Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(6)

His boots strode a straight line, his steps muffled on the runner. Hopefully a quick tryst with Lady Kirkendale would aid him in feeling not so . . . afflicted. Perhaps a brief assignation would let him feel again and find release from the numbness encasing him.

He shook his head at his unrealistic ponderings. They were useless dreams. Funny that he would still allow himself to dream. That was another thing his grandfather taught him. A prince had no right to dream anything for himself. Even if he took ease in a soft, willing body, his world would remain the same. As Crown Prince of Maldania, his life could never be his own. The choices he made were not for him. Country came first. Duty and responsibilities faced him at every turn. He couldn’t escape it.

After working her way through the ballroom, Grier ensconced herself safely at another of the many buffet tables—this one tucked well away from the brute prince upon whom she’d poured her drink.

She didn’t care what royal blood flowed through his veins, the man was a boor. She didn’t regret dousing him with her lemon water. It wasn’t as though she’d ruined her chances to snare herself a prince. Recalling his severe expression, she knew entertaining such a notion was laughable.

He obviously didn’t consider her eligible . . . nor did she wish him to. She need only remember his wretched voice as he spoke to his cousin, his accented tones so scathing at the mere suggestion of her as his bride, and her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She almost wished he stood before her again. She might toss something more tangible than a glass of punch at him. He deserved no less.

She inhaled through her nose, immediately missing the open space of home as she drew in the aroma of overperfumed bodies. She longed for crisp, woodsy air. Verdant green hills and mountains undulating around her.

She quickly reminded herself she couldn’t return to Wales. Nothing was left for her there except more of the usual disdain. Papa was dead three years now. And Trevis . . .

Well, she simply couldn’t go back.

“Grier, how many biscuits are you going to eat?”

At the exasperated voice, Grier shook off her troubling thoughts, vowing yet again to forget the past and focus on her future. “I lost count at twelve.”

Her half sister Cleo shot her a beleaguered look as she slid up beside her. “Very amusing.” She plucked the frosted delicacy from Grier’s fingers as she was just about to take another bite. “Permit me to spare you that one.”

Grier moaned and tried to snatch it back.

“Weren’t you just at the table over there?” Cleo gestured across the room. “Will you do nothing but eat tonight?”

“The other table ran out of biscuits,” she lied, trying to reclaim her food.

Cleo stuffed the biscuit into her own mouth and swatted Grier’s hand when she reached toward the table to select a new one. “We’ve an agenda, if you don’t recall. We need to mingle,” Cleo chided around her mouthful. Candlelight struck her brown curls and made them appear as lustrous as freshly tilled soil.

Grier sighed. “The only thing I have to look forward to at these events is the food. Don’t deny me that.”

One thing she didn’t miss about living alone and fending for herself was preparing all her own meals. It was nice having delicious fare on hand whenever she wished for it. She didn’t have to step outdoors and shoot a grouse, then pluck and clean it and cook it. That she did not miss.

“We agreed to do this together and so far I’m the only one participating in this husband hunt. I don’t want Jack scolding you again for being unsociable.”

An image of the two gossiping biddies flashed through Grier’s mind, followed quickly by that cad—Sevastian. Her stomach knotted. Even his name seemed to elevate him so very far from her. As if his bloodlines, manner, and appearance did not do that already.

If mingling at these affairs thrust her into the company of people like that, she’d rather hide—but Cleo was correct. She’d snare no husband by hiding. She knew that. How was she to find the security and respectability she long craved if she didn’t marry a proper gentleman?

Cleo cocked her head, a glossy ringlet sliding over her shoulder. “Were you not the one lecturing me earlier about donning a good face and finding ourselves a husband posthaste?”

Grier twisted one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “Yes, that was me . . . but then I arrive at these horrid affairs and endure all the stares and whispering.” She sighed, her mind drifting to that dreadful prince again. “We’re scarcely tolerated here, Cleo—”

Cleo waved a hand. “That’s to be expected. Have you met our father, perchance? The man with the horrid accent wearing a cravat a miserable shade of plum and making a fool of himself in the card room?”

Grier winced at the sadly accurate description.

Cleo gently gripped her arm, her touch warm through her velvet gloves. “I suggest you do as you advised me. Find some grateful lord with a fondness for his country estate and get him down on bended knee. Once that is accomplished, we can say good-bye to all of this that we so dislike.” She motioned about them with a flutter of her hand.

“You’re right, of course.” Grier nodded and straightened her spine, sweeping an appraising eye over the ballroom. Several gentlemen surveyed both her and her sister. Like prime horseflesh at the market. She shook off the unwelcome sensation. Was she not judging them with the same assessing eye?