Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(18)

Grier and Cleo settled back onto the comfortable sofa as a silent maid placed a teacup in her hands. Grier took a warming sip, listening as her father described the two hours they spent mired in a snowdrift while the driver, the groom, and her father labored to pull them free.

“Quite the adventure,” a voice murmured beside her.

She sent a sharp glance to her left.

Stealthily as a jungle cat, the prince had positioned himself just above her, standing with soldierlike rigidity, his hands clasped behind him. She straightened her spine and looked away. His voice, however, was still there, puckering her skin to gooseflesh. “How fortunate we are to have you here safely with us.”

She slid him another look, trying to decipher if he mocked her and unable to hide her shock that he even deigned to speak to her where it might be witnessed. Lifting her cup to her lips, she murmured softly, “Are you certain you wish to be seen speaking to me, Your Highness?”

His gold eyes glinted down at her. “I see no harm.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“Ah, Your Highness, have you met the Misses Hadley?” The viscount had apparently noted their exchange. He looked back and forth between them.

She opened her mouth to deny having met the prince, but he spoke first. “Yes. In Town.”

“Ah, of course.” The viscount nodded cheerfully. He really was a nice sort. Quite willing to be the sacrificial lamb. Or was he? His stare drifted, floating somewhere beyond her shoulder as he sipped from his teacup.

She followed his gaze to the lovely girl she’d spied him talking with earlier. At Grier’s stare she quickly looked away, a pretty pink stain coloring her cheeks. But not before Grier saw that she, too, had been looking at the viscount.

Shifting uncomfortably, she faced forward again, feigning interest as her father regaled the room with their adventures. Only she couldn’t focus on him for long. Not when she felt the stare of the prince mere feet away. A hot itchiness spread across her face until she had to look up at him again.

He stared at her with what was becoming familiar aloofness. Why did he bother to look at her at all?

With a snap of her head, she faced forward again.

After some moments, the dowager interrupted her father’s narrative. “My, how harrowing. Perhaps your daughters would care to see their rooms and refresh themselves before dinner?”

Grier tried not to nod too earnestly at the suggestion. Cleo rose beside her. A maid appeared as if by magic from a remote corner of the room to escort them.

As they left, Grier felt one intent stare drilling into her back. It did not require much imagination to conclude who watched her so intently. The very same man who stared at her so coldly and deemed her fit only for a tryst—not for mingling among the echelons of Society.

This time she managed not to look back.

Dinner 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.