Wicked in Your Arms

by Sophie Jordan

  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

  The 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 yourse
lf 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.

  Sev 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.

  Shortly 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 th
at a scent? A faint whiff of brandy teased her nose. Was this what a prince smelled like, then?

  She swallowed, suddenly unable to speak. His nearness rattled her. Her tongue struggled to form the words.

  “Come now, you claim to possess the courage to denounce me.” His gaze looked her up and down.

  His seductive, rolling accents stroked like velvet against her skin. His voice was an aphrodisiac, impossible to resist. She took a hasty step back. She must. Otherwise she would be just what he judged her. Not a lady at all—no better than a light-skirt.

  “I do!” she retorted. “You’re a bounder—and a snob!” She lifted her chin a notch. Not such a simple task when he stood so much taller than she. “You’ll not see me making a ninny of myself simply because you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth.”

  Wrong, perhaps, but he became the perfect target for her ire—for the despondency that had filled her the moment she stepped within this room. He never knew what it felt like to be lost or lonely . . . or rejected for the circumstances of his birth. Indeed not. The circumstances of his birth afforded him great advantages.

  “And why is that, Miss Hadley? Why are you so opposed to showing me the due reverence everyone else does?” he prompted, his keen eyes fixed on her in that ever unnerving way.

  “Aside from the boorish things I overheard you say about me upon our first encounter?” For some reason she couldn’t make herself bring up the reminder of his proposition. Just the two of them, alone in a room no one would likely enter . . . it seemed a bad idea. As though she perhaps wanted him to remember. Wanted him to recall that he’d found her attractive and put his hands on her . . .

  “Why should you take my words so personally? You are illegitimate. Daughter to a man with a most unsavory reputation.” Even as he spoke, his expression remained cool and impassive . . . as though he were not being the least insulting. “Fortune withstanding, you are exceedingly unsuitable.”

  “And what are you?” she shot back, her temper simmering at a dangerous degree. She inhaled a deep, angry breath that lifted her chest high. “You’re nothing more than a penniless prince with a country drowning in debt!”