Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)

Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)

Sophie Jordan




Prologue



The Royal Palace of Maldania . . .

He lived.

This was Sevastian’s sole burning thought as he advanced down the wide sunlit corridor. Not the blood seeping from the gash in his forehead and dripping thickly into his eye. Not the fact that he hadn’t slept in days, and even then that sleep had been fractured and restless with artillery fire ripping deep wounds into the earth outside his tent. He lived and was not rotting away on a battlefield like so many of his comrades.

He was alive and breathing and whole.

His booted heels clacked a cold, precise rhythm. He’d ceased to leave a trail of mud and blood several yards back. Every inch of him was covered in filth, blood and matter he dared not consider. He would dream nightmares of it later. He was a wretched sight, his once fine uniform beyond recognition, but he felt invigorated, victorious.

His footsteps rang out sharply over the marble floor, the same floor his ancestors had trod generations before him. A ragged breath tripped from his lips. The same floor his progeny would walk. Now that the war was over, that much was all but guaranteed. Whether it happened depended upon him. The weight of this new responsibility settled over him, tightening his shoulders.

His shadow stretched long over the stained-glass windows lining the corridor. His breath still fell fast from his hard ride to reach here—to be the first one to tell the king that it was finally over.

He nodded to the master guards standing sentry on either side of the massive double doors of the king’s bedchamber. Their heels snapped together sharply at his presence.

He knocked once before entering. The king sat in a high-backed chair before a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the valley Sevastian had just ridden hell-bent through to arrive here. In the distance, where the mountains rose beyond the snow-blanketed valley, dark smoke rose in great plumes, reaching to the heavens.

The old man looked Sevastian’s way, the tight lines of his face easing immediately at the sight of him. “You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. Moisture filled his eyes.

Sevastian nodded. Dropping on a knee before his king, he dipped his head and bowed low. “The kingdom is yours, Your Highness. The enemy is vanquished. Marsan is dead and the rest of the rebels have surrendered.”

The king’s gnarled hand came down on his head in a fierce caress. “You’ve prevailed. I knew you would.”

He grimaced, watching as his blood dripped onto the king’s royal robes. Over the years he hadn’t felt the same conviction. He’d only known that he must prevail—or die.

He rose to his feet. The king closed his eyes in a weary blink, clearly grappling with the fact that the bloody ten-year-long rebellion had come to an end at last. It was a struggle for Sevastian, too. He’d grown to manhood amid war and death. It was all he knew.

The king seized his hand, his grip surprisingly strong for one in such weak health. “You know what must be done now. And quickly. This country needs a bright light as we emerge from the dark. You must give them that. Feed them hope, the promise of better days to come.”

Sevastian’s throat thickened. “I shall not fail you, Grandfather.”

“Of course you won’t.”

“I know my duty. It shall be done.”





Chapter One



Two months later . . .

“You mean Miss Hadley?”

At the sound of her name Grier stopped chewing, her mouth stuffed full of her third frosted biscuit. Or perhaps it was her fourth. The tasty treats were thus far the highlight of her evening, but hearing her name mentioned with such ridicule amid titters of laughter turned the food to dust on her tongue.

The voices continued, and she pressed farther back into a column, as if she could somehow disappear into the plaster. “Well, she is rather . . .” The rest of their words were lost in a burst of guffaws.

Grier sucked in a deep breath, knowing that whatever the biddies had said was far from complimentary. She knew this with the same certainty that she knew they were speaking about her and not her half-sister. Not that she and Cleo weren’t both a favored subject for the sniggering busybodies of the ton, but somehow Grier had received the brunt of attention as they went about Town.

She glanced down at herself, quickly assessing. The burgundy gown was the height of fashion, the color rich and flattering against her dusky complexion. The modiste had assured her she would stand out against all the other watered-down milksop misses on the market for a husband.

She grimaced. At the time, she thought standing out an advantage. What better way to attract some blueblood, after all? A proper gentleman to give her the stamp of respectability she had long craved. Standing out amid the other females, she’d reasoned, could only be a good thing. Now she wasn’t so sure.

She’d endured many colorful designations since her entrée into Society a fortnight past. None complimentary. And yet she’d braced herself for that. Her father’s fortune might gain her admittance to the finest drawing rooms, but it did not mean everyone would don a kind smile for the likes of her.

Nothing she’d endured, however, was intolerable enough to send her fleeing London with her tail tucked between her skirts. She lifted her chin and took another bite from her biscuit. She’d be a proper lady yet. In time, she’d marry a gentleman and everyone would forget her low beginnings. She’d have respectability at last, the pains of her youth forgotten.