Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(2)

Stiffening her spine with this heartening reminder, she swallowed her bite and took a sip from her glass. Besides, nothing awaited her at home. Nothing save loneliness. Long, looming years where she would suffer everyone’s pity. Or censure. She was hard-pressed to say which was worse.

Ready to rejoin the masses, she peered through the fronds of the large potted fern that hid her from view. The two busybodies still lingered, their turbaned heads angled close, as if that would somehow stop anyone from overhearing their indiscreet voices.

“You do mean Miss Grier Hadley, of course.” The other woman tsked and Grier supposed the sound was meant to be sympathetic. “She’s such an unfortunate female. So . . . tall.”

The way the word tall was uttered, Grier was certain she meant to say something else.

“Indeed.” The other matron clucked. “And so very dark, too. Did she labor in the fields before Hadley unearthed her?”

They shared a look and burst out laughing.

Grier snorted. They weren’t far from the truth. She rolled her eyes at their guffaws, understanding perfectly their nasty humor. And yet her sturdy form and sun-browned complexion were the least of her flaws in their eyes. She wondered what they would say if she told them how she came to be so sun-browned. That before coming to Town she spent her time riding across the countryside in men’s trousers, shooting game, jumping fences, and then, to cool off, stripping her garments to swim in secluded ponds, nothing between her and God’s eyes except the wind. A secret smile curved her lips as she imagined their horror.

Tall and dark. They could have described her much worse indeed. They could have called her a bastard. She’d heard that often enough growing up. They could have declared her unfit for their elite company. And yet they dared not. Her father was none other than Jack Hadley, a renowned gaming hell owner, better known as the king of London’s underworld for all his dabbling in vice and corruption.

Perhaps not the most sterling of recommendations, but here she stood, in the ballroom of one of the ton’s finest homes, the special friend of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Bolingbroke.

The guests could titter all they liked behind their hands, but abide her they would. Her fat dowry guaranteed that. The dowager had made it widely known that Jack Hadley’s daughters had her full-fledged stamp of approval, and if one wished for the dowager and her three grandsons to attend any fête, then the disreputable Hadleys were to be invited as well.

Grier harbored no misconceptions concerning the dowager’s generosity. She knew she would never have gained the old dame’s favor and entry past the doorman tonight if not for the dowry her father dangled like a carrot before every bride-seeking blueblood of the ton. The dowager possessed three grandsons, all as destitute as she was. The only thing left to the Bolingbroke title was . . . well . . . the title.

Just then the biddies discussing her flaws noticed her amid the fronds. Their eyes bulged in affront. It took every ounce of will she possessed not to stick her tongue out at them. They might not like rubbing elbows with her kind, but their kind clearly needed her. At least they needed her father’s money.

With noses in the air, they marched away.

Grier pressed her fingers to her mouth, stifling a giggle. She moved from her hiding spot to refill her glass of lemon water. With replenished drink in hand, she moved back down the buffet table and tucked herself once again behind the fern. Once again out of sight.

Even better, two gentlemen chose to stand before the fern at that moment, making her even more inconspicuous. Especially as one of them was quite tall and successfully towered over the potted fern. Feeling safe again, she took a refreshing sip and munched on another biscuit. Perhaps she could hide here all night until her father collected her.

The mention of her name quickly quelled such daydreams.

Holy hellfire. Again? Need she endure further slurs against her person? Even though she knew she should simply turn and leave, she froze, her feet rooted to the parquet floor as she eyed the two figures before her. While one was exceedingly tall, the other man barely came to her chin.

“The Misses Hadley are quite the catch, Sevastian. We should not leave them off your list,” the shorter man said.

Unease settled in the pit of her stomach at mention of a list. She failed to recognize either gentleman, but then she only had a view of their backs. Still, the shorter man’s shock of red hair would be hard to forget.

“These are the two bastards you mentioned?” the tall man demanded in a flat, emotionless voice.

She bit back her gasp at this bald question, and glared at the back of his dark head, her skin prickling with indignation at his rudeness.

He continued, his speech rolling and rich, laced with an accent she could not place. “The daughters of some unsavory criminal? And only God knows what female? Truly, Malcolm, you must jest. They scarcely sound eligible. My country is in dire straits, but not that dire. Grandfather would have a seizure at the mere suggestion of tainting the Maksimi bloodline with bastard blood, and you should well know that, cousin.”

A royal then? That explained the haughty attitude. She sniffed. Explained. Not pardoned.

She began chewing again, her teeth working with a vengeance as she glared between leafy fronds at this, this . . . Sevastian.

He was big. And not just tall. Broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his evening attire. She could not detect an ounce of fat, or a stitch of padding. She sniffed indelicately. His waist was trim, his hips narrow and lean. Not the standard among tonnish gentlemen. He reminded her more of the men back home—men accustomed to hard work.