Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(8)

“If you’ll pardon me, I need some air.” She quickly turned away before Cleo or Lord Tolliver might object, or worse, insist on joining her.

She squeezed her way through the crush of bodies, heat flaming her face. Reaching a pair of French balcony doors, she saw that it was raining outside. An incessant, sleeting winter drizzle that did not appear to be on the verge of letting up. Blast.

Whirling around, she scanned the hopelessly crowded room. Lifting her skirts, she pushed her way back through the thick press, careful to keep her head down lest she see anyone pointing or staring at her. She’d had enough of the stares. What she needed right now was a respite, a moment alone, a place to hide for the rest of the evening until her father decided he’d had enough of cards.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would renew her hunt for a husband. In earnest. But not now. Not tonight. Not after that bloody prince. Not after the viscount’s leering friends.

Grier shook her head, almost laughing aloud as she wondered: Was there no nobleman who preferred a simple country existence? One who was in the market for a rich bride of low birth? Could he not take out an advertisement in the Times so that she might find him?





Chapter Three

Grier passed the ladies’ retiring room and dove down a corridor rife with flickering shadows. Sconces lined the walls every few feet, plunging her in and out of darkness as she moved forward.

Likely one of these rooms deep within the house wouldn’t be occupied. She selected one, pressing her ear to its length before turning the latch. Stepping inside, she saw it was a bedchamber. A fire burned low within the hearth. Closing the door, she drew closer to that delicious warmth, thinking she might curl up on the chaise and enjoy the sanctuary she’d found.

Only upon drawing closer did she see that the chaise was already occupied with two figures gilded in the firelight. She jerked still, her heart lurching to her throat. She must have made a sound. A small gasp of horror.

The couple flew up on the chaise, tearing apart as if split asunder by lightning.

The female squeaked, her hands fumbling to heft her gown back up over her exposed breasts. Grier recognized her at once. Few women possessed a bosom of such immense proportions.

“Lady Kirkendale,” she murmured.

Before her gaze even drifted to the room’s other occupant, the man responsible for Lady Kirkendale’s state of dishabille, she knew whom she would see.

He stared back at her, a dark brow arched drolly. Nothing in his countenance reflected embarrassment. “You again?”

Her embarrassment fled as her indignation surged. She crossed her arms. “Yes. Me again.”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Lady Kirkendale choked as she shoved her very large breasts back into her bodice. “Sevastian, say something,” she hissed to her companion.

The prince said nothing, merely maintained his cold stare.

“Oh, I’m certain I’ve interrupted nothing . . . unseemly,” Grier lied, uncaring of the sordid business she’d interrupted, only wishing to escape the awkward situation. Backing away from the pair, she waved a hand reassuringly. “I didn’t see anything. Please. Go about whatever it is . . . you’re doing.”

“Of course, you didn’t see anything. We weren’t doing anything,” Lady Kirkendale replied shrilly. “There’s nothing to see. Nothing untoward has occurred.” She jabbed a finger threateningly at Grier. “And if you dare spread word that—”

“I assure you nothing will be said.” Grier nodded, still backing away.

The prince chuckled, the sound low and deep. He shook his head almost as if he couldn’t believe he was in such a state of circumstances. Or perhaps it was Grier. He couldn’t believe that she was here. That someone like her should even be in the same room with him.

“Really, Sevastian.” Lady Kirkendale patted her hair feverishly. “I don’t see what is so amusing about any of this.”

Inwardly Grier echoed that sentiment, but she wasn’t inclined to linger to hear the prince’s response.

“If you’ll pardon me, I’ll leave you to . . .” she floundered, and the bloody man cocked that black slash of an eyebrow at her, his gold eyes gleaming wickedly. “Pardon me, I’ll leave you to that thing it is you’re not doing.”

Lady Kirkendale puffed herself up and made a shrill, unattractive sound that rather resembled the squeal of a pig.

Grier opened the door and hastily stepped out into the hall, eager to escape. Hand still on the latch, she froze. Advancing down the corridor toward her was none other than Lord Kirkendale. His expression was thunderous.

He hadn’t seen her yet, too focused on slamming open doors and peering inside every room he passed.

Grier dove back inside the room and shut the door as silently as possible. The pair had scarcely moved since she’d slipped from the room. Startled at her sudden return, they stared at her with blinking eyes. Grier flattened her palms to the door, her heart hammering a furious beat in her chest.

“It’s your husband,” she hissed. “He’s coming.”

Lady Kirkendale slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her screech. Grier winced, watching in fascination as the woman started hopping in place like a child caught in the throes of a tantrum. Despite the dire situation, Grier fought a smile at the ridiculous spectacle.