “The only thing I have to look forward to at these events is the food. Don’t deny me that.”

  One thing she didn’t miss about living alone and fending for herself was preparing all her own meals. It was nice having delicious fare on hand whenever she wished for it. She didn’t have to step outdoors and shoot a grouse, then pluck and clean it and cook it. That she did not miss.

  “We agreed to do this together and so far I’m the only one participating in this husband hunt. I don’t want Jack scolding you again for being unsociable.”

  An image of the two gossiping biddies flashed through Grier’s mind, followed quickly by that cad—Sevastian. Her stomach knotted. Even his name seemed to elevate him so very far from her. As if his bloodlines, manner, and appearance did not do that already.

  If mingling at these affairs thrust her into the company of people like that, she’d rather hid
e—but Cleo was correct. She’d snare no husband by hiding. She knew that. How was she to find the security and respectability she long craved if she didn’t marry a proper gentleman?

  Cleo cocked her head, a glossy ringlet sliding over her shoulder. “Were you not the one lecturing me earlier about donning a good face and finding ourselves a husband posthaste?”

  Grier twisted one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “Yes, that was me . . . but then I arrive at these horrid affairs and endure all the stares and whispering.” She sighed, her mind drifting to that dreadful prince again. “We’re scarcely tolerated here, Cleo—”

  Cleo waved a hand. “That’s to be expected. Have you met our father, perchance? The man with the horrid accent wearing a cravat a miserable shade of plum and making a fool of himself in the card room?”

  Grier winced at the sadly accurate description.

  Cleo gently gripped her arm, her touch warm through her velvet gloves. “I suggest you do as you advised me. Find some grateful lord with a fondness for his country estate and get him down on bended knee. Once that is accomplished, we can say good-bye to all of this that we so dislike.” She motioned about them with a flutter of her hand.

  “You’re right, of course.” Grier nodded and straightened her spine, sweeping an appraising eye over the ballroom. Several gentlemen surveyed both her and her sister. Like prime horseflesh at the market. She shook off the unwelcome sensation. Was she not judging them with the same assessing eye?

  “Come then. Let’s take a turn about the room,” Cleo suggested.

  Cleo took her arm. Together they strolled. This time Grier paid no mind when a group of debutantes in flouncy pastel gowns presented them with their backs, giving them the cut direct. Grier forced her gaze from them and lifted her chin a notch. Who cared if a bunch of silly girls snubbed her? She wasn’t here for them, after all. Once she was married to a respectable gentleman, all that would come to an end anyway.

  “Ah, there’s the dowager’s youngest grandson, Lord Tolliver.” Cleo dipped her head close to whisper, “Jack said we should show him particular attention. Let us go make ourselves amenable.”