Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(15)

She rubbed fiercely at the center of her chest, feeling a pang there at the memory of Papa. He’d been gone almost three years, but she still missed him. If he was still alive, she was certain she would not find herself here, sitting in a carriage with Jack Hadley, complicit in his scheme to see her wedded to some blueblood and convinced that was the answer to all her troubles.

“Well?” Jack prompted. “Tell me. Who did you charm this night?” He rubbed his thick hands together as if she had already succeeded in snaring an aristocrat.

Grier turned at the sound of Cleo’s sigh. She managed a wan smile for Grier as she slumped against the side of the carriage, waiting for Grier to take the lead, as she usually did with their father.

In the month they’d resided with Jack it had been a constant whirlwind of routs, balls, fittings with the modiste, and nights at the opera. They’d scarcely had time to breathe between each event.

Jack, too, was apparently waiting on her. He said her name with heavy emphasis, “Grier? Have you nothing to report about tonight?”

He’d made his expectations clearly felt. As the oldest, she should wed first.

“The evening went well,” she lied.

“Well?” Jack’s lips puckered around the word as if it were something distasteful.

“Yes. Very . . . fine,” she amended.

“Fine?” Jack frowned, spitting the word out. “Merely . . . fine? That doesn’t sound very heartening. Did you win no hearts tonight? I thought you wanted to snare a husband, my girl. A fine evening doesn’t sound like you were working toward gaining a proposal.”

Grier looked helplessly at her sister. Cleo arched an eyebrow as if to say, You did spend a good portion of the night hiding behind a fern.

Moistening her lips, Grier finally said, “It’s not as easy as you think. Most members of the ton find our lineage less than impressive.”

Jack waved a thick, meaty paw. “Nonsense. I’ve made it clear the extent of the dowry placed on each of your heads.” Your heads. Like they were scurrilous outlaws.

“Since your sister Marguerite married that partner of mine, I’ve withheld her share, so there’s more for the two of you. I’ve made that known as well. Trust me. There’s plenty of interest out there. Just make yourself obliging and you’ll have a proposal within the fortnight.” His eyes narrowed ruthlessly and she was reminded of what her father was. He’d made his wealth through crime and upon the misery of others. “Unless you aren’t obliging. Unless you don’t want to be here—”

“I’ll be obliging,” she replied, feeling oddly hollow inside at the bitter realization that she had to do very little to attract a husband. If Jack was to be believed, she need merely be obliging and she’d soon have a proposal. Her father did it all, everything, by offering a king’s ransom to the man who married her. It was humiliating when considered in that light.

She lifted her gaze back to her sister and read some of the same disillusionment in Cleo’s gaze. They were sacrificing any hope, any dream of a man marrying them . . . for them. For affection . . . for love.

Unwanted, the image of Prince Sevastian rose in her mind. At least he’d been attracted to her. Even if his manner had been wholly offensive, he’d made no attempt to hide that he’d found her desirable. Could she even expect that from her future husband?

She sighed and closed her eyes, pressing at the backs of her eyelids with her fingertips where they ached.

Yet the reward was great—respectability, security, comfort in home and hearth, in knowing a roof would forever be over her head. Having lived on the brink of poverty and hunger, Grier and Cleo both knew that these things were essential in life. They did not take such things for granted.

“I’ll be more obliging next time,” she promised, meaning it. She’d agreed to this venture. She might as well go about it in earnest. No more dragging her feet.

“Very good. I expect to see an improvement.” He nodded. “We leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Cleo sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “For where?”

Jack puffed up his chest a bit. “The Dowager Duchess of Bolingbroke has graciously invited us to her country seat for a week. Along with a few other feted guests. It’s a great honor. Not many among the ton are gifted with an invitation to a house party at Pemberton Manor.”

A house party. There would be no escape this time. Grier swallowed. She could not hide behind potted plants or in her rooms for the week.

A small shudder racked her before she summoned her resolve once again. This was for the best. She was no coward. She’d set herself on this course, and she’d see it through.

Jack pointed a finger at each of them. “I expect one of you to snare the youngest grandson, the viscount. And while we’re there it wouldn’t hurt to focus some attention on the duke as well.”

“You said the dowager told you he was not for us,” Cleo reminded as their carriage slowed before their father’s Mayfair home, an obscenely large monstrosity that perfectly summed up the ambitions of Jack Hadley.

He shrugged. “So use your wiles. He’s a red-blooded man.” He waved at each of them. “He can just as easily fall for one of you as any other chit. You’re more comely than some of those horse-faced hags the ton boasts.”

A groom opened the door just then and her father clambered down from the carriage. He strode up the steps and into the house, leaving them to descend the carriage with the help of a groom.