Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(3)

Odd, to be certain. This arrogant peacock probably spent all of his time practicing fencing or some such worthless activity that kept him in passable shape. She doubted he could do anything truly manly or strenuous. She yanked at her biscuit with a savage tear, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor as she assessed what she could see of his rigid form. Bloody prig.

He probably couldn’t even sit a mount properly or shoot a rifle with enough skill to actually hit his target. Why should his opinion matter? Why should it sting so? A faceless man that she could probably trounce.

Because he only speaks what everyone here already thinks.

She shook her head slightly, frowning at the unwelcome notion. She’d known this wouldn’t be easy. She was seen as an intruder and tolerated, not embraced. Much as at home.

“I’ve been here a fortnight, Malcolm.” Sevastian’s voice rumbled deeply over the air, his faint accent thickening his speech. A manly rumble, she allowed. She might even have found the accent attractive if he had not proven himself an arrogant boor with every word uttered. “You promised to present me with viable candidates and this is all you can suggest to me? A pair of bastards with an ignominious father? Are the chits even lettered?”

Her hand shook, the contents of her glass sloshing dangerously near the sides. She inhaled an indignant breath. She was not one to lose her temper, but he went too far, royal pedigree or not. She might not have had the finest education, but the man she considered to be her true father had taught her to read and write beside the evening fire in their small cottage.

What’s more, he’d taught her about dignity.

About what it meant to possess true character.

Who was this jackanapes to make such aspersions against her? He might have been born royal, but he clearly lacked any true sense of nobility.

“Well, you said you wanted to wed one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, and posthaste. It’s not even the Season yet, Sev. Half the ton is wintering in the country. The Hadley girls are perhaps the best to be had.”

“Bloody hell.” He ran a strong, capable-looking hand through hair that was longer than fashionable. Perhaps that was the style in his homeland. “I should have taken that ship for America. I require an heiress with an impeccable pedigree. I can’t present some nobody with ignoble roots as the future queen of Maldania. Grandfather would perish on the spot.”

She swallowed. He was a king? Or soon to be? She stood an arm’s throw from a prince? Her stomach heaved.

Grier suddenly longed for home, for cool, rolling hills of green and woods so thick one could lose herself forever. That was home, that was familiar. This ballroom with its columns and glittering chandeliers and liveried servants with silent, watchful gazes was not.

In her world princes existed only in the safety of fairy tales, and there they were . . . well, princely. Honorable and charming and not above rescuing a simple maiden with ignoble roots. They didn’t sneer at the mention of someone like her. No. They would look her in the eyes, see the beauty within, and sweep her off her feet.

He continued crisply, “Solomon’s treasure wouldn’t tempt me enough to wed someone so common. Heiress or not. Come, Malcolm, you dragged me here. Is there no one else to consider this night? If not, then let’s waste no more of our time and take our leave. I have an audience with the queen on the morrow. Perhaps she will have a recommendation.”

Grier seethed. Indeed. Take your leave.

“I’m certain you’ll wish to linger. I spot the lovely Lady Kirkendale beckoning you. Apparently she did not get enough of your company at the dinner party she hosted last week.”

“Evidently not.” The prince’s voice took on a decidedly lascivious tone and she could well guess at the lewd turn of his thoughts. “She served a welcome diversion.”

Grier felt her lip curl at the prince’s mild tones. Lady Kirkendale was a married woman. Apparently he wasn’t too noble to dally with a married lady. Wretch.

“Perhaps we can linger,” he continued lightly. “She might provide a diversion yet again and make this evening not a total loss.”

“It needn’t be a loss. Look, there’s Lady Libbie. I did not realize she was in attendance this eve. Her father is an earl with deep pockets. He made a fortune in railway. You may recall she’s on the list I gave you. You should most certainly make her acquaintance.”

“An earl’s daughter certainly exceeds the thoroughly ineligible Hadley chits you suggested.”

Again, that cool, unfeeling tone chafed her nerves.

“The kind of chits you wed, not bed, eh? That it?” Malcolm chuckled.

“Precisely,” the prince agreed.

That did it!

Before she could stop herself, Grier peeled back a handful of fronds and lifted her glass high, watching in rapt horror as her hand tilted the cup high over his dark-haired head, tilting, tilting . . .

She watched as if the hand were not her own. The glass someone else’s.

The moment the lemon water struck his head, he burst out with an exclamation in another language—an expletive, she was certain from the fierce growl-like sound. She took immense satisfaction at the reaction.

Grier jumped back, letting the fronds settle back into place. She held her breath, every muscle freezing as if that would make her somehow invisible.

Whirling around, he swiped a large hand at the frothy green fronds, clearly determined to see just who had dared to give him a soaking.