Wicked in Your Arms
Page 11“H-hello,” she added, feeling silly but unsure what to say. Her breath shuddered past her lips.
“Hello,” he returned, his deep voice a feather’s stroke on the air.
He removed the papers from his chest and dropped them all on the table. “Have you come to sing for me, Miss Hadley? Perhaps you wish to honor me with a solo performance?”
For some reason his question made her feel shaky inside, driving home the reminder that they were all alone. “No. I thought I would pick a book to read. What are you doing?”
He motioned to the mass of papers. “Going over correspondence from home.”
She stepped closer, fidgeting with the ruffled edge of her night rail. ” All that?”
He ran a hand through his hair, sending the ink-dark strands into wild disarray. “I receive this much every week. I’ll spend a good portion of my day tomorrow replying.”
She arched a brow. “Indeed?”
“With my grandfather ailing, many matters need my attention. I’ve lingered here for much too long.” For a brief moment, he looked frustrated, before the calm mask fell back into place.
She frowned, seeing him in a new light. Apparently his life wasn’t all leisure and vain indulgences as she had assumed.
“I won’t disturb you further.” She crossed her arms, suddenly chilled. “Good night.” She took only one step before his voice stopped her.
“Please. Stay. You came for a book, did you not? Pick one.” He motioned to the many books lining the shelves.
“Thank you. I will.” She turned and tried to focus on the titles, angling her head to read the spines. The letters swam before her eyes. She could only think that he sat a few feet behind her. That she wore only her night rail. That he looked delicious and relaxed and thoroughly accessible.
That they were all alone.
She snatched a book off a shelf and whirled around, prepared to flee to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
“What did you find?”
She blinked, stopping. “What?”
“Your book. What did you select?”
“Um.” She glanced down and turned the book around in her hands. Her stomach sank. ” A Comprehensive Study of Oxen Husbandry .”
He snorted.
“Sounds fascinating,” he murmured. “A real page turner. I must read it after you’ve finished.”
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.
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?”
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 yourself 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.
S ev 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.