Wicked in Your Arms
Page 6He continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “Your hair isn’t the most modest shade, but it is appealing.” He cocked his head as he surveyed her. “Your skin has seen too much of the sun,” he announced. “Have you never heard of a bonnet?”
She pulled back her shoulders in affront. “Have you never heard of manners ? Does being a prince exclude you from basic courtesy? I don’t recall asking your opinion regarding my appearance.”
He folded his hands behind his back, ignoring her words as he began circling her, ever again the stiff and judgmental prince. Even with his burning eyes, she faced the fact that he would always be that—a man far removed from her. He knew it. She knew it, too.
She turned with sideways steps, following him as he moved, not about to have him at her back.
He stopped before her, still considering her with those gold eyes of his. “How old are you?” There was a fair amount of suspicion in his voice as he asked this . . . as though whatever she said would be wrong.
She eyed him, answering slowly. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m eight and twenty.”
He blinked. “You’re a bit long in the tooth, aren’t you?”
She gasped. “For what? Being alive?”
“For being yet unclaimed.”
“Unclaimed? As in unclaimed by a man?”
He nodded once.
“A little archaic, aren’t you? I’ve been busy . . . haven’t gotten around to a man . . . claiming me yet.”
“I see,” he murmured, either missing her sarcasm or deliberately ignoring it.
Propping her hands on her hips, she demanded, “And how old are you?”
“It doesn’t matter how old I am. I’m a man.”
“No, you’re a jackass!” she retorted.
His expression didn’t crack at this accusation; if anything, he looked only grimmer.
Her hands clenched at her sides, opening and closing into fists. She couldn’t recall a man ever exasperating her more. Even when she was a child, when the village boys would torment her with lizards and various other creepy crawly creatures, they’d never infuriated her like this.
He shrugged as if it were of no account to him. “I’m eight and twenty, as well.”
“Yes, but as I pointed out, I’m a man.” He held up a broad palm when she began to protest. “Albeit a jackass, as you’ve said.” His mouth twisted into what almost resembled a smile. “The question that begs answering is who is older? When were you born?”
Shaking her head, she replied coldly, emphatically, “I’m not telling you my birthday.”
“I can find out,” he said with maddening confidence.
“Why should you wish to?”
“You’ve put yourself on the market for a husband, have you not? I’ve a right to consider your assets.”
She snorted and dropped her arms. “Do you mean to say you’re considering me as a prospective wife? Heavens! Have the stars truly shined down on me? Could I be so blessed?” She flattened a hand to her chest and cocked her head at a jaunty angle, enjoying herself and almost laughing as she played out her mockery. Sobering, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I overheard you earlier. I know what you think of me.”
“So the drink on my head was no accident. I thought as much.”
Too late, she realized she’d been trapped. She propped a hand on her hip. “No, it was no accident. I believe you called me a nobody with ignoble roots. You deserved my drink on your head. That and more.”
He nodded sagely, assessing her again, not appearing the least remorseful at the reminder of his insulting words. “I said that. Quite so. It was the truth. You’d do well enough in my bed. You smell like vanilla and you tremble sweetly when I touch you, but—”
“Stop!” she cried, lifting her hands to her ears as if she could block out his outrageous words. All her humor vanished as scorching heat swept over her face. That he spoke matter-of-factly, almost dispassionately, over the issue of her beddable-ness galled her.
“But as a wife?” he continued as if she had not spoken. “Indeed not. Your age alone would offend my grandfather.”
“So long as you’re picking a wife to please your granddaddy.” She smirked.
That earned her a glare, for which she felt immense satisfaction. She needn’t be the only one discomfited.
“I’ve more than my wishes to consider when choosing a wife.” His voice fell hard and flat. “I’ve a duty to my country.” He waved a hand in her direction. “It would be foolish and irresponsible to consider you. I should be lucky to beget a single child, much less the half score I require.”
Her hands flew back to her hips. “Holy hellfire! Is there no end to your conceit and arrogance? This isn’t the Middle Ages. Wives are more than broodmares, you know.”
“I’m not merely looking for a wife. I’m looking for a princess. A future queen.”
That silenced her. What did she know about such matters, after all?
“Aside from your age, your speech and manner hardly befit a princess—”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Indeed, you won’t do at all as the future queen of Maldania, despite having a certain . . . raw appeal.” He angled his head again and a liquid-dark lock of hair fell across his forehead, making him look rakish. She could almost excuse the simmer in her blood. For all that he said, all that he was a cad, he was darkly, irresistibly handsome. And yet that changed nothing. As much as her blood simmered, so did her temper. He was an insulting boor and she would not abide him another moment. “So let us discuss how firm you are on the matter of marriage. Are you opposed to another type of arrangement?”
She glanced around, searching wildly for anything she might use as a weapon. “You’re abominable! Is there no end to your—”
“Honesty?” he supplied with a bold lift of an eyebrow.
“No,” she shot back. “Wretchedness. You can’t make an indecent proposition and pride yourself on honesty.” She shook her head. “It simply does not work that way.”
“I merely pointed out you were appealing and I would perhaps care for more of your company.”
With her face still flaming, she lifted her skirts and moved for the door, ready to put His Bloody Highness behind her for good. She felt sorry for whatever female married him. She could well imagine listening to him pontificate over her failings all the days of their union. Grier would jump off a cliff first.
“I wouldn’t leave just yet.”
She paused, looking over her shoulder at the much too handsome wretch. She couldn’t help thinking that it was vastly unfair that such a wicked man should be wrapped in such packaging. It hid all that was twisted inside him. “And why not?”
“Rather soon on the heels of Lord and Lady Kirkendale, is it not? You don’t want them to spot you leaving.” He lowered himself to the bed, stretching out long legs before him as he observed her with his keen lion’s eyes.
He smiled then. The suddenness of that grin stole her breath. Austere and unsmiling, he was a sight to behold. Smiling like this . . . She was in trouble.
She scowled at him. His smile deepened, flashing blinding white teeth. Apparently her scowl did not affect him. She was not sure much of anything would.
She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “It’s unlikely they’re lingering—”
“They’re properly wedded,” he reminded in his rolling accents, her skin tingling in the most bothersome way. “They have no cause to hurry back. And knowing Lady Kirkendale, she’s probably distracting him along the way.”
She loathed his logic. The couple had sounded quite amorous moments ago, after all. She should put nothing past their salacious natures.
She crossed her arms and gazed at the . . . prince . Her thoughts still stumbled over the fact that he was royalty, that he was here. With her. That he had propositioned her and seemed unmoved by that fact. Her chest tightened. He probably did it all the time to lowly females such as her.
Who would have imagined that Grier, more comfortable in trousers and astride a mount, would ever find herself in such a scenario? The Grier of old had spent several evenings a week at the local tavern, drinking ale with lads who viewed her as one of them. Simply another low-born lad. As a game master, she’d spent little time in dresses and even less time in ball gowns.
She swallowed. The blasted prince was right. She would make a poor queen. And that wasn’t something she regretted. She didn’t aspire to be a queen. She only sought a marriage to a gentleman. She knew how hard life could be. She wanted to make sure she was shielded from the worst of its storms. Nothing more.
Leaning back on his elbows, the prince continued to stare at her as she made no move to leave. “Thought you might see my point.”
He tilted his head, firelight gilding the dark strands. She swallowed again, vowing to stop letting his looks addle her head.
“Not especially,” he answered. ” My reputation shall not suffer if we’re caught together, after all.” A corner of his mouth pulled seductively. “Sorry. That man thing again.”
He mocked her. Her fingers dug into her palms, the nails cutting into the tender flesh. She stared at him for a moment, cocking her head. “You mean I alone would bear the shame of being caught alone with you in a bedchamber?”
“Naturally.”
“Such an occurrence shall not affect you in the least.”
“You needn’t sound so indignant.” He nodded a single time. ” ’Tis the way of things. In your country and mine.”
Yes, she thought grimly. It was the way of things. She’d suffer scandal, and he would merely become more desirable in the eyes of the ton . Men would admire him and women would only think him more the dashing rake.
If she thought the whispers about her were bad now, they would be nothing if she was caught alone in such intimate quarters with the bloody Crown Prince of Maldania. She bit her lip, looking anxiously to the door again.
He certainly wouldn’t salvage her honor by offering to marry her. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Make no mistake, he did not deem her worth saving from ruin. She was merely a bastard. Too old. Too freckled and sun-browned.
“Then I best not linger here,” she retorted at last. “Since every moment with you places me at risk.”
She turned for the door, determined that this time, he would not stop her.
And he didn’t. He didn’t utter a word as she fled the room.
And why should he? As she hurried down the corridor, she grasped her skirts in two clenched hands, chasing her repeating shadow and reminding herself that she was nothing to him. Nothing. Just as he was nothing to her.
Chapter Five
Sev stared at the closed door that Miss Grier Hadley had departed through as if the hounds of hell chased her heels. He scratched his jaw in bemusement.
Grier, Grier. Grier .
He let the name roll around his head. What kind of name was that anyway? He could visualize his grandfather grimacing at the sound of it. So very . . . common . Not like Elizabeth. Or Catherine. Those were queenly names. Names all of former Maldanian queens.