Wicked in Your Arms
Page 20

He arched a brow, waiting, hoping.
Color rode high in her cheeks. Her mouth snapped shut, folding into a hard line as she gave a jerky nod.
Then she was gone. Fleeing the room quickly, nothing more than a blur. Sev inhaled her lingering scent, woods and winter wind—the only hint left of her. He moved to the balcony, welcoming the cold nip of air washing over him. Hopefully it would douse his ardor. Glancing to his left, he watched as she lithely dropped onto her own balcony, marveling that she would be so bold as to launch herself across balconies. But not bold enough to fall into bed with him.
She lifted her head and met his gaze across the distance. Even in the gloom, he could feel her stare, see the glitter of her eyes in the night.
Yet . The single word floated through his head like curling smoke, creeping and penetrating deep into his bones. Yet. She hadn’t fallen into his bed yet.
He smiled slowly, confidence stealing over him. She would. She was too passionate, too brazen to resist her natural impulses. He already knew her well enough to know that. A female who rode at deadly speed for simply the joy of it did not run from desire.
She lingered on her balcony for a moment longer, her slim form little more than shadow staring back at him. Then she vanished inside her bedchamber.
They weren’t leaving for days yet. Plenty of time for Miss Hadley to come around and embrace her true nature. Plenty of time for him to persuade her that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
A slow smile curved his mouth as he moved back inside his room.
Chapter Fifteen
Grier tossed herself onto her bed and wrapped trembling arms around a pillow, squeezing tightly.
That had not gone as planned at all. She jammed her eyes shut in a hard blink. Only now could she be honest. The prince had held a mirror up to her face, forcing her to see the truth within herself. She’d dared to visit his bedchamber because she’d been jealous and hurt. Because she wanted to see him one final time.
Apparently unnecessary. Mortification washed over her in cold waves. And another emotion lurked in the darkest corners of her heart, too. Relief .
He was not quite the cad she thought him to be. Lady Libbie was eloping with someone else. Bloody maid—why must she speak in metaphors? Apparently Lady Libbie’s prince was not a true prince.
Grier’s cheeks burned over her erroneous assumption. An assumption that had led her to act so rashly and not caused her a small amount of embarrassment. What had she been thinking, confronting him in his private rooms?
Her father’s voice echoed in her head. Ah, Grier, my girl. Your impetuous ways are going to get you into trouble some day.
Apparently he’d been correct. Her impetuous nature nearly led her into a prince’s bed. She buried her face in the pillow and moaned her shame into its soft depths.
Perhaps worst of all was her keen sense of disappointment. She practically found herself wishing he had seduced her. Then she would be in his arms right now, enjoying the delicious way his lips worked over her flesh, instead of alone in her big bed, tormented with longing.
The scary part of it all was she wasn’t certain why she had bothered to resist his advances. Everything about him promised pleasure. Why run from it?
She was on the verge of entering matrimony with someone. A staid, predictable fellow who would place her above censure. A loveless union based on convenience and finances and mutual respect. Why not indulge just once?
So what if she surrendered to a brief, discreet liaison with a handsome man who stirred her blood? She was eight and twenty. It was high time she tasted passion. If not now, when?
She would be a faithful wife when the time came. It wasn’t in her to renege on vows made before God. But that time wasn’t now. Not yet anyway.
Sitting up, she swiped at the tendrils of hair hanging in her face and stared into the relentless dark. Perhaps she needed to make the most of her week here in the country and do more than snare a husband. Perhaps she needed to acquire a lover.
“Y ou retired early last evening.” Jack whispered the words close to Grier’s ear the following morning as he lowered himself into a seat beside her at the table.
She smiled numbly, swallowing her sip of tea. “I was tired.”
His dark gaze drilled into her. There was no mistaking his displeasure. It wasn’t the first time she broke away early. And yet beyond his displeasure, she thought she detected something else. Was that genuine concern in his eyes? “You’re not growing ill, are you?” he asked.
She couldn’t find her voice for a moment. “No. I’m hale. Thank you.”
“It’s a dreadful time of year. Everyone is coming down with an ague of some kind. You need to take care of yourself.”
Irrationally, a lump formed in her throat. Not since Papa died had anyone cared enough to inquire upon her health. “I’ll take care. Thank you.”
He gave a single, gruff nod. “Your sister stayed up quite late keeping company with Lord Quibbly.”
Grier looked sharply at her sister, unable to disguise her astonishment. The marquis was nudging his seventieth year. Cleo couldn’t possibly entertain the notion of marrying him. Could she?
Cleo smiled almost guiltily before looking away and selecting a piece of toast off her plate.
“Lord Quibbly?” Grier queried. Was Cleo truly interested in a doddering, feeble man for a husband?
“Indeed. The marquis is quite the authority on turnips.”
“Turnips?”
“Yes,” Cleo returned. “He has a fondness for them. I learned that his cook can prepare them several ways. And did you know there are several different species of turnips?”
Persia tittered into her napkin from across the table. “Fascinating!”
Marielle glared at her friend. “It’s a subject of great interest to many. Not just Grandfather.”
“I’m certain it is.” Persia shook with restrained laughter, her glossy brown curls dancing about her shoulders.
Grier studied her half sister in puzzlement. She could not fathom Cleo’s desire to align herself with a man old enough to be her grandfather. His own granddaughter, Marielle, was actually one year Cleo’s senior. But she did not countenance anyone making a mockery of her, no matter the reason.
At the sight of Grier’s glare, Persia ceased her sniggering and returned a glare of her own, evidently not about to be cowed by someone she thought so little of.
Somewhere in the dowager’s solarium, a bird released an exotic, trilling call. It was really a lovely setting to break one’s fast. Plants of varying colors and sizes shadowed the long table where they sat. Grier could almost imagine some native emerging from the thick press of foliage, his lovely dark skin tattooed with strange symbols.
Not everyone had risen yet. Only half a dozen sat at the table laden with more food than she had ever eaten in one sitting, especially not so early in the morning. She usually broke her fast with a little porridge drizzled with honey. Possibly a poached egg. An entire roasted hog sat at the center of the table, a server cutting generous slabs that her father consumed as fast as he could chew. He did not make an attractive vision, juice dribbling down his chin as he shoveled ham and thick wedges of baked apples into his mouth.
The prince was nowhere to be seen. She thought it unlikely that he was still abed. After yesterday, she knew he wasn’t the stay-abed-all-day sort. More than likely he was out for another ride.
A commotion at the French doors leading into the solarium drew her attention. She winced at the sight of Lady Libbie’s red-faced father, having a fairly good idea why he appeared so apoplectic.
He squared off in front of the table, his stout, barrel chest swelling to such a degree she feared one of the buttons of his waistcoat would fly free and strike someone. He reminded her of a bull, ready to charge at the first moving target.
“Have any of you seen my Libbie?”
Everyone exchanged glances, murmuring denials, their expressions avid with curiosity, hounds smelling for blood.
“Where’s the prince?” Persia murmured in a singsong voice, clearly under the same misapprehension Grier had labored under the night before. “They seemed cozy the other afternoon.”
The earl waved a hand. “I’ve already spoken to His Highness. He’s in the stables, just returning from a ride.” He fixed his stare on each of them at the table in slow turn, as if trying to see the truth within, as if one of them hid his daughter away somewhere—or at least possessed the knowledge of her whereabouts. Grier tucked her hands in her lap and struggled for an innocent expression.
A maid approached then, wringing her hands and looking generally fearful. “Her maid is gone, too. I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Hannah, too?” The earl’s voice rose shrilly.
“They’ve run away! Oh dear!” Persia pressed her hands to her cheeks.
“Well, they haven’t been abducted,” the earl spit out. “Someone has to know something . . . has to have seen something!”
Grier’s foot tapped uneasily under the table. She was not about to interfere and bring undue notice to herself. Lady Libbie was no child. If she wished to marry someone else, then the decision was hers.
One of the dowager’s grooms arrived then, as if Grier’s thoughts had conjured him. He approached hesitantly, lightly clearing his throat. “Um, my lord—”
The earl whirled on him. “What, man? Speak up!” he barked. “Have you news of my Libbie?”
“Well, I’ve some news, my lord, that might shed light—”
“Out with it.”
Everyone at the table leaned forward, heaving a collective breath of anticipation.
“Your groom, John, is missing.” At the earl’s blank expression, he added, “He didn’t sleep in his bed, either.”
“John,” he echoed, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
Instantly Grier understood, vaguely recalling the handsome young groom. Holding her breath, she waited for the moment of understanding to dawn on the earl. She did not have long to wait.
Color flooded his face anew. “That bloody bastard!”
The viscount lurched to his feet from the table. “Contain yourself, my lord. There are ladies present!”
The earl ignored the viscount. Blustering and cursing, he raced from the solarium, calling for his carriage.
Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment until Persia suddenly rose in a rustle of lavender skirts. “Well, that was much too exciting for so early an hour as this. I think I’ll seek the dowager’s calming company . . . see if she’s up for a stroll.” Her gaze lingered on the viscount for a moment, clearly waiting for him to rise and accompany her.
The viscount looked from her to Grier, clearly weighing what he should do with what he wanted to do. As tempting as he found Persia, she clearly did not possess the requisite dowry. With a faintly apologetic smile for Persia, he settled back in his chair, evidently committed to his duty. “Enjoy your stroll, Miss Thrumgoodie,” he murmured in strained tones.
Grier stifled a sigh, in that moment wishing he would simply do as he wished to do.
Hurt flickered across Persia’s features before she managed to mask it. With a quick inhalation that lifted the charming swell of bosom modestly displayed within the confines of her morning gown, she started from the table with short, quick steps, her eagerness to spread the latest on dit apparently returning.
A smile quirked Grier’s lips. The girl was no doubt anxious to be the first to share this latest gossip with the highest lady of rank in residence.
Marielle rose. “I believe I might check in on Grandfather and see about venturing home today. He was looking a bit peaked last night. Too much country air usually gives him the sniffles. I’m afraid country living is not for those of delicate constitutions.” Marielle chafed a hand over one plump arm as though to imply she was affected as well. Grier resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. The girl was the picture of bountiful health. “I don’t know how the dowager can abide to spend so much time here. Perhaps I can convince her of the wisdom of returning to Town. I so fret for her in this winter clime. It’s much warmer in Town.”