Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(56)

They weren’t even close to being finished. She’d know that soon enough.

Grier fled inside to the small parlor where she’d attended Trevis earlier. She stood at the window and stared out at the snow, seeing and unseeing at the same time.

Trevis was even now being assisted to a bed somewhere inside the inn. Because of Sevastian. Because of her.

When she woke this morning she could not have imagined such an incredible scenario.

Holy hellfire. She closed her eyes in a tight blink and tried to summon a speck of guilt for that fact, but she could only marvel upon why Sevastian would do such a thing.

She could guess at the ugly things Trevis had said about her if Sev confronted him, and she knew enough about Sev to know that honor drove him to protect those harmed, be it with words or a raised fist.

Even though she’d ended their affair, Sev would feel honor-bound to defend her. Affair. It seemed silly to even call it that. Did one night constitute an affair? And yet at the same time it seemed wholly inadequate, too.

“Grier?” Cleo hesitantly called her name from the threshold.

Grier turned to face her.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Even she didn’t know how to answer that. She inhaled a steadying breath, her fingers lightly thrumming against her lips. “Nothing. We’re going home, Cleo. Back to London.”

Cleo nodded, looking at Grier as if she feared she might have lost her mind. “I know that.”

“We’re going back to Town.” She ceased playing with her mouth and dropped her hand. “And I’m going to find a husband. No more hanging about ferns.”

Cleo arched a jet black brow. “Indeed?”

“Yes.” She was done dragging her feet. The quicker she wed someone else, the sooner she could forget about Sevastian.





Chapter Twenty-one

“I want to hear everything. How was the dowager’s house party?” Grier’s half sister Marguerite leaned close and whispered over the lilting notes of the soprano who sang at the front of the room, “Do you have any prospects? Any handsome men sweep you off your feet?”

Grier ignored the sudden pinch in her chest and slid her gaze from the Italian opera singer the dowager had acquired for the evening to her half sister. “The viscount has made himself amenable.”

Marguerite looked over at the gentleman sitting one row behind them in the dowager’s ballroom. Several rows of chairs lined the ballroom, occupied by gentlemen and ladies all listening raptly to the soprano performing on a small dais at the head of the room. The singer’s generous bosom swelled from her gown. Grier feared that she might spill free with her next note.

Smiling, Marguerite whispered, “I’m sure the viscount has been more than amenable. His imposing grandmamma would see to that, I imagine.”

Grier nodded, her stomach cramping a bit because her single marriage prospect was due to one intimidating old lady. Far from romantic.

At that thought, her gaze swept the room, searching for the familiar dark hair of her prince. A weakness to be certain, that she should still search for him after she ended their affair, but in the last week since her return to Town she found herself searching for him everywhere she went.

She took a bracing breath. Sooner or later they would bump into each other, and she must be strong when that moment arrived. As stalwart as she’d been at the inn, severing their relationship with nary a tear. At least in his presence.

“Are you looking for someone?” Marguerite asked.

“No.” Grier forced a bright smile. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. We’ve had so little opportunity to visit.”

“I’m thrilled you invited me. With Ash out of town on business, I’m happy for the distraction. I’m only sorry Cleo isn’t feeling well.”

“She’s been spending a good deal of time with Lord Quibbly.”

“Lord Quibbly? That ancient old man who practically accosted us when we arrived, demanding to know where Cleo was?”

“The same.” Grier readjusted herself on the hard-backed chair and sighed, not understanding why Cleo encouraged the old man’s suit. “I think she wanted a reprieve from his attentions.”

“That I can understand.”

Marguerite shuddered, and Grier couldn’t help teasing, “Not everyone can be married to an Adonis.”

Marguerite smiled pertly and whispered back, “True. There is no one his match.”

Grier snorted. “Braggart.”

“Although that gentleman who just entered the room with his gaze fixated on you would be a close second.”

Grier’s gaze jerked to land on Sevastian, standing tall and handsome in his black jacket. Only he wasn’t alone.

Other than his ever-present cousin, a pair of ladies accompanied them. One was older—the mother, Grier guessed from her resemblance to the young, fair-haired woman that Sev gallantly led into a seat.

Grier’s eyes burned. He wasted no time moving on.

“Grier, are you all right?”

Grier nodded, staring her aching eyes hard at the back of Sev’s head two rows before her. So much for remaining stalwart. Her hands shook in her lap.

The room broke into applause as the soprano’s final note faded to an end.

Shaking, she rose to her feet. “Excuse me, Marguerite. I need some air.”