Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(36)

“Oh.” Her skin prickled with alarm.

Did he know everything? Did he know that she’d been a game master? A vocation typically reserved for men? Heat flooded her face as his gaze drifted to her mouth, fixing there long enough to make her knees tremble beneath her skirts.

She forced a laugh. “Then you know I am quite the dull creature.” Hardly as exciting as the sophisticated and elegant ladies of his acquaintance, she was sure.

“On the contrary. Is it true you acted as game master after your stepfather’s passing?”

He knew. She winced, unsure how to respond to that. Her father had taken pains to suppress that information. Could Cleo have mentioned it? Or perhaps the dowager had nosed about and learned the details of Grier’s background. She wouldn’t put it past the old lady.

He stared at her intently, waiting.

She tugged the cuff of her sleeve. The fabric suddenly felt constrictive.

“Unusual occupation for a female.”

“One does what they must to survive.”

She held her breath, waiting, expecting his censure—at the very least a display of the same arrogance he’d treated her to before.

Instead he merely nodded, his gold eyes glowing softly in the room’s muted light. Almost as though he understood. And agreed. Absurd. Of course the rude boor she’d first met wouldn’t understand anything about her. Nor would he look at her with compassion. “I know a bit about doing what one must to survive.”

She blinked, wondering—and then understanding. The war. He would have a sense of what she meant.

Feeling out of sorts, and not knowing what to make of him, but realizing there was more to him than she had first judged, she glanced from the fern to her plate. She forced a lightness into her voice. “You always seem to find me like this.”

He crossed his arms and studied her with seeming amusement, his gold eyes sparking in a way that made her breath catch. “You mean hiding? Indeed I do. And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I tire of making polite conversation at these affairs.”

“Would you rather make impolite conversation?”

Her lips twitched. “No. But that would be decidedly easier. Or rather speaking freely would be, without having to weigh each and every word.”

“It would be amusing, I wager.”

She laughed. “Only for you, I fear. Others would take offense.” A day ago she would have thought he would have taken offense.

“I daresay others would enjoy an interruption to the monotony, too. I’m convinced you would be vastly entertaining if you gave your tongue free rein.”

Her laughter faded. She motioned to the gaudily attired group assembled in the drawing room. “It always feels like a strategically orchestrated arrangement with them . . . and I’m forever clueless as to how to navigate it.”

He considered her for a long moment, and then she realized he was one of them, too. The bluebloods she referred to. Idiot. He didn’t understand what she was talking about at all. And why should he? The heat in her face only burned hotter.

Instead of holding her tongue, she cleared her throat and forged ahead. “Should you not be in their midst hunting for your bride?” Lady Libbie.

“It’s not much of a hunt,” he replied distractedly.

She pulled a face. “No, not for you. I suppose not. For others of us it’s not so simple a task.”

Were they actually talking? She and this prince? It almost felt natural. It almost felt like they were . . . friends.

He angled his head, studying her as he uttered, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you will have no difficulty winning yourself a proposal.”

Heat climbed her face at his words, at the rather intense look in his eyes. Her chest suddenly became too tight, air a struggle to draw in.

Just not from you.

She looked away, lest he read some of the disappointment that thought fed into her heart. The totally misplaced disappointment. She had no business longing for a prince. It was wishing for the moon.

“When is your birthday?” he asked, the question smoothly inserted into the lag of conversation.

Her gaze shot back to him. The wretch. She should have known it was too good to be true.

“Not that again,” she snapped, suddenly turning cold when confronted all over again with the cad who’d declared her old. “Why must you insist on pressing me for that information? You already know my age—”

“Not your exact age.”

“What difference can my exact age make to you? You already know I’m eight and twenty. The same age as you.”

“You’re right. It’s a trivial matter. So why won’t you tell me?”

“Perhaps because it’s not trivial to you,” she retorted. “You only want to know if I’m older than you.”

He stepped closer—until it was just the potted fern at her back and the breadth of his chest at her front. She was instantly assailed with the sheer masculine presence of him. “Are you ashamed?”

“Why would I be ashamed of my age?” She sniffed, angling her chin. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Precisely. So tell me.” He smiled an infuriating grin down at her and she wanted to smack it off his handsome face—only the sight of it weakened her knees and made her stomach flip wildly. With that smile directed at her, it was easy to forget other people lurked near, only feet away.