Wicked in Your Arms
Page 3
A slow smile curved his mouth as he feasted his gaze on the buxom matron.
With the war behind him, it was time he performed the next duty required of him. His grandfather had tasked him with such, and Sev would not disappoint him. Not after everything he’d already lost. They’d both lost. Sev’s father, his brother, his uncles, and various cousins . . . All gone. Either to assassins or on a battlefield.
His gaze trailed Lady Kirkendale as she drifted past one of the alcoves, looking over her bare shoulder several times, the invitation in her eyes unmistakable as she moved toward the threshold that would take her deeper into the house.
The memory of his grandfather, ailing and anticipating his return with a bride in tow—a proper bride—made his chest tighten uncomfortably. It was the only thing keeping the old man alive.
Now was not the time for dalliance, and yet the prospect of matrimony, of taking that next step to secure his throne—to claiming what should have been his brother’s —filled him with a helpless rage.
He’d do it. Of course. It was right. Necessary. He always did the right and necessary thing. Nothing could distract him from his course . . . However, he’d take what diversions he could.
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of auburn hair and burgundy gown that had left such an unpleasant impression upon him moments ago. He forced his gaze straight ahead, training his eyes on Lady Kirkendale—a means for him to release his frustrations, his helpless rage over the fact that his life was not his own. His grandfather had ingrained that in him. A crown prince never served himself.
The thought settled like a heavy stone sinking into his gut. “Let us have this introduction with Lady Libbie in a little while. I’ve something to do. I won’t be long.”
Malcolm followed his gaze to Lady Kirkendale’s departing back with a smirk. “Of course. Hopefully Lady Libbie doesn’t take an early departure.”
Sevastian slid his gaze back to his cousin. “See to it that she doesn’t.” He tugged on his cuffs. “I won’t be long. I’ll have that introduction . . . and perhaps even a private word with Lady Libbie’s father if she proves to be all that you claim. Mind you, I’d like to be back home before the snows melt. This whole business has already taken entirely too long.”
Something flashed over Malcolm’s face, and Sev felt a stab of guilt knowing that the palace—Maldania—was somewhere Malcolm would never visit again. No matter how he might wish to.
Sev shook off the sentiment. He couldn’t allow himself to feel responsible for Malcolm, too. He had enough to worry about—an entire country of people. Besides, he’d already done more than his grandfather would condone in striking up a relationship with his ostracized cousin.
Guests parted before him as he cut through the crush. Sev spared no one a glance as he left the ballroom. Just the same, he was well aware that they all looked after him. Such was usual. He was the Crown Prince of Maldania and handsome, if the tittering females who fawned over him were to be believed.
His boots strode a straight line, his steps muffled on the runner. Hopefully a quick tryst with Lady Kirkendale would aid him in feeling not so . . . afflicted . Perhaps a brief assignation would let him feel again and find release from the numbness encasing him.
He shook his head at his unrealistic ponderings. They were useless dreams. Funny that he would still allow himself to dream. That was another thing his grandfather taught him. A prince had no right to dream anything for himself. Even if he took ease in a soft, willing body, his world would remain the same. As Crown Prince of Maldania, his life could never be his own. The choices he made were not for him. Country came first. Duty and responsibilities faced him at every turn. He couldn’t escape it.
A fter working her way through the ballroom, Grier ensconced herself safely at another of the many buffet tables—this one tucked well away from the brute prince upon whom she’d poured her drink.
She didn’t care what royal blood flowed through his veins, the man was a boor. She didn’t regret dousing him with her lemon water. It wasn’t as though she’d ruined her chances to snare herself a prince. Recalling his severe expression, she knew entertaining such a notion was laughable.
He obviously didn’t consider her eligible . . . nor did she wish him to. She need only remember his wretched voice as he spoke to his cousin, his accented tones so scathing at the mere suggestion of her as his bride, and her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She almost wished he stood before her again. She might toss something more tangible than a glass of punch at him. He deserved no less.
She inhaled through her nose, immediately missing the open space of home as she drew in the aroma of overperfumed bodies. She longed for crisp, woodsy air. Verdant green hills and mountains undulating around her.
She quickly reminded herself she couldn’t return to Wales. Nothing was left for her there except more of the usual disdain. Papa was dead three years now. And Trevis . . .
Well, she simply couldn’t go back.
“Grier, how many biscuits are you going to eat?”
At the exasperated voice, Grier shook off her troubling thoughts, vowing yet again to forget the past and focus on her future. “I lost count at twelve.”
Her half sister Cleo shot her a beleaguered look as she slid up beside her. “Very amusing.” She plucked the frosted delicacy from Grier’s fingers as she was just about to take another bite. “Permit me to spare you that one.”
Grier moaned and tried to snatch it back.
“Weren’t you just at the table over there?” Cleo gestured across the room. “Will you do nothing but eat tonight?”
“The other table ran out of biscuits,” she lied, trying to reclaim her food.
Cleo stuffed the biscuit into her own mouth and swatted Grier’s hand when she reached toward the table to select a new one. “We’ve an agenda, if you don’t recall. We need to mingle,” Cleo chided around her mouthful. Candlelight struck her brown curls and made them appear as lustrous as freshly tilled soil.
Grier sighed. “The only thing I have to look forward to at these events is the food. Don’t deny me that.”
One thing she didn’t miss about living alone and fending for herself was preparing all her own meals. It was nice having delicious fare on hand whenever she wished for it. She didn’t have to step outdoors and shoot a grouse, then pluck and clean it and cook it. That she did not miss.
“We agreed to do this together and so far I’m the only one participating in this husband hunt. I don’t want Jack scolding you again for being unsociable.”
An image of the two gossiping biddies flashed through Grier’s mind, followed quickly by that cad— Sevastian . Her stomach knotted. Even his name seemed to elevate him so very far from her. As if his bloodlines, manner, and appearance did not do that already.
If mingling at these affairs thrust her into the company of people like that, she’d rather hide—but Cleo was correct. She’d snare no husband by hiding. She knew that. How was she to find the security and respectability she long craved if she didn’t marry a proper gentleman?
Cleo cocked her head, a glossy ringlet sliding over her shoulder. “Were you not the one lecturing me earlier about donning a good face and finding ourselves a husband posthaste?”
Grier twisted one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “Yes, that was me . . . but then I arrive at these horrid affairs and endure all the stares and whispering.” She sighed, her mind drifting to that dreadful prince again. “We’re scarcely tolerated here, Cleo—”
Cleo waved a hand. “That’s to be expected. Have you met our father, perchance? The man with the horrid accent wearing a cravat a miserable shade of plum and making a fool of himself in the card room?”
Grier winced at the sadly accurate description.
Cleo gently gripped her arm, her touch warm through her velvet gloves. “I suggest you do as you advised me. Find some grateful lord with a fondness for his country estate and get him down on bended knee. Once that is accomplished, we can say good-bye to all of this that we so dislike.” She motioned about them with a flutter of her hand.
“You’re right, of course.” Grier nodded and straightened her spine, sweeping an appraising eye over the ballroom. Several gentlemen surveyed both her and her sister. Like prime horseflesh at the market . She shook off the unwelcome sensation. Was she not judging them with the same assessing eye?
“Come then. Let’s take a turn about the room,” Cleo suggested.
Cleo took her arm. Together they strolled. This time Grier paid no mind when a group of debutantes in flouncy pastel gowns presented them with their backs, giving them the cut direct. Grier forced her gaze from them and lifted her chin a notch. Who cared if a bunch of silly girls snubbed her? She wasn’t here for them, after all. Once she was married to a respectable gentleman, all that would come to an end anyway.
“Ah, there’s the dowager’s youngest grandson, Lord Tolliver.” Cleo dipped her head close to whisper, “Jack said we should show him particular attention. Let us go make ourselves amenable.”
Grier pasted a smile on her face for her sister’s benefit, if nothing else. They had been acquainted for only a short while, but as the bastard daughters of Jack Hadley they had much in common. In their brief time together they’d made up for lost years.
Raised an only child, Grier was thrilled to learn she was not alone in the world. It was the same for Cleo, but for different reasons. The oldest of fourteen half brothers and sisters, Cleo was a glorified nanny and servant all rolled into one. An ironic existence given she bore the name Cleopatra.
Grier eyed the dowager’s grandson surrounded by other gentlemen. She looked him up and down, wondering if it was too early to inquire about his living preferences. She hoped to snare a husband who preferred country living to life in Town. She knew it would narrow her selection, but she wasn’t accustomed to the crowds, to the constant fog, to the lack of fresh air. If she wanted to see trees, she had to venture to the park.
“Come, Grier. This isn’t the time to be reticent.” Cleo tugged her along.
Grier and Cleo idled alongside them, waiting to be noticed without appearing to be waiting .
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.
With the war behind him, it was time he performed the next duty required of him. His grandfather had tasked him with such, and Sev would not disappoint him. Not after everything he’d already lost. They’d both lost. Sev’s father, his brother, his uncles, and various cousins . . . All gone. Either to assassins or on a battlefield.
His gaze trailed Lady Kirkendale as she drifted past one of the alcoves, looking over her bare shoulder several times, the invitation in her eyes unmistakable as she moved toward the threshold that would take her deeper into the house.
The memory of his grandfather, ailing and anticipating his return with a bride in tow—a proper bride—made his chest tighten uncomfortably. It was the only thing keeping the old man alive.
Now was not the time for dalliance, and yet the prospect of matrimony, of taking that next step to secure his throne—to claiming what should have been his brother’s —filled him with a helpless rage.
He’d do it. Of course. It was right. Necessary. He always did the right and necessary thing. Nothing could distract him from his course . . . However, he’d take what diversions he could.
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of auburn hair and burgundy gown that had left such an unpleasant impression upon him moments ago. He forced his gaze straight ahead, training his eyes on Lady Kirkendale—a means for him to release his frustrations, his helpless rage over the fact that his life was not his own. His grandfather had ingrained that in him. A crown prince never served himself.
The thought settled like a heavy stone sinking into his gut. “Let us have this introduction with Lady Libbie in a little while. I’ve something to do. I won’t be long.”
Malcolm followed his gaze to Lady Kirkendale’s departing back with a smirk. “Of course. Hopefully Lady Libbie doesn’t take an early departure.”
Sevastian slid his gaze back to his cousin. “See to it that she doesn’t.” He tugged on his cuffs. “I won’t be long. I’ll have that introduction . . . and perhaps even a private word with Lady Libbie’s father if she proves to be all that you claim. Mind you, I’d like to be back home before the snows melt. This whole business has already taken entirely too long.”
Something flashed over Malcolm’s face, and Sev felt a stab of guilt knowing that the palace—Maldania—was somewhere Malcolm would never visit again. No matter how he might wish to.
Sev shook off the sentiment. He couldn’t allow himself to feel responsible for Malcolm, too. He had enough to worry about—an entire country of people. Besides, he’d already done more than his grandfather would condone in striking up a relationship with his ostracized cousin.
Guests parted before him as he cut through the crush. Sev spared no one a glance as he left the ballroom. Just the same, he was well aware that they all looked after him. Such was usual. He was the Crown Prince of Maldania and handsome, if the tittering females who fawned over him were to be believed.
His boots strode a straight line, his steps muffled on the runner. Hopefully a quick tryst with Lady Kirkendale would aid him in feeling not so . . . afflicted . Perhaps a brief assignation would let him feel again and find release from the numbness encasing him.
He shook his head at his unrealistic ponderings. They were useless dreams. Funny that he would still allow himself to dream. That was another thing his grandfather taught him. A prince had no right to dream anything for himself. Even if he took ease in a soft, willing body, his world would remain the same. As Crown Prince of Maldania, his life could never be his own. The choices he made were not for him. Country came first. Duty and responsibilities faced him at every turn. He couldn’t escape it.
A fter working her way through the ballroom, Grier ensconced herself safely at another of the many buffet tables—this one tucked well away from the brute prince upon whom she’d poured her drink.
She didn’t care what royal blood flowed through his veins, the man was a boor. She didn’t regret dousing him with her lemon water. It wasn’t as though she’d ruined her chances to snare herself a prince. Recalling his severe expression, she knew entertaining such a notion was laughable.
He obviously didn’t consider her eligible . . . nor did she wish him to. She need only remember his wretched voice as he spoke to his cousin, his accented tones so scathing at the mere suggestion of her as his bride, and her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She almost wished he stood before her again. She might toss something more tangible than a glass of punch at him. He deserved no less.
She inhaled through her nose, immediately missing the open space of home as she drew in the aroma of overperfumed bodies. She longed for crisp, woodsy air. Verdant green hills and mountains undulating around her.
She quickly reminded herself she couldn’t return to Wales. Nothing was left for her there except more of the usual disdain. Papa was dead three years now. And Trevis . . .
Well, she simply couldn’t go back.
“Grier, how many biscuits are you going to eat?”
At the exasperated voice, Grier shook off her troubling thoughts, vowing yet again to forget the past and focus on her future. “I lost count at twelve.”
Her half sister Cleo shot her a beleaguered look as she slid up beside her. “Very amusing.” She plucked the frosted delicacy from Grier’s fingers as she was just about to take another bite. “Permit me to spare you that one.”
Grier moaned and tried to snatch it back.
“Weren’t you just at the table over there?” Cleo gestured across the room. “Will you do nothing but eat tonight?”
“The other table ran out of biscuits,” she lied, trying to reclaim her food.
Cleo stuffed the biscuit into her own mouth and swatted Grier’s hand when she reached toward the table to select a new one. “We’ve an agenda, if you don’t recall. We need to mingle,” Cleo chided around her mouthful. Candlelight struck her brown curls and made them appear as lustrous as freshly tilled soil.
Grier sighed. “The only thing I have to look forward to at these events is the food. Don’t deny me that.”
One thing she didn’t miss about living alone and fending for herself was preparing all her own meals. It was nice having delicious fare on hand whenever she wished for it. She didn’t have to step outdoors and shoot a grouse, then pluck and clean it and cook it. That she did not miss.
“We agreed to do this together and so far I’m the only one participating in this husband hunt. I don’t want Jack scolding you again for being unsociable.”
An image of the two gossiping biddies flashed through Grier’s mind, followed quickly by that cad— Sevastian . Her stomach knotted. Even his name seemed to elevate him so very far from her. As if his bloodlines, manner, and appearance did not do that already.
If mingling at these affairs thrust her into the company of people like that, she’d rather hide—but Cleo was correct. She’d snare no husband by hiding. She knew that. How was she to find the security and respectability she long craved if she didn’t marry a proper gentleman?
Cleo cocked her head, a glossy ringlet sliding over her shoulder. “Were you not the one lecturing me earlier about donning a good face and finding ourselves a husband posthaste?”
Grier twisted one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “Yes, that was me . . . but then I arrive at these horrid affairs and endure all the stares and whispering.” She sighed, her mind drifting to that dreadful prince again. “We’re scarcely tolerated here, Cleo—”
Cleo waved a hand. “That’s to be expected. Have you met our father, perchance? The man with the horrid accent wearing a cravat a miserable shade of plum and making a fool of himself in the card room?”
Grier winced at the sadly accurate description.
Cleo gently gripped her arm, her touch warm through her velvet gloves. “I suggest you do as you advised me. Find some grateful lord with a fondness for his country estate and get him down on bended knee. Once that is accomplished, we can say good-bye to all of this that we so dislike.” She motioned about them with a flutter of her hand.
“You’re right, of course.” Grier nodded and straightened her spine, sweeping an appraising eye over the ballroom. Several gentlemen surveyed both her and her sister. Like prime horseflesh at the market . She shook off the unwelcome sensation. Was she not judging them with the same assessing eye?
“Come then. Let’s take a turn about the room,” Cleo suggested.
Cleo took her arm. Together they strolled. This time Grier paid no mind when a group of debutantes in flouncy pastel gowns presented them with their backs, giving them the cut direct. Grier forced her gaze from them and lifted her chin a notch. Who cared if a bunch of silly girls snubbed her? She wasn’t here for them, after all. Once she was married to a respectable gentleman, all that would come to an end anyway.
“Ah, there’s the dowager’s youngest grandson, Lord Tolliver.” Cleo dipped her head close to whisper, “Jack said we should show him particular attention. Let us go make ourselves amenable.”
Grier pasted a smile on her face for her sister’s benefit, if nothing else. They had been acquainted for only a short while, but as the bastard daughters of Jack Hadley they had much in common. In their brief time together they’d made up for lost years.
Raised an only child, Grier was thrilled to learn she was not alone in the world. It was the same for Cleo, but for different reasons. The oldest of fourteen half brothers and sisters, Cleo was a glorified nanny and servant all rolled into one. An ironic existence given she bore the name Cleopatra.
Grier eyed the dowager’s grandson surrounded by other gentlemen. She looked him up and down, wondering if it was too early to inquire about his living preferences. She hoped to snare a husband who preferred country living to life in Town. She knew it would narrow her selection, but she wasn’t accustomed to the crowds, to the constant fog, to the lack of fresh air. If she wanted to see trees, she had to venture to the park.
“Come, Grier. This isn’t the time to be reticent.” Cleo tugged her along.
Grier and Cleo idled alongside them, waiting to be noticed without appearing to be waiting .
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.
