Wicked in Your Arms (7 page)

Tonight it was as though she did not exist for the prince. He never looked her way. Unlike before, his aloof stare did not so much as stray in her direction.

Lord Tolliver cast a glance toward his brother, his smile rueful. “I'm a passable shot and spent a fair amount of time chasing the hounds in my youth. Growing up alongside my brother, how could I not?” He took a sip from his soup spoon. “However, I confess I can hardly claim to be the expert huntsman my brother is. I spend a good amount of time in my library, nose buried in a book. I'm not much for the outdoors.” He chuckled then. “That must make me sound a dreadful bore.”

She smiled and lied, “Of course not.” Not that she didn't enjoy a good book then and again. But to claim no liking for the outdoors? That was not at all what she had been seeking, but then must her future husband have to hunt and ride as much as she to tolerate
her
love of hunting and riding?

Persia cooed. “I love to read as well. Novels, mostly.”

The viscount smiled. “Perhaps it's unmanly of me to say, but I'm quite the fan of Mrs. Radcliffe.”

Persia clapped her hands merrily, her chestnut curls bouncing on each side of her head. “Oh! But I adore her work!”

Grier stifled a wince. Her reading preferences were mostly histories and biographies.

She swept another spoonful of savory broth into her mouth. Unable to stop herself, she let her gaze drift to the table's far end—and it collided with the prince. Heat flooded her face. Was he aware how many times she had been looking his way tonight?

His inscrutable stare gave nothing away. He studied her over the rim of his glass of claret. Her fingers tightened around her spoon and she resisted the urge to toss it down the length of table at his head. It was unaccountable really, this effect he had on her.

Looking away, she returned her attention to those around her and reminded herself that her purpose this week was to become better acquainted with the dowager's youngest grandson . . . and any other gentleman worthy of consideration.

With that thought firmly in place, she pasted a smile on her face and did not glance down the table again for the rest of the night.

Chapter Seven

A
fter dinner that evening, they all moved into the drawing room. Grier took a spot on the sofa beside Cleo. Lady Libbie quickly followed the dowager's directive and took up playing on the pianoforte. She played well, and the music soon became an airy background to the conversations in the room.

No one paid Grier and Cleo much heed where they sat together on the sofa. With the exception of the viscount, who dutifully paid them his polite attentions, everyone seemed oblivious to them. Cleo sent Grier a smile and lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.

“Are you riding in the morning?” Cleo asked when the viscount drifted away to converse with the marquis, Lord Quibbly.

“Perhaps. Or I might just take your example and sleep in,” she teased.

Cleo blinked wide eyes. “You? Never. Surely the world would end first.”

Grier smiled. She always rose early and rarely missed an opportunity for a ride. Even in this weather, she enjoyed escaping outdoors.

Understandably, Cleo enjoyed sleeping late since it was a luxury she never experienced before. Before, she had children to dress and feed and countless chores to perform.

“You should do so, of course,” Cleo said in all seriousness. “It feels marvelous waking up to sunlight streaming through your room. Much better than waking when it's still dark and then stumbling around beneath the eaves for your shoes, in your too small room you must share with five others.

“It does sound like something I should experience.” She grinned. “At least once.”

“Quite.” Cleo nodded. “I heartily recommend it.” Her expression grew rather intent. “I vow to never go back to my old life where I'm forced to complete a day's work before the sun even rises.”

Grier nodded and hoped that Cleo demanded more than that for herself. A life of luxury and indolence wouldn't guarantee her happiness. Cleo deserved more than that. She deserved love.

And don't you, as well?

Grier pushed the small voice aside. She knew it wasn't a question of what she deserved but more a question of what she could expect. Aside of her fortune, she possessed nothing to recommend her to these bluebloods. A fact made glaringly clear by how little notice they paid her.

She was no beauty. She lacked grace and youth and breeding. Cleo was young and pretty and charming. She could expect a love match. It was within her reach, and Grier wanted that for her. For herself, she was more practical.

Grier observed Prince Sevastian from the corner of her eye. He stood ramrod straight, one arm tucked behind him in a very military pose that appeared somehow natural to him, and she wondered at that. Did he never relax? Never let himself
go
in the slightest? In the privacy of his rooms, did he carry himself with the same stiffness?

Her fingers twitched against her silk skirts, tempted with the impulse to muss his hair and loosen his cravat, to make him look more . . .
human
.

He stood at the mantel beside the duke. Naturally, the two men of highest rank in the room would gravitate toward each other. The fire in the great hearth crackled behind them, casting a red glow on their dark trouser-clad legs.

The Duke of Bolingbroke swept a bored glance over the room. His gaze passed over Grier and Cleo as if they were not even present. Grier followed his gaze where it did rest, stopping with interest on Lady Libbie. Apparently the prince wasn't the only one interested in her. She was lovely and elegant as she played, the perfect wife for the likes of a duke. Or a prince.

Lady Libbie finished and Cleo was called upon next. Grier listened with pride, impressed that her sister played so well. Even with a household overcrowded with children, Cleo's mother had installed a pianoforte in their small cottage to ensure that her daughters all knew how to play. Not such a surprise, she supposed, from a woman who named her eldest daughter Cleopatra. She had high hopes for her daughters . . . hopes that might come to fruition, after all, with Cleo.

The duke's eyes followed Lady Libbie's lithe figure as she reclaimed her seat between Persia and Lord Quibbly's granddaughter, the plump, apple-cheeked Marielle. The contrast between the two girls was marked. Swathed in a gown of peach chiffon, Libbie was a vision. Grier couldn't help taking a peek to see if the prince gawked in the same manner as the duke.

Indeed, he did not. He was not looking at anyone really. Angling her head to the side, she studied him curiously, wondering what went on inside his head. He gazed down into the great hearth. The fire's red-gold flames appeared to mesmerize him. In that moment he didn't look arrogant, he simply looked intense, troubled. She wondered what could possibly plague him. His country was war-free after many years. He was the toast of every gala, the most coveted guest on any list. He had his pick of brides. He should be carefree, not this darkly pensive man.

Cleo finished and Miss Persia Thrumgoodie rose to take a turn. She played liked a goddess. As much as Grier disliked the girl—or rather as much as the girl appeared to dislike her—she enraptured everyone in the room, Grier included.

The men were especially spellbound. She risked another glance from the corner of her eye, satisfied to see that not every man had fallen beneath her spell. The prince still gazed into the fire as if he was above everything else taking place around him. Even a beautiful woman like Persia Thrumgoodie was beneath his notice.

Deciding she'd spent enough time contemplating a man who certainly did not waste a moment's thought on her, Grier snapped her gaze away from him, telling herself not to look in his direction again. The last thing she wanted was to be caught ogling him. He might think she wished to accept his indecent proposition from the other night.

Watching Persia, however, was a rather lowering experience. The female knew how to win over an audience.

She played with her whole body. It was quite the sensuous display. Everyone watched, riveted as she rolled her shoulders and dipped her cleavage toward the keys. Lord Tolliver watched with his lips parted. Grier thought she even detected a small amount of drool gathering at the corners. If he wasn't smitten before, he was well enamored of her now.

Despite her avowal of moments ago, Grier feigned interest in the cuff of her sleeve and slid a look at Prince Sevastian beneath her lashes to see if he showed any similar effects.

She breathed easier. Although he no longer stared down into the fire, he looked out at the room dispassionately, not at all agog over the stunning Persia. Her performance made no impact on him. He wore his usual impassive expression, not even the hint of a smile cracking his face. For once his stoicism didn't annoy her.

Dipping her head, Grier smiled, slow and satisfied, as she recalled the only time she had seen him smile had been in her presence. She'd brought out his smile, and the realization gave her a surge of feminine power.

Then her smile fled with sudden memory. Her brow furrowed as she recalled that he had been smiling in the course of propositioning her—as if she were the lowest female and not a lady given due accord.

“Miss Hadley, can you hear me? It's your turn now.”

Grier winced as Cleo elbowed her ungently in the side.

“Perhaps she is deaf.” Marielle giggled inanely.

The dowager stared at Grier expectantly from her overstuffed chair. With a imperious cock of her eyebrow, she motioned to the pianoforte.

As the hum of Persia's final chords faded on the air, Grier felt like cornered prey.

“Yes, Miss Hadley. I should love to hear you.” Persia rose with a soft swish of her skirts.

Grier blinked and looked around. She suddenly found herself the center of attention. A most unwelcome sensation, to be certain. She stopped breathing, watching with a sick twisting in her stomach as Persia moved smoothly through the room to reclaim her seat. How did she sway her hips like that?

With all eyes fixed on her, there was only one stare she felt as keenly as the prick of a knife. She knew it was he, knew the prince was watching her.

“M-me?” Despising the quiver in her voice, she spoke again, her voice firmer. “You wish to hear me play?” She flattened a hand against the bodice of her gown.

“Yes, Miss Hadley. Do take a turn.” The dowager motioned to the pianoforte with a sweep of her heavily beringed hand. “Such a lovely evening we're having. Our own impromptu musicale. Let us continue with it. “

“Indeed. Most entertaining, however . . .” She moistened her suddenly dry lips.

Cleo sent her a sympathetic smile, well aware that Grier did not know
how
to play. In fact, she'd never even seen a pianoforte until arriving in London.

Grier cleared her throat to finish. “Oh, I'm not very good, you see—”

Persia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I'm certain you're most accomplished. Please, don't deny us.”

“I can play!” Marielle volunteered, half rising.

“That's quite all right, Marielle, we've heard you play before. We'd like to hear Miss Hadley.”

The marquis's granddaughter dropped down with a pout.

The viscount smiled at Grier kindly. “Shall I turn the pages for you, Miss Hadley? I'd be most happy to oblige.”

Miserable heat washed up her face. Even Jack looked sorry for her, no doubt aware that she couldn't play. Playing the pianoforte was a ladylike occupation, and Grier was no lady.

She moistened her lips again and admitted, “Truth be told, I can't actually play.”

“Oh.” Persia blinked with mock surprise, a slender hand drifting to cover her mouth as if Grier had just confessed to murder.

Grier glared at her, not fooled for a moment. Persia wasn't the least surprised. She'd guessed that Grier wouldn't know how to play an instrument that was commonplace in all elegant households of the
ton
. Heat crept up Grier's neck. Was it that obvious she was an impostor among them? A simple,
common
girl playing at being a lady?

Persia lowered her hand. “I-I didn't realize. I assumed you . . . well—” There was a beat of silence as her words faded. A moment of silence in which Grier felt that infernal yawning gulf again . . . between her and everyone else in the room.

The one person she both wanted and didn't want to glance at—to see how this evidence of her lack of breeding registered upon him—stood silent. She could not bring herself to look at him again, to see in his eyes the conviction that he had been right. She didn't belong here. The dowager's kitchen maids were better suited to the role of lady than she.

“She can sing,” Jack abruptly volunteered. “Like an angel!” His ruddy face looked anxiously at the dowager.

Grier glared at her father, shaking her head at him in mute appeal. His eyes stared earnest and hopeful back at her and she realized he thought he was helping.

He'd once walked in on her in the library singing an old Welsh ballad as she was browsing for a book. She had a passable voice. He'd remarked on the song, that it was one her mother used to sing, which, at the time, had quickly silenced her. She didn't want any comparisons made to the mother who had been so weak-willed as to fall for Jack Hadley. As far as Grier was concerned, marrying Papa was the only good thing her mother ever did.

Grier wasn't like her. She was stronger. She would marry. She
would
be a proper lady.

“Sing for us,” the dowager commanded.

“Oh, I'm not really very—”

“Cease being so reticent, will you, Miss Hadley.” The dowager was beginning to look annoyed.

Grier sighed in defeat. “Very well.”

Rising, she moved near the pianoforte, reminding herself that her voice was passable. She wouldn't embarrass herself on that account . . . and it wasn't as though anyone here would understand the lyrics. They were in Welsh, after all.

As she opened her mouth and began to sing, she took secret delight in knowing that she sang a tawdry tale of a buxom milkmaid to a room full of nobles.

The prince watched her, his gold eyes inscrutable as her lungs expanded and the words rose up from inside her to hang mournfully on the air. She tried to look away from him, or at least let her stare sweep over the room, but it was hard to do so when he stared at her as if he understood every word. As if he could see into the inner workings of her mind.

When she finished, the room was silent for a moment. Then the clapping began.

“What language was that? Gaelic?” Persia asked over the applause as Grier passed her on her way back to her seat.

“Welsh,” she replied.

“My, how . . . rustic.” '

“It was simply haunting,” Cleo exclaimed, still clapping. “I have chills.”

“That was lovely, Miss Hadley, and sung with such feeling,” said the viscount. “You must tell us what it means.”

Several others in the room echoed the request. Except Persia. Her face flushed at the viscount's praise.

“Oh, a love ballad, I'm sure,” Cleo insisted.

“Of course.” Grier lowered her gaze at the lie. “A love song.”

“How quaint,” Persia inserted, her voice tight. “Peasant songs always have such charm. Thank you for treating us. It's not something we get to hear every day.”

Grier's cheeks caught fire. Trust Persia to deliver a thinly veiled insult.

Perhaps not so thinly veiled. A heavy pause of silence filled the room as Persia's words sank in. No one save Persia could meet Grier's eyes. Lord Tolliver seemed suddenly fascinated with the carpet pattern. The implication was there—that Grier was a peasant.

“You were marvelous, Miss Hadley.” The rich, rumbling voice broke the deep silence. Grier started at the sound of it, her gaze flying to the man near the fireplace.

All heads swiveled in the direction of the usually aloof prince. Everyone stared at him, clearly surprised that he had spoken such high praise on her behalf. Of course, no one was more surprised than Grier.