Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(11)

She was no stranger to a man’s kisses. Indeed not. And she was not about to initiate such intimacy with such a cad as he—prince or not. No matter how he affected her, how she quivered at his touch in the small dark space they shared, no matter how he made her remember things best left forgotten. She was made of sterner stuff. She could resist the likes of him.

Still . . . if he should kiss her at this moment, she questioned her ability to resist. In their dark sanctuary, she too well recalled the longing, the exhilaration, the belief that she was valuable enough that a man could look beyond the circumstances of her birth.

She missed such feelings, even false as they had been. Desire and longing only brought pain and allowed one to believe in fairy tales. She’d find her retiring gentleman with his home in the country and she’d have safety. Peace and contentment and respectability. That would be enough. Everything she ever needed. No one would ever hurt her again.

She held herself perfectly still, a seeming statue, cold and unfeeling. A ruse, of course. She was burning up on the inside as he touched her face, a blind man feeling her every feature. The slope of her cheek, the curve of the jaw she always thought a little too square. The mouth too full, especially the bottom lip.

He moved, leaned in yet again. The barest graze at the corner of her lips told her he was there, touching her, toying with her, exploring her face. Imprisoned in the dark, it was almost hard to imagine that this prince did this. That the austere, cold-eyed boor was moved to even touch her.

Unable to resist any longer, her face lifted. A treacherous yearning filled her, betraying her. This was it. She would permit a kiss.

Only no kiss came.

“They’ve gone.” His voice fluttered over her skin, quiet and even. Unaffected. As though he were commenting on the weather.

As his words sank in, she listened. Silence carried from the other side of the door. They both held still. Moments stretched as she verified what he said was true. She took measure of herself and the wholly unsuitable embrace she shared with a man who deemed her one step above the gutter.

His voice rustled the tiny hairs that had spilled free from her chignon to frame her face. “Of course if you would prefer to stay here, I’m quite sure we could occupy ourselves.”

He spoke so calmly. As if he did not care one way or another if she accepted his offer, and perhaps that stung the most. Not the offer itself, but that he would proposition her and not care whether she agreed.

“Get away from me, you wretch!” Grier flung herself back. Twisting around, she fumbled with the door and burst from the armoire. Breath sawing from her lips, she whirled around, her burgundy skirts sweeping wide as she glared at the man emerging from the armoire.

Taking in his immense size, she marveled that the two of them had fit inside at all. She blew at a strand of auburn hair swinging before her eyes. It still dangled in the most annoying fashion, so she swiped at the offending strand furiously, never breaking her glare.

His cat-gold eyes followed her movements with mild interest, a notable change. He’d looked bored before. “Is this far enough away? I confess a woman has never asked me to remove myself from her side before.”

The arrogant jackass!

His eyes were molten, fire burning as bright as sunlight. How did one possess gold eyes? She’d never seen the like. Perhaps he was the devil?

Suddenly he looked awake. Not even when she had doused her lemon water over him had he looked quite so . . . alert. Not as he did now, circling her like some sort of jungle cat. A predator.

A tiny frisson of alarm coursed through her to realize she was the cause for that. She was the reason his eyes burned brightly.

She sucked in a breath, marveling that her stays had not felt this tight at the beginning of the night. Right now her clothing felt constrictive, her body sensitive, swollen and chafing against her garments.

Her cheeks burned with mortification. She pulled back her shoulders and regretted the move when his gaze dropped to her décolletage. The modest cut was no more daring than that of any other lady in attendance tonight, but the sweetheart neckline felt very risqué beneath his regard.

She angled her chin and clasped her hands in front of her. “Was it necessary to accost me while we were hiding?”

An indolent smile curved his sinful lips. “Forgive me,” he said without a hint of apology. “When I have a woman pressed against me, it’s only human nature to react.”

Heat fired her cheeks. “Human nature,” she bit out, “does not give you leave to touch me. I don’t care if you’re a prince or not. No one touches me,” she growled. At least not again. Not without the protection of marriage. Never again would she lose control when a handsome man put his hands on her or whispered promises in her ear.

Not that the man before her had whispered such words. Nor would he ever. On the contrary, he’d said only the most insulting things to her—about her—since they’d met.

He shrugged one broad shoulder, clearly unbothered by her outrage. And that only outraged her further. Did he think himself so above the conventions that governed the rest of Society?

“You did not seem . . . opposed.” He drew closer, staring at her in the most perplexing manner. “I thought perhaps you wanted to become friends.”

“Friends?” Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re not unattractive,” he drawled.

She blinked. “So therefore I’m worthy of dalliance?” She shook her head, marveling at his arrogance. “This may come as a shock, but I don’t care for your opinion of me.”