Wicked in Your Arms (3 page)

They did not have long to wait. The viscount's gaze fell on them both. His eyes lit up with recognition. They had been introduced several evenings ago at the opera. His grandmother, the dowager, had seen to that. He'd doubtless been apprised of his
duty
as sacrificial lamb.

According to Jack, the dowager was quite ready for her youngest grandson to wed either Grier or Cleo. The oldest grandson, the duke himself, was hands-off. The duchess might have been agreeable enough to lend them her stamp of approval and support either one of them marrying her youngest grandson, but she clearly saw Grier or Cleo for what they were: bastards with fat purses, neither of whom would be good enough for the Duke of Bolingbroke. They were, however, suitable for the Viscount Tolliver.

Lord Tolliver eagerly stepped outside his circle of friends and performed a brief bow, settling his bright eyes on each of them in turn. “Ah, the lovely Misses Hadley. Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“We're having a splendid time,” Cleo lied charmingly.

Grier assessed her younger half sister in her sparkling blue gown. She was really quite pretty, resembling their other half sister, Marguerite, whom they had only just met. Fortunately for Marguerite, she was happily married and needn't secure herself a husband through their father's machinations.

“I hope you both have not overly tired yourselves.” He wagged a finger teasingly. “I recall you each promised me a waltz.”

Considering only three waltzes were to be danced this evening, this was a clear mark of his favor. Cleo smiled and nodded, uttering something appropriately clever.

Grier, however, couldn't even summon a smile.

Staring at him, she could see nothing behind his falsely bright gaze. No true excitement, no anticipation. She could not help thinking this was all at his grandmother's behest, that he was not truly agreeable to the notion of courting her or Cleo. Did he even have a choice? Was he simply the grand sacrifice to save his family from financial ruin? The notion gnawed at her and soured the prospect of marrying him. Viscount or not. Social acceptance or not. She didn't want to wed the chap and then endure his lifelong enmity.

“I have not forgotten, Lord Tolliver,” Cleo promised.

“And you, Miss Hadley?” He looked expectantly at Grier, his expression bland and unassuming. Kind, she supposed. For now. But years from now . . . “You've saved me a waltz, I hope?”

Grier gave a small nod, shaking off her grim imaginings while trying to ignore the way his friends studied her from just beyond their little circle.

They stared openly, as if she were not a lady at all but a creature to be mocked and held to ridicule. And not just her. Cleo, too.

“Indeed,” she heard herself replying, fighting down those familiar feelings. She wasn't that girl anymore. And this wasn't Wales. Lifting her chin, she reminded herself that she was on her way to becoming a genuine lady now. “I have not forgotten, either.”

“Brilliant.” He nodded cheerily.

Just then one of his friends leaned his head close to the others in the group. Covering his mouth with one hand, he muttered something low. The group burst into laughter.

Grier didn't hear what brought forth such merriment, but several of the popinjays glanced her way. Familiar heat crept up her cheeks. This really was unendurable. Lord Tolliver frowned and sent his friends a castigating look, which only seemed to prove that they were laughing at her, that the viscount himself
knew
she was a subject of scorn, but he would grit his teeth and bear courting her anyway.
Holy hellfire
. It was really too much. Was there no way she could find an acceptable husband without suffering these indignities?

“If you'll pardon me, I need some air.” She quickly turned away before Cleo or Lord Tolliver might object, or worse, insist on joining her.

She squeezed her way through the crush of bodies, heat flaming her face. Reaching a pair of French balcony doors, she saw that it was raining outside. An incessant, sleeting winter drizzle that did not appear to be on the verge of letting up.
Blast
.

Whirling around, she scanned the hopelessly crowded room. Lifting her skirts, she pushed her way back through the thick press, careful to keep her head down lest she see anyone pointing or staring at her. She'd had enough of the stares. What she needed right now was a respite, a moment alone, a place to hide for the rest of the evening until her father decided he'd had enough of cards.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would renew her hunt for a husband. In earnest. But not now. Not tonight. Not after that bloody prince. Not after the viscount's leering friends.

Grier shook her head, almost laughing aloud as she wondered: Was there no nobleman who preferred a simple country existence? One who was in the market for a rich bride of low birth? Could he not take out an advertisement in the
Times
so that she might find him?

Chapter Three

G
rier passed the ladies' retiring room and dove down a corridor rife with flickering shadows. Sconces lined the walls every few feet, plunging her in and out of darkness as she moved forward.

Likely one of these rooms deep within the house wouldn't be occupied. She selected one, pressing her ear to its length before turning the latch. Stepping inside, she saw it was a bedchamber. A fire burned low within the hearth. Closing the door, she drew closer to that delicious warmth, thinking she might curl up on the chaise and enjoy the sanctuary she'd found.

Only upon drawing closer did she see that the chaise was already occupied with two figures gilded in the firelight. She jerked still, her heart lurching to her throat. She must have made a sound. A small gasp of horror.

The couple flew up on the chaise, tearing apart as if split asunder by lightning.

The female squeaked, her hands fumbling to heft her gown back up over her exposed breasts. Grier recognized her at once. Few women possessed a bosom of such immense proportions.

“Lady Kirkendale,” she murmured.

Before her gaze even drifted to the room's other occupant, the man responsible for Lady Kirkendale's state of dishabille, she knew whom she would see.

He stared back at her, a dark brow arched drolly. Nothing in his countenance reflected embarrassment. “You again?”

Her embarrassment fled as her indignation surged. She crossed her arms. “Yes. Me again.”

“This isn't what it looks like,” Lady Kirkendale choked as she shoved her very large breasts back into her bodice. “Sevastian, say something,” she hissed to her companion.

The prince said nothing, merely maintained his cold stare.

“Oh, I'm certain I've interrupted nothing . . . unseemly,” Grier lied, uncaring of the sordid business she'd interrupted, only wishing to escape the awkward situation. Backing away from the pair, she waved a hand reassuringly. “I didn't see anything. Please. Go about whatever it is . . . you're doing.”

“Of course, you didn't see anything. We weren't
doing
anything,” Lady Kirkendale replied shrilly. “There's nothing to see. Nothing untoward has occurred.” She jabbed a finger threateningly at Grier. “And if you dare spread word that—”

“I assure you nothing will be said.” Grier nodded, still backing away.

The prince chuckled, the sound low and deep. He shook his head almost as if he couldn't believe he was in such a state of circumstances. Or perhaps it was Grier. He couldn't believe that she was here. That someone like her should even be in the same room with him.

“Really, Sevastian.” Lady Kirkendale patted her hair feverishly. “I don't see what is so amusing about any of this.”

Inwardly Grier echoed that sentiment, but she wasn't inclined to linger to hear the prince's response.

“If you'll pardon me, I'll leave you to . . .” she floundered, and the bloody man cocked that black slash of an eyebrow at her, his gold eyes gleaming wickedly. “Pardon me, I'll leave you to that thing it is you're
not
doing.”

Lady Kirkendale puffed herself up and made a shrill, unattractive sound that rather resembled the squeal of a pig.

Grier opened the door and hastily stepped out into the hall, eager to escape. Hand still on the latch, she froze. Advancing down the corridor toward her was none other than Lord Kirkendale. His expression was thunderous.

He hadn't seen her yet, too focused on slamming open doors and peering inside every room he passed.

Grier dove back inside the room and shut the door as silently as possible. The pair had scarcely moved since she'd slipped from the room. Startled at her sudden return, they stared at her with blinking eyes. Grier flattened her palms to the door, her heart hammering a furious beat in her chest.

“It's your husband,” she hissed. “He's coming.”

Lady Kirkendale slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her screech. Grier winced, watching in fascination as the woman started hopping in place like a child caught in the throes of a tantrum. Despite the dire situation, Grier fought a smile at the ridiculous spectacle.

She lifted her hand. “Maksimi! Don't just sit there! What shall we do?”

The prince glanced around the well-appointed bedchamber, still maintaining his perpetual manner of ennui. For all the world, he looked icy cool and not at all perturbed that an irate husband was bearing down on them.

His gaze stopped on a large mahogany armoire, and a thoughtful look came over his carved features.

Rising from the chaise in one liquid-smooth motion, he grasped Grier's arm. She started at the touch, heat sparking along her veins from the contact.

“Come,” he commanded, his voice that infernal tone again—the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed.

She dug in her heels, shaking her head fiercely. “Where are we going?”

“To place ourselves out of sight.”

She sneered at his overly formal speech. “You mean hide?”

A muscle flickered along the taut flesh of his jaw. “I never hide. I merely know when to retreat until it is time to reappear.”

Grier rolled her eyes. “Call it whatever you like. Why do
I
need to . . .
retreat
? I haven't done any—”

“You think your reputation shall remain unscathed when you're found here? When Kirkendale raises all hell and the entire household pours into this room, do you think you shall remain unsullied? The
ton
loves a sordid tale. Your presence here shall be made into a colorful account. You'll be tossed into the fray, too.”

Her stomach dipped, her face flashing hot and cold. She didn't need another strike against her as she navigated the waters of the
ton
. She was here to achieve a modicum of status and respectability, not to earn further disdain.

Seeing no alternative, she stopped resisting and let him drag her the rest of the way.

“Hurry,” Lady Kirkendale urged, shooing them with her hands.

The prince opened the door and shoved aside the few garments before folding his tall length inside. He extended a hand for her. She stared hard at the long, blunt-tipped fingers and broad palm for one heart-stopping moment in which she quite clearly heard the rush of blood in her ears. It seemed like forever but could only have been a moment before she placed her hand in his. He pulled her inside before him, his long arm brushing hers as he closed the door, sinking them into darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat. Shrouded in darkness, forced into such close confines with a veritable stranger—a prince, no less—her senses skipped into hyper-awareness. Too late, she realized she should have turned around. Her back to his chest would have been a vast improvement to this. Chest to chest. Heart to beating heart.

She couldn't see the hand before her face, but she was keenly aware that not an inch separated her from the
most
wretched, arrogant man to ever cross her path . . . and that he was all male. Solid, firm, warm
male
.

His breath fanned her forehead. She was tall, but he was taller. She pressed her lips shut to make sure not a sound escaped. She need only withstand a few moments of proximity and then she'd be free of him.

They'd hidden just in time, apparently, for a mere moment passed before she heard Lord Kirkendale's booming voice.

“Lucinda, what are you doing in here?”

Grier listened closely, straining to hear what possible explanation the lady would offer.

“Why, awaiting you, husband.”

“Me? We made no arrangements to meet—”

“Precisely, but I knew you'd know I was missing and take pursuit . . . Did you not find the hunt . . . titillating?”

Heavy silence ensued. Grier held her breath and listened, wondering what was happening on the other side of the door. Did Lord Kirkendale actually believe his wife? Or was he strangling her?

She had her answer when a long, pleasure-filled male moan scored air. Heat fired her cheeks.
Holy hellfire
. The idiot cuckold truly believed his wife had planned a tryst for the two of them.

“Come here, you little minx. Ride me hard.”

Mortified, Grier squeezed her eyes in a blink even though there was nothing to see. Closing her eyes did nothing to shield her ears.

Lord Kirkendale's groans floated on the air. His wife's squeals came in fast succession. At that point Grier was convinced she spent a great deal of her time on a farm, for the noises she made resembled the sounds a piglet makes when being chased. A great deal of banging came next and Grier suspected they were on the bed, their actions rattling the headboard.

“That's it, my fine filly!” A loud slap echoed on the air.

“Yes!” Lady Kirkendale shouted. “Spank me!”

Grier pressed her fingers to her mouth. She wasn't certain what sound she was trying to suppress—a groan of mortification or outright laughter.

The broad chest in front of her shifted, lifting on an inhalation, and she stilled, biting the edge of her thumb. While she might feel a modicum of humor, that wasn't the only sensation affecting her. Body heat emanated from the man in front of her. His nearness overwhelmed her, scraping her nerves.

She hugged herself with both arms, hoping to make herself smaller, unnoticeable—and only succeeded in brushing against him. She squeezed herself tightly, careful not to move again, determined to merely wait out Lord and Lady Kirkendale's trysting.

The prince moved. Just the barest inch, but his chest brushed her crossed arms. As though burned, she arched away to escape the contact. Her balance wobbled and she had to take a step to brace herself. The clomp of her foot rang out in the tight space of the armoire. She cringed, her skin tightening in fear that they'd been heard.

He caught her up in his arms, holding her to his chest as though fearing she would move again and make further noise.

She gasped, gripping his arms to shove him away. Only he wouldn't budge. She was a prisoner in his arms. Unless she wanted to struggle and alert Kirkendale of their presence . . . she was stuck.

Her fingers flexed against the superfine of his jacket, marveling at the hardness of his biceps beneath her fingers.

Trevis had not felt nearly so firm and muscled, and he was a physical man. She shook her head once as if to shake it free of such senseless thoughts. What was she doing making comparisons between the two? Neither was a viable option for her. In fact, both men had made it clear she was
unacceptable
.

Heat stung her cheeks, and she renewed her attempts to disengage herself with care, wiggling against him with constraint, still determined to break free of the unwanted intimacy.

He pulled her closer, his arms steel bands around her. One of his hands crept to the back of her head, pressing their faces horrifyingly close. His cheek rasped against hers. Her skin tingled where their skin touched. Her belly dipped, twisted. A ragged breath escaped between her lips.

She wanted to demand he move away, but fear of being discovered held her voice in check.

His lips brushed the sensitive whorls of her ear as he whispered, “Cease your movements lest you wish to be caught and explain what we are doing in this wardrobe together.”

Shaking from head to foot, she gave a hard nod, not trusting herself to speak in a voice that wasn't a shrill squeak.

“Good girl,” he murmured in that low voice that pulled at her belly.

With one hand at her head, his other spanned her back. She felt the hot imprint of each finger through the silk of her gown. All else faded but this. But him. The hard length of him painted onto her.

She no longer registered any sounds outside the wardrobe. The world was gone. There was only this—them—captives in this tiny space.

His mouth remained at her ear, not moving, but still touching.
Still driving her mad.

She tried to pull back once again. Surely he would see that she would be careful, that she dared not make another sound. But he fastened a hand in her hair while his broad palm at her back deepened its pressure, keeping her pinned against him.

Strength radiated from him. Unusual for a dandified prince. Unusual for any of the dandified lords she'd met about Town.

Upon arriving in London she quickly realized she could overpower most of the lily-handed prigs. As a former game master for a vast estate, she was accustomed to working and pushing her body to the limits every day. And yet the hard male body against hers did not belong to any idle blueblood.

At least he wasn't
moving
against her, actively touching her. She could withstand this. She could tolerate mere closeness to him. As long as he kept still. He was only holding her to help keep her motionless, after all—

Then he moved.