Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(19)

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?