Wicked in Your Arms

by Sophie Jordan

  Cleo arched a jet black brow. “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” She was done dragging her feet. The quicker she wed someone else, the sooner she could forget about Sevastian.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I want to hear everything. How was the dowager’s house party?” Grier’s half sister Marguerite leaned close and whispered over the lilting notes of the soprano who sang at the front of the room, “Do you have any prospects? Any handsome men sweep you off your feet?”

  Grier ignored the sudden pinch in her chest and slid her gaze from the Italian opera singer the dowager had acquired for the evening to her half sister. “The viscount has made himself amenable.”

  Marguerite looked over at the gentleman sitting one row behind them in the dowager’s ballroom. Several rows of chairs lined the ballroom, occupied by gentlemen and ladies all listening raptly to the soprano performing on a small dais at the head of the room. The singer’s generous bosom swelled from her gown. Grier feared that she might spill free with her next note.

  Smiling, Marguerite whispered, “I’m sure the viscount has been more than amenable. His imposing grandmamma would see to that, I imagine.”

  Grier nodded, her stomach cramping a bit because her single marriage prospect was due to one intimidating old lady. Far from romantic.

  At that thought, her gaze swept the room, searching for the familiar dark hair of her prince. A weakness to be certain, that she should still search for him after she ended their affair, but in the last week since her return to Town she found herself searching for him everywhere she went.

  She took a bracing breath. Sooner or later they would bump into each other, and she must be strong when that moment arrived. As stalwart as she’d been at the inn, severing their relationship with nary a tear. At least in his presence.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Marguerite asked.

  “No.” Grier forced a bright smile. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. We’ve had so little opportunity to visit.”

  “I’m thrilled you invited me. With Ash out of town on business, I’m happy for the distraction. I’m only sorry Cleo isn’t feeling well.”

  “She’s been spending a good deal of time with Lord Quibbly.”

  “Lord Quibbly? That ancient old man who practically accosted us when we arrived, demanding to know where Cleo was?”

  “The same.” Grier readjusted herself on the hard-backed chair and sighed, not understanding why Cleo encouraged the old man’s suit. “I think she wanted a reprieve from his attentions.”

  “That I can understand.”

  Marguerite shuddered, and Grier couldn’t help teasing, “Not everyone can be married to an Adonis.”

  Marguerite smiled pertly and whispered back, “True. There is no one his match.”

  Grier snorted. “Braggart.”

  “Although that gentleman who just entered the room with his gaze fixated on you would be a close second.”

  Grier’s gaze jerked to land on Sevastian, standing tall and handsome in his black jacket. Only he wasn’t alone.

  Other than his ever-present cousin, a pair of ladies accompanied them. One was older—the mother, Grier guessed from her resemblance to the young, fair-haired woman that Sev gallantly led into a seat.

  Grier’s eyes burned. He wasted no time moving on.

  “Grier, are you all right?”

  Grier nodded, staring her aching eyes hard at the back of Sev’s head two rows before her. So much for remaining stalwart. Her hands shook in her lap.

  The room broke into applause as the soprano’s final note faded to an end.

  Shaking, she rose to her feet. “Excuse me, Marguerite. I need some air.”

  “Would you like me to come with—”

  “No. I’ll be but a moment.” If she should succumb to tears, she didn’t want her sister to witness her display of weakness. They were only just beginning to know each other. Grier would rather Marguerite not know that she had fallen in love with a man so above her station that she was guaranteed nothing but heartache.

  She glimpsed her father as she fled, standing near the back with other gentlemen less inclined to appreciate the evening’s musical performance. She ignored his scowl as she fled. Ignored meeting anyone’s eyes directly, most specifically a dark-haired, gold-eyed prince she’d shut out from her life. She blinked burning eyes, her steps eating up the parquet floor as she hurried from the ballroom. She wondered if she could beg off for the night and go home—tell everyone she was ill with whatever allegedly ailed Cleo.

  “Grier!”

  A small squeak escaped her at the sight of Sev striding toward her.

  Whirling back around, she increased her pace, hoping he would get the hint that she didn’t want to see him . . . especially with her eyes burning and tears that threatened to fall at any moment.

  He said her name louder, a barked command. A quick glance revealed he was running now, his face set in hard, determined lines.

  Lifting her skirts, she gave in to a full run, not caring how absurd she was being, running from him like he was a crazed murderer.

  Rounding a corner, she seized the latch on a door, fumbling with it, hoping to dive inside and hide.

  Just as she got the door opened, he was there. Every hard imposing inch of him pressed at her back. Instantly she was enveloped in him. He was no longer a memory, but a live, real, flesh and blood man pressed hotly against her.

  Her heart spiked against her throat. Panic warred with the inexplicable fury in her heart.

  She whipped around, brought her palm crashing against his face with a loud crack.

  He grabbed her wrist before she could strike him again and pushed her back into the room. Darkness engulfed them, thick and pervasive as a cocoon.

  They wrestled, he trying to grab one of her flailing hands desperate to hit him, punish him again—to hurt him for all the pain in her heart.

  Sobs choked her throat. He hauled her against him, her arms trapped between their bodies.

  He grasped her face with his one free hand, forcing her still, immobilizing her. His mouth claimed hers in a fierce stamp of his desire. Heat seared her at the contact and she was helpless to resist. She kissed him back with equal fervor, their lips brutal and thorough, teeth clanging in their feverish need for each other.

  The throbbing darkness enhanced everything. Her skin sizzled where he touched. He eased up, freeing her hands. It was as though they read each other’s minds. Her fingers flew to his trousers, freed him as he dove beneath her skirts.

  Fabric ripped. Her drawers, she supposed—didn’t care.

  The barest hint of air caressed that exposed part of her before he was there, plunging himself deep.

  She arched, crying out beneath him as he worked himself over her. Their bodies made savage sounds as they came together again and again in a fierce coupling.

  His hands gripped her bottom, lifting her up for his penetration. She went willingly, moved with his every motion, reveling, exulting, exploding into a million particles.

  The air itself seemed to shudder around her as she convulsed, trembling in his arms. And still, it was not over. He flipped her so that she rode him. After a moment’s awkwardness, she found her rhythm, encouraged by his deep, guttural sounds of satisfaction.

  He cupped her breasts through her dress, abraded the nipples through the sheer muslin until she moaned and rode him harder, finding that spot and hitting it as hard as she could manage.

  “Mine,” he whispered so softly she wondered if she had heard him correctly through all their sounds and noises.

  Ripples of sensation burst through her again, spreading from the core of her to each and every nerve ending. With an exultant shout, she collapsed. Draped over him, it was some moments before she could even move.

  His light touch at the back of her head spiked her to aware
ness.

  She lurched upright and scrambled off him, rearranging her skirts over her. “What have we done? In the midst of the dowager’s musicale, no less? You’ve gone mad and you’ve dragged me with you!”

  “It was bound to happen.” His disembodied voice stroked the air, infuriatingly even. “It will happen again if we try to ignore each other.”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet. “What do you recommend? We schedule regular trysts?” She thought of the fair-haired lady waiting for him in the dowager’s ballroom and her anger returned. “That might impede your courtship.”

  She thought she caught the gleam of his lion’s eyes in the dark. “You’re jealous.”

  “Why would I be jealous?” she snapped. “I broke it off with you. It’s you who needs to stop hounding me.”

  Her hands quickly assessed her hair. There was hardly a strand properly in place. Holy hellfire. One look at her and anyone would surmise she had been engaging in relations of an illicit nature.

  “How could I have been so stupid?” She furiously attacked her hair, readjusting the pins without a hope.

  “Grier.” Suddenly his warm hand was on her arm. “We can’t go on ignoring each other. I’m going to keep hounding you, as you put it.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Her voice quivered as she tried to pull free.

  The last time he touched her they ended up rutting on the floor like a pair of wild animals. Her face burned and she arched away.

  Instead of releasing her, he took her by both arms and held her close as though trying to comfort her. Or calm her. Perhaps both.

  And that was how they were discovered, locked in each other’s arms, her hair tumbling wildly around her, the smell of their desire ripe on the air.

  Light bathed them as the door to the room opened wide.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Grier!”

  She couldn’t quite identify the emotion that hummed through her father’s voice. He was shocked to be sure, but there was an excited tremor there as well. She closed her eyes in a tight blink, well imagining his thoughts—if his daughter was caught in a compromising position, it might as well be with a prince.

  Marguerite stood beside Jack as well, looking perfectly apologetic as she looked between Sev and Grier. “I-I’m sorry, Grier. I feared you were ill.”

  “Your Highness, there can be no excuse for this display!”

  “I’ve none to give.” Sev nodded.

  “Jack,” Grier pleaded, “would you keep your voice down. There’s no need to alert the house—”

  “What’s this?” a new voice inquired.

  Grier sighed as the viscount stepped into view.

  “Miss Hadley,” he murmured, his tone reflecting his surprise as he looked from her to Sev.

  “Maksimi,” Jack growled, doing a poor imitation of an outraged papa. His eyes gleamed with glee. “I demand you do the honorable thing by my daughter.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Nothing untoward occurred,” Grier lied, glad they had not come upon them five minutes sooner.

  Everyone swept their gazes over her disheveled self. She fought not to fidget beneath their dubious appraisal of her.

  Jack snorted.

  The viscount arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Indeed.”

  Sev took a menacing step. “Have a care.”

  Jack shook a fist. “I demand the honorable thing be done—”

  “And it shall,” Sev snapped.

  Grier swung her gaze to him. “No. You cannot—”

  “It’s done,” Sev declared flatly. “I’ve compromised you and we will marry.”

  Grier gaped, thinking back to the first night they met and his proclamation that he would never marry her—even if caught together in a compromising situation.

  “You can’t mean that,” she whispered.

  “Of course I do.”

  She shook her head, stunned, feeling as though she’d been struck a blow.

  Sev coolly addressed her father. “Mr. Hadley, I’ll call on you tomorrow with my formal offer and we can discuss the arrangements.”

  Jack looked almost as stunned as Grier felt. For all his demands, she doubted he really thought he’d get his way on the matter. At least not so easily.

  Sev faced her, his face all hard lines, again the stoic resolve of a marble statue. Fleetingly she marveled that this must have been what he looked like on the dawn of a battle. Was that how he viewed agreeing to marry her? An unpleasant yet necessary task?

  His eyes revealed nothing, staring through her as if he didn’t see her at all. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “Sev . . . no. You don’t have to—”

  “I do,” he bit out. “We both do.” With a curt nod, he turned and left her alone.

  The viscount looked her over, his eyes bitterly cold before he, too, turned and left. In minutes everyone would know she’d been caught in a compromising situation with the Crown Prince of Maldania.

  Marguerite hurried to her side. “Come, we’ll find a room to repair your hair.”

  “I just want to go home,” Grier murmured, stunned, shaken, and unwilling to face anyone else. She wanted to crawl into her bed and pull the coverlet over her head.

  Her sister laced her fingers with Grier’s. “Certainly, come.”

  At the threshold, Jack clapped her on the back so hard it jarred her teeth. “You did good, girl. You did good.”

  Mortifying heat washed her face. She had to stop herself from striking him. Did he think she planned this?

  He looked at her face and frowned. His brow knit in concern. “What’s wrong? You’re not ill, are you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Then why aren’t you pleased? You should be. Grier, you’ll one day be a queen. Just think of it.”

  He didn’t understand. Only she did.

  She knew Sev already regretted it, and his regret would grow, fester into bitterness until he hated the sight of her.

  Sev walked a hard line into the library of his rented townhouse, his booted heels clicking over the marble as he made his way for the tray of brandy. After tonight, he could use a drink. Something to steady his nerves.

  Not that he regretted his decision. Not that he ever would. He merely needed time to consider how he was going to present his new bride to his grandfather without sending the old man into a seizure that robbed him of his last breath.

  Sev’s top lip curled into a grimace. The old man was stronger than that. He’d outlived two sons, a wife and multiple grandchildren. Dropping into a plush wingback chair, he stared at the smoldering logs in the fireplace, feeling moody and pensive.

  For several moments he didn’t move, simply stared at the sparking embers, waiting for guilt to attack him. Or regret for failing to do the one thing expected of him.

  Only it didn’t come.

  So his wife-to-be didn’t possess the most stellar of pedigrees. He knew he should care, but at that moment he was having trouble mustering much anger at himself for the situation.

  Grier was smart and beautiful and strong—everything he wanted in the wife who would stand beside him and lead Maldania into the future.

  In the distance, a door slammed.

  Moments later the door to the study banged open. “What have you done?” Malcolm demanded in tones so shrill they resembled a woman’s.

  Sev winced. He didn’t need to ask Malcolm to explain himself. He understood perfectly.

  “I had to find out from some old hag that my own cousin just offered marriage to Miss Grier Hadley after being caught in a state of dishabille with her.”

  “Nothing as dramatic as that, I assure you. We were both dressed.”

  An expression of vast relief crossed Malcolm’s features. “So you didn’t propose?”

  “Oh, I proposed.”


  Malcolm marched to stand before Sev, his hands propped belligerently upon his hips as he glared down at him. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I’m honor-bound to offer marriage.”

  “Rubbish. She’s gotten into your blood. That is all. You’ve wanted her from the first minute you clapped eyes on her.” Malcolm shook his head vehemently. “You’re not thinking. You’ll soon tire of her. The last thing you shall want is to then find yourself shackled to her.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Listen to yourself! You sound like you’re in love with the chit!”

  Sev opened his mouth to deny the charge, but instead closed it with a snap.

  He . . . shrugged. For some reason he had no wish to deny the allegation. He angled his head, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to it.

  He’d known when he followed Grier into that room he played with fire. He knew what would happen when he followed her . . . that he would have to touch her. Taste her.

  He’d missed her abominably. She’d haunted his every waking moment—hell, even his dreams. He’d found courting other women, abiding their inane chatter, intolerable.

  Even more intolerable was the notion that she was being courted. By the viscount or some other man. That some other man could be putting a hand on her . . . that a man other than he could kiss her, take her to his bed. He couldn’t stomach the notion.

  “What will your grandfather say?”

  A muscle near his eye ticked and he rubbed at the bothersome area, hoping to be rid of the sensation. “He’ll be happy I’ve married,” he replied vaguely.

  “To someone as common as the Hadley girl? A chit as long in the tooth as she is?” Malcolm snorted. “I think not.”

  His jaw clenched. “He’ll get over it. Once Grier’s delivered him his first grandchild, he’ll be satisfied.”

  Malcolm’s faced flushed red and he stamped a foot. “He won’t! He won’t be happy. He won’t!”

  Sev frowned at his cousin’s strange words and stranger behavior. He won’t be happy. Sev was unsure if he was stating this as fact . . . or as a wish. Either way, Sev was in no mood for such theatrics.