Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(25)

Turning, she fled down the corridor, away from her father, away from the library and the deep voices of the men.

She would forge her destiny in her own way and time. Not because Jack Hadley demanded it of her.

Sev stepped from the shadows, watching thoughtfully as Miss Hadley fled the corridor. As far as he was concerned, her father was as foul and brutish as the lowest fishmonger. And yet Miss Hadley stood toe to toe with him. Dignified even. Regal as a queen.

He winced and shook his head, quickly banishing that thought. He’d seen queens. Known several, including his own mother and grandmother. Miss Grier Hadley was nothing like them. Not at all refined and distinguished. She’d never be deferential to her husband. She’d never speak with slow gentle tones that charmed audiences.

He would keep searching until he found a woman like that. He’d promised his grandfather as much. He’d keep searching until he succeeded in finding a suitable female to be the future queen of Maldania. That was the foremost concern. Who would be the future queen. Not who would be the woman he’d bind his body and soul to before God. He doubted such a woman would ever exist for him. Nor did he have the luxury of finding her.

Even knowing this, believing it with every fiber of his being, he found himself walking away from his shadowed corner, away from the library full of men eager for his company.

With hard, firm steps he followed in the wake of Miss Hadley.

Shortly upon fleeing her father, Grier quickly realized she was lost in the labyrinth of hallways. With her head spinning and temper high, she hadn’t paid much attention to which corridor led to her bedchamber.

Biting her lip, she studied each door. She seemed to recall that her bedchamber had been toward the end of a corridor and on the right. Yes, definitely the right. Selecting a door she imagined looked familiar, she closed her hand around the latch and eased it open to peer inside.

She was mistaken. The chamber was not hers.

In fact, it was not a bedchamber at all. Several instruments stared back at her, nestled among furnishings of faded and worn fabric.

Moonlight bathed the room, streaming through the parted draperies. She stepped more fully into the pearlescent light, her steps muffled on the carpet. A reverent hush lingered in the room, as if every instrument within waited in anticipation for her to attend them and create music. As if they’d been waiting years for someone to care about them again.

A wistful smile curved her lips. She drifted further inside the bereft room, letting her fingers stroke the strings of a beautiful harp. Papa had loved music. Almost every household in Wales possessed a harp. Many an hour he sat before the fire and played either the harp or his hornpipe for her.

Her smile wavered a bit as thoughts of him rushed over her. She missed him. Especially on an evening like this—when faced with Jack Hadley and the glaring reality that he would never be that kind of father to her. Never doting and affectionate. That was something she’d lost and could never reclaim.

A lump thickened her throat as she accepted that she may never know that kind of unconditional love again. She fought to swallow, but try as she might, she couldn’t dislodge the thick lump.

Without lifting the instrument, she strummed a few chords of the harp, closing her eyes against the surge of emotion rising within her.

Papa, if you were still here none of this would be happening. I’d be safe with you at home. I wouldn’t so desperately crave acceptance and respectability because the love you gave me always meant more than any of that. I could tolerate it all when I had you.

She couldn’t help the pathetic thoughts from winding through her head. It was weak and useless thinking, but she allowed herself the feelings. For now. Tomorrow she would be her stalwart self again and forget that deep down she longed for something as ephemeral as love.

Footfalls sounded behind her. Grier whirled around, almost expecting to find Jack returning to castigate her further.

It wasn’t Jack. No, worse than that.

She inhaled thinly through her nostrils and blinked burning eyes, determined that he not see the evidence of how close to tears she was.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Following me now? Haven’t you someone else to bother?” She blinked free the lingering burn in her eyes. “Someone who might welcome your attentions? You’re a bloody prince after all. You shouldn’t be caught speaking with me.”

He stared, saying nothing. Her chest tightened as she gazed upon his face, his features starkly handsome in the room’s gloom, even tense and brooding as usual.

She gave a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “What do you want?”

He merely stared.

She stared at him in frustration, wondering why he did not speak . . . wondering why he was here at all. Had he come to insult her with another indecent proposition? An ever so helpful reminder of where he thought she belonged in the order of things? Or had he come to bewilder her further by treating her almost kindly—as when he complimented her singing.

The prince slid a hand inside his deep black waistcoat and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to her with a steady hand. She stared at the pristine white square rather resentfully.

“What’s that for?”

“There appears to be a . . . glimmer in your eyes,” he explained, his words stoic, like he was uncomfortable pointing out the fact that she was on the verge of tears.

“There is not,” she snapped.