Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(4)

His incensed gaze landed on her. The breath she had been holding escaped her in a hiss at the sight of his glowering face. Not precisely what she had been expecting. Where was the weak-chinned dandy? The pale-faced aristocrat who couldn’t even lift a dainty hand to blow his own nose?

She scowled, exceedingly discomfited as she stared into a pair of fiery gold eyes. Gold. She would not have thought such eyes were possible.

She finally found her breath again, recalling how to operate her lungs. A ragged breath broke from her lips as she faced a single glaring truth. His arrogance derived from more than his royal pedigree. He was gorgeous.

Those extraordinary eyes gleamed like fire down at her. His gaze drifted to the cup she clutched in her fingers. The now empty cup. She rapidly tucked it behind her skirts.

A sound that sounded suspiciously like a growl rumbled from him.

Blinking, she snapped herself from her shocked stupor. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a sweetly false voice. “Did I spill my drink on you? How clumsy of me.” Grier extended her crumpled napkin to him in offering. “It’s such a mad crush in here. I must have been nudged.”

She almost choked to hear herself suggest that she had spilled her drink accidentally—through a potted plant no less—onto him. Those gold eyes flicked around them, clearly taking measure and seeing that no one stood near her.

Malcolm, his cousin with the shock of red hair, stared wide-eyed at her. There was more than scandalized horror in his gaze. It was almost as though he recognized her. And, she realized, he very well could. Especially if she’d made it onto his blasted list. Her father had dragged them about Town a good deal during the last fortnight, parading his long-lost daughters to a bevy of fortune-hunting bluebloods.

“Um, Sev,” Malcolm began, but was silenced with a swiping hand.

That gesture, that swift slice of his hand through the air, said everything about him. That he was a man accustomed to being obeyed. That he would expect nothing less than total deference. All for the mere matter of his birth.

A foul taste filled her mouth as he stared down the straight line of his nose at her. Sadly, Grier knew firsthand that the matter of one’s birth was not a mere nothing in this world. It mattered. She’d learned at an early age just how much. Her lack of pedigree had marked her for ridicule.

Only marriage to a respectable gentleman would show the world that she was more than a circumstance of birth, more than a nothing. She would become a proper, respectable lady, and no one would dare toss slurs upon her again.

“Clumsy?” He arched a dark eyebrow superciliously. He studied the proffered handkerchief a moment, as though fearing it tainted, before plucking it from her hand and wiping at the back of his hair and neck.

She held his accusing gaze, her eyes wide with feigned innocence even as anger simmered at a low burn in her veins. With only a few words the pompous jackass brought out the worst in her, flooding her with memories of all the times the village children had taunted her. “I do apologize,” she lied sweetly.

“No need,” he replied brusquely, staring at her with cold eyes. “I shall dry.”

She bobbed her head. “Indeed. No lasting damage.”

More the pity. He deserved more than a soaking.

He angled his head to the side, staring at her almost in bemusement. He’d clearly detected her lack of sincerity.

Indifferent to the fact—even glad that he caught it—a satisfied smile curved her lips. Lifting her skirts, she turned and marched away. Even if she regretted her rash actions later, in this moment it felt good. She felt vindicated.

That imperious voice of his rang in her ears as he demanded of his cousin, “Who in the hell was that?”

“I was trying to tell you. That is Miss Grier Hadley.”

A heavy beat of silence fell. And then: “Oh.”

Her smile deepened. Oh, indeed. Let him feel embarrassed. Let him pursue her with an apology. Then she heard his next words, and all her smug humor vanished.

“She’s entirely what one would expect from a woman of low breeding.”

She hesitated for the barest moment, contemplating turning around and giving him a piece of her mind. Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she marched on, her steps quickening as she went, unable to hear any more. Unable to bear it.





Chapter Two

“What was she doing hiding behind a fern?” Sevastian patted his neck dry with a slight grimace. That damn lemon water was cold. He still had goose bumps.

Malcolm shrugged. “Apparently eavesdropping. Good thing you ruled her out as a potential bride. She did not appear too impressed with you.”

“Nor I with her.” He dropped the napkin on the table. “Accident my foot, the little liar.”

Sev looked after her as she wended through the crowd. She stood taller than most females. He easily followed her upswept auburn hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to comment that she had not been what he expected, but then he realized he had not expected anything because he had not given either of the Misses Hadley a thought—other than to deem the pair as unacceptable bridal candidates.

He shrugged. So she possessed fine eyes, even when spitting with temper. It mattered naught to him.

His gaze narrowed on her slim back and he marveled aloud, quite unable to reconcile it, “The little hoyden tossed her drink on me.” Low-bred or not, what female did such a thing? To him? Such a thing had never come close to occurring before.