Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(20)

Her fingers twitched against her silk skirts, tempted with the impulse to muss his hair and loosen his cravat, to make him look more . . . human.

He stood at the mantel beside the duke. Naturally, the two men of highest rank in the room would gravitate toward each other. The fire in the great hearth crackled behind them, casting a red glow on their dark trouser-clad legs.

The Duke of Bolingbroke swept a bored glance over the room. His gaze passed over Grier and Cleo as if they were not even present. Grier followed his gaze where it did rest, stopping with interest on Lady Libbie. Apparently the prince wasn’t the only one interested in her. She was lovely and elegant as she played, the perfect wife for the likes of a duke. Or a prince.

Lady Libbie finished and Cleo was called upon next. Grier listened with pride, impressed that her sister played so well. Even with a household overcrowded with children, Cleo’s mother had installed a pianoforte in their small cottage to ensure that her daughters all knew how to play. Not such a surprise, she supposed, from a woman who named her eldest daughter Cleopatra. She had high hopes for her daughters . . . hopes that might come to fruition, after all, with Cleo.

The duke’s eyes followed Lady Libbie’s lithe figure as she reclaimed her seat between Persia and Lord Quibbly’s granddaughter, the plump, apple-cheeked Marielle. The contrast between the two girls was marked. Swathed in a gown of peach chiffon, Libbie was a vision. Grier couldn’t help taking a peek to see if the prince gawked in the same manner as the duke.

Indeed, he did not. He was not looking at anyone really. Angling her head to the side, she studied him curiously, wondering what went on inside his head. He gazed down into the great hearth. The fire’s red-gold flames appeared to mesmerize him. In that moment he didn’t look arrogant, he simply looked intense, troubled. She wondered what could possibly plague him. His country was war-free after many years. He was the toast of every gala, the most coveted guest on any list. He had his pick of brides. He should be carefree, not this darkly pensive man.

Cleo finished and Miss Persia Thrumgoodie rose to take a turn. She played liked a goddess. As much as Grier disliked the girl—or rather as much as the girl appeared to dislike her—she enraptured everyone in the room, Grier included.

The men were especially spellbound. She risked another glance from the corner of her eye, satisfied to see that not every man had fallen beneath her spell. The prince still gazed into the fire as if he was above everything else taking place around him. Even a beautiful woman like Persia Thrumgoodie was beneath his notice.

Deciding she’d spent enough time contemplating a man who certainly did not waste a moment’s thought on her, Grier snapped her gaze away from him, telling herself not to look in his direction again. The last thing she wanted was to be caught ogling him. He might think she wished to accept his indecent proposition from the other night.

Watching Persia, however, was a rather lowering experience. The female knew how to win over an audience.

She played with her whole body. It was quite the sensuous display. Everyone watched, riveted as she rolled her shoulders and dipped her cleavage toward the keys. Lord Tolliver watched with his lips parted. Grier thought she even detected a small amount of drool gathering at the corners. If he wasn’t smitten before, he was well enamored of her now.

Despite her avowal of moments ago, Grier feigned interest in the cuff of her sleeve and slid a look at Prince Sevastian beneath her lashes to see if he showed any similar effects.

She breathed easier. Although he no longer stared down into the fire, he looked out at the room dispassionately, not at all agog over the stunning Persia. Her performance made no impact on him. He wore his usual impassive expression, not even the hint of a smile cracking his face. For once his stoicism didn’t annoy her.

Dipping her head, Grier smiled, slow and satisfied, as she recalled the only time she had seen him smile had been in her presence. She’d brought out his smile, and the realization gave her a surge of feminine power.

Then her smile fled with sudden memory. Her brow furrowed as she recalled that he had been smiling in the course of propositioning her—as if she were the lowest female and not a lady given due accord.

“Miss Hadley, can you hear me? It’s your turn now.”

Grier winced as Cleo elbowed her ungently in the side.

“Perhaps she is deaf.” Marielle giggled inanely.

The dowager stared at Grier expectantly from her overstuffed chair. With a imperious cock of her eyebrow, she motioned to the pianoforte.

As the hum of Persia’s final chords faded on the air, Grier felt like cornered prey.

“Yes, Miss Hadley. I should love to hear you.” Persia rose with a soft swish of her skirts.

Grier blinked and looked around. She suddenly found herself the center of attention. A most unwelcome sensation, to be certain. She stopped breathing, watching with a sick twisting in her stomach as Persia moved smoothly through the room to reclaim her seat. How did she sway her hips like that?

With all eyes fixed on her, there was only one stare she felt as keenly as the prick of a knife. She knew it was he, knew the prince was watching her.

“M-me?” Despising the quiver in her voice, she spoke again, her voice firmer. “You wish to hear me play?” She flattened a hand against the bodice of her gown.

“Yes, Miss Hadley. Do take a turn.” The dowager motioned to the pianoforte with a sweep of her heavily beringed hand. “Such a lovely evening we’re having. Our own impromptu musicale. Let us continue with it. “