Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(43)

Apparently unnecessary. Mortification washed over her in cold waves. And another emotion lurked in the darkest corners of her heart, too. Relief.

He was not quite the cad she thought him to be. Lady Libbie was eloping with someone else. Bloody maid—why must she speak in metaphors? Apparently Lady Libbie’s prince was not a true prince.

Grier’s cheeks burned over her erroneous assumption. An assumption that had led her to act so rashly and not caused her a small amount of embarrassment. What had she been thinking, confronting him in his private rooms?

Her father’s voice echoed in her head. Ah, Grier, my girl. Your impetuous ways are going to get you into trouble some day.

Apparently he’d been correct. Her impetuous nature nearly led her into a prince’s bed. She buried her face in the pillow and moaned her shame into its soft depths.

Perhaps worst of all was her keen sense of disappointment. She practically found herself wishing he had seduced her. Then she would be in his arms right now, enjoying the delicious way his lips worked over her flesh, instead of alone in her big bed, tormented with longing.

The scary part of it all was she wasn’t certain why she had bothered to resist his advances. Everything about him promised pleasure. Why run from it?

She was on the verge of entering matrimony with someone. A staid, predictable fellow who would place her above censure. A loveless union based on convenience and finances and mutual respect. Why not indulge just once?

So what if she surrendered to a brief, discreet liaison with a handsome man who stirred her blood? She was eight and twenty. It was high time she tasted passion. If not now, when?

She would be a faithful wife when the time came. It wasn’t in her to renege on vows made before God. But that time wasn’t now. Not yet anyway.

Sitting up, she swiped at the tendrils of hair hanging in her face and stared into the relentless dark. Perhaps she needed to make the most of her week here in the country and do more than snare a husband. Perhaps she needed to acquire a lover.

“You retired early last evening.” Jack whispered the words close to Grier’s ear the following morning as he lowered himself into a seat beside her at the table.

She smiled numbly, swallowing her sip of tea. “I was tired.”

His dark gaze drilled into her. There was no mistaking his displeasure. It wasn’t the first time she broke away early. And yet beyond his displeasure, she thought she detected something else. Was that genuine concern in his eyes? “You’re not growing ill, are you?” he asked.

She couldn’t find her voice for a moment. “No. I’m hale. Thank you.”

“It’s a dreadful time of year. Everyone is coming down with an ague of some kind. You need to take care of yourself.”

Irrationally, a lump formed in her throat. Not since Papa died had anyone cared enough to inquire upon her health. “I’ll take care. Thank you.”

He gave a single, gruff nod. “Your sister stayed up quite late keeping company with Lord Quibbly.”

Grier looked sharply at her sister, unable to disguise her astonishment. The marquis was nudging his seventieth year. Cleo couldn’t possibly entertain the notion of marrying him. Could she?

Cleo smiled almost guiltily before looking away and selecting a piece of toast off her plate.

“Lord Quibbly?” Grier queried. Was Cleo truly interested in a doddering, feeble man for a husband?

“Indeed. The marquis is quite the authority on turnips.”

“Turnips?”

“Yes,” Cleo returned. “He has a fondness for them. I learned that his cook can prepare them several ways. And did you know there are several different species of turnips?”

Persia tittered into her napkin from across the table. “Fascinating!”

Marielle glared at her friend. “It’s a subject of great interest to many. Not just Grandfather.”

“I’m certain it is.” Persia shook with restrained laughter, her glossy brown curls dancing about her shoulders.

Grier studied her half sister in puzzlement. She could not fathom Cleo’s desire to align herself with a man old enough to be her grandfather. His own granddaughter, Marielle, was actually one year Cleo’s senior. But she did not countenance anyone making a mockery of her, no matter the reason.

At the sight of Grier’s glare, Persia ceased her sniggering and returned a glare of her own, evidently not about to be cowed by someone she thought so little of.

Somewhere in the dowager’s solarium, a bird released an exotic, trilling call. It was really a lovely setting to break one’s fast. Plants of varying colors and sizes shadowed the long table where they sat. Grier could almost imagine some native emerging from the thick press of foliage, his lovely dark skin tattooed with strange symbols.

Not everyone had risen yet. Only half a dozen sat at the table laden with more food than she had ever eaten in one sitting, especially not so early in the morning. She usually broke her fast with a little porridge drizzled with honey. Possibly a poached egg. An entire roasted hog sat at the center of the table, a server cutting generous slabs that her father consumed as fast as he could chew. He did not make an attractive vision, juice dribbling down his chin as he shoveled ham and thick wedges of baked apples into his mouth.

The prince was nowhere to be seen. She thought it unlikely that he was still abed. After yesterday, she knew he wasn’t the stay-abed-all-day sort. More than likely he was out for another ride.