Wicked in Your Arms

Page 9

This time she managed not to look back.
D inner was a tiresome affair, with too many courses to count. Even after a rest in her bedchamber, concentrating so hard on how she sat, ate, and conducted herself throughout the elaborate meal made Grier’s shoulders knot with tension.
The duke was present. Apparently he’d spent the day hunting game in the woods with his dogs. Grier envied him that. It sounded decidedly more enjoyable than her choices: taking a nap or suffering the company of ladies who preferred to discuss the latest fashion plates and gossip from Town. Still, she could endure it. She would . The end goal would make it all worthwhile.
As the highest rank present, the prince held the seat of honor at the head of the table. The duke sat beside him. The snatches of conversation drifting her way proved far more interesting than the conversation at her far end of the table.
She was seated beside Miss Persia Thrumgoodie, the young lady she’d caught staring so hungrily after the viscount. All Grier’s attempts at conversation with her were met with stilted responses. It was like talking to a wall. She couldn’t decide if this derived from shyness or simple disdain.
Grier again glanced with longing down the length of table. Not, she assured herself, because the prince himself sat there, looking handsome and formidable as ever in his all-black attire, but only because, at that particular moment, they were discussing the merits of bow hunting.
One of her slippers tapped a fierce staccato beneath the table. It was difficult sitting still in her chair and remaining silent when a subject she was actually interested in was being discussed several feet away. But what could she do? Shout down the length of the table?
She bit her lip and swirled her spoon in her leek soup, reminding herself that no one here would care to hear her thoughts on matters of hunting. In fact, they would be appalled to know she possessed knowledge on such an unladylike subject.
Her father slurped loudly beside her. Several distasteful looks were sent his way. Grier felt the gulf between herself and all these lily-handed aristocrats widening.
You need only find and marry your country gentleman and you’ll endure no more of this. With a title attached to your name, you’ll be free to be yourself. No one will dare ridicule you again.
She turned her attention to the viscount sitting several seats away. The candlelight cast shadows on his boyishly rounded features. Was he younger than she? The notion sent a frisson of discomfort through her. The uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her belly. Again she thought of the prince and his comments. He’d called her old —made her feel like a veritable hag.
She shook off such musings and blinked her attention back to the viscount—where it should be—resisting the temptation to look even farther down the table where the prince sat. The length separating them served as reminder enough of the distance between them. He had no business in her thoughts.
Focusing on the viscount, she wondered if he enjoyed the hunt and what he would think of a wife who did. What would he think of a wife who eschewed parties and shopping on Bond Street and would rather flush out grouse?
It was worth finding out. What else was she here for except to explore her options?
“And do you, Lord Tolliver, enjoy the hunt as well?” Grier lifted her voice to carry to the viscount, sending a slight nod in the direction of the duke and prince, who talked without once looking down the table length, even though the subject of his conversation could be heard.
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
After 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 cl**vage 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.