Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(9)

She lifted her hand. “Maksimi! Don’t just sit there! What shall we do?”

The prince glanced around the well-appointed bedchamber, still maintaining his perpetual manner of ennui. For all the world, he looked icy cool and not at all perturbed that an irate husband was bearing down on them.

His gaze stopped on a large mahogany armoire, and a thoughtful look came over his carved features.

Rising from the chaise in one liquid-smooth motion, he grasped Grier’s arm. She started at the touch, heat sparking along her veins from the contact.

“Come,” he commanded, his voice that infernal tone again—the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed.

She dug in her heels, shaking her head fiercely. “Where are we going?”

“To place ourselves out of sight.”

She sneered at his overly formal speech. “You mean hide?”

A muscle flickered along the taut flesh of his jaw. “I never hide. I merely know when to retreat until it is time to reappear.”

Grier rolled her eyes. “Call it whatever you like. Why do I need to . . . retreat? I haven’t done any—”

“You think your reputation shall remain unscathed when you’re found here? When Kirkendale raises all hell and the entire household pours into this room, do you think you shall remain unsullied? The ton loves a sordid tale. Your presence here shall be made into a colorful account. You’ll be tossed into the fray, too.”

Her stomach dipped, her face flashing hot and cold. She didn’t need another strike against her as she navigated the waters of the ton. She was here to achieve a modicum of status and respectability, not to earn further disdain.

Seeing no alternative, she stopped resisting and let him drag her the rest of the way.

“Hurry,” Lady Kirkendale urged, shooing them with her hands.

The prince opened the door and shoved aside the few garments before folding his tall length inside. He extended a hand for her. She stared hard at the long, blunt-tipped fingers and broad palm for one heart-stopping moment in which she quite clearly heard the rush of blood in her ears. It seemed like forever but could only have been a moment before she placed her hand in his. He pulled her inside before him, his long arm brushing hers as he closed the door, sinking them into darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat. Shrouded in darkness, forced into such close confines with a veritable stranger—a prince, no less—her senses skipped into hyper-awareness. Too late, she realized she should have turned around. Her back to his chest would have been a vast improvement to this. Chest to chest. Heart to beating heart.

She couldn’t see the hand before her face, but she was keenly aware that not an inch separated her from the most wretched, arrogant man to ever cross her path . . . and that he was all male. Solid, firm, warm male.

His breath fanned her forehead. She was tall, but he was taller. She pressed her lips shut to make sure not a sound escaped. She need only withstand a few moments of proximity and then she’d be free of him.

They’d hidden just in time, apparently, for a mere moment passed before she heard Lord Kirkendale’s booming voice.

“Lucinda, what are you doing in here?”

Grier listened closely, straining to hear what possible explanation the lady would offer.

“Why, awaiting you, husband.”

“Me? We made no arrangements to meet—”

“Precisely, but I knew you’d know I was missing and take pursuit . . . Did you not find the hunt . . . titillating?”

Heavy silence ensued. Grier held her breath and listened, wondering what was happening on the other side of the door. Did Lord Kirkendale actually believe his wife? Or was he strangling her?

She had her answer when a long, pleasure-filled male moan scored air. Heat fired her cheeks. Holy hellfire. The idiot cuckold truly believed his wife had planned a tryst for the two of them.

“Come here, you little minx. Ride me hard.”

Mortified, Grier squeezed her eyes in a blink even though there was nothing to see. Closing her eyes did nothing to shield her ears.

Lord Kirkendale’s groans floated on the air. His wife’s squeals came in fast succession. At that point Grier was convinced she spent a great deal of her time on a farm, for the noises she made resembled the sounds a piglet makes when being chased. A great deal of banging came next and Grier suspected they were on the bed, their actions rattling the headboard.

“That’s it, my fine filly!” A loud slap echoed on the air.

“Yes!” Lady Kirkendale shouted. “Spank me!”

Grier pressed her fingers to her mouth. She wasn’t certain what sound she was trying to suppress—a groan of mortification or outright laughter.

The broad chest in front of her shifted, lifting on an inhalation, and she stilled, biting the edge of her thumb. While she might feel a modicum of humor, that wasn’t the only sensation affecting her. Body heat emanated from the man in front of her. His nearness overwhelmed her, scraping her nerves.

She hugged herself with both arms, hoping to make herself smaller, unnoticeable—and only succeeded in brushing against him. She squeezed herself tightly, careful not to move again, determined to merely wait out Lord and Lady Kirkendale’s trysting.

The prince moved. Just the barest inch, but his chest brushed her crossed arms. As though burned, she arched away to escape the contact. Her balance wobbled and she had to take a step to brace herself. The clomp of her foot rang out in the tight space of the armoire. She cringed, her skin tightening in fear that they’d been heard.