Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(35)

When Grandfather banished his uncle twenty years ago for daring to ravish a visiting Italian dignitary’s daughter, Malcolm and his mother accompanied him to England, despite Grandfather’s offer for them to remain behind. Aunt Nesha refused to believe the Italian girl’s accusations and wouldn’t let her husband depart without her, so the entire family fled to England. When they left they were by no means penniless. His uncle, Sev learned, had lost everything at the gaming hells and then only inconvenienced his family further by dying in a duel and leaving them to endure poverty without him.

Sev felt only pity for Malcolm when he learned that they had been living in genteel squalor, pride preventing them from returning to Maldania.

“Even if I wanted to, Mama refuses,” his cousin had explained when Sev offered to send them home now. “She feels shame over Papa’s banishment . . . and she’s still angry. She’ll take nothing from Grandfather.”

Sev had seen his aunt only a moment, a wan figure reclining on a faded chaise, her smelling salts in one hand and a much-read novel in the other—which she had thrown at his head. The genteel aunt of memory was nowhere in evidence. That woman would not have known the curses to heap upon his head for Grandfather’s lies and cruelty—as she phrased it.

Sev did not blame his grandfather for banishing his uncle—by all accounts his uncle had badly damaged the girl. But none of that was Malcolm’s fault, so he had taken his cousin under his wing, supporting him with his own dwindling funds since he arrived.

Malcolm wasn’t to blame for his father’s sins. And besides that, his cousin might be penniless, but his rank still gave him access to the ton. Malcolm knew everyone. There wasn’t a hostess who did not dote on him. With Malcolm as his guide, Sev saved precious time. Malcolm knew instantly what debutantes Sev should consider.

“Pleasant ride this morning?” Malcolm asked, lowering down to the table and digging vigorously into his breakfast. “I don’t know how you rise at such an ungodly hour.”

Sev took a lingering sip of his coffee. “Cousin . . .”

“Hmm,” Malcolm murmured as he sawed into a kipper.

“I would like to know more about Miss Hadley.”

Malcolm stilled his sawing. “The one you staked a claim on already?” He snorted. “Sounded like you knew enough about her.”

Sev stifled his wince, determined to suppress the emotion of the previous night when he’d reacted so possessively to Malcolm’s interest in Grier.

Malcolm continued, “I should think you could make better use of your time than inquiring into an ineligible bastard. She’s hardly suitable as the future queen.”

Sev shrugged, pretending his cousin’s words did not annoy him. He loathed revealing more of his interest in her, but Malcolm was the only one he could ask and expect discretion.

Rising from the table, he stared down at his young cousin. “Just learn everything you can about her. Will you do that?”

Something flickered in Malcolm’s face that Sev had never seen before, and for a brief moment he was reminded that he really did not know him, cousin or no. Before he could identify the sentiment, the expression was gone, replaced with Malcolm’s usual affable smile. “Of course, Sev. It’s the least I can do for you after all you’ve done for me. What do you wish to know?”

“Everything.”

As he departed the room, Sev didn’t want to think about why it had become so important to learn everything he could about a woman whose company he would not keep for much longer.





Chapter Thirteen

It never ceased to impress Grier how many well-bodied ferns could occupy one room, and then she told herself to simply be grateful for that fact. Garbed in an emerald green gown, the great, green leafy fronds camouflaged her form perfectly. A smile lifted her lips. She should only ever dress in green.

Presently she cowered behind one of the plants, happily munching on a tart from her small plate of candied pineapple and iced tarts and sugared fruits—delicacies she’d never tasted before departing Wales. She had to give the aristocracy due credit, they ate like royalty.

As if the mere thought of royalty summoned him, a deep rolling voice asked, “Where do you put it?”

Grier nearly dropped her plate. Whirling around with her hand pressed to her pounding heart, she blinked up at the prince.

“You startled me.”

Her heart pounded harder at his nearness. The memory of the last time she’d seen him surged inside her. Not that the recollection ever lurked far. She’d only kissed two men in her life and he was one of them. And of course his kisses had branded an imprint onto her very soul. Standing near him, she couldn’t recall her own name.

“I see that. I’ve watched you for the last quarter hour. I believe that’s your fourth tart.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but her voice failed her. He’d been watching her? Her fingers grew lax. Her plate tipped ever so slightly. A scone escaped.

His gaze shifted from her face, lingering a long moment on the hand she pressed to her bosom before lowering to stare at the floor where a scone had tripped off her plate and rolled in a gradually slowing circle. “Do they not have food in Wales? In Carynwedd?”

Her attention snapped back to him. “How did you know that I’m from Carynwedd?”

He cocked his dark head. “I know a great many things about you, Miss Hadley.”