Leaning back on his elbows, the prince continued to stare at her as she made no move to leave. “Thought you might see my point.”
“Concerned with being caught with a lowly serf such as me, are you?” She could not stop the biting question. He, a prince. She, a bastard who’d fallen into some money. The two did not mesh.
He tilted his head, firelight gilding the dark strands. She swallowed again, vowing to stop letting his looks addle her head.
“Not especially,” he answered. “My reputation shall not suffer if we’re caught together, after all.” A corner of his mouth pulled seductively. “Sorry. That man thing again.”
He mocked her. Her fingers dug into her palms, the nails cutting into the tender flesh. She stared at him for a moment, cocking her head. “You mean I alone would bear the shame of being caught alone with you in a bedchamber?”
“Naturally.”
“Such an occurrence shall not affect you in the least.”
“You needn’t sound so indignant.” He nodded a single time. “ ’Tis the way of things. In your country and mine.”
Yes, she thought grimly. It was the way of things. She’d suffer scandal, and he would merely become more desirable in the eyes of the ton. Men would admire him and women would only think him more the dashing rake.
If she thought the whispers about her were bad now, they would be nothing if she was caught alone in such intimate quarters with the bloody Crown Prince of Maldania. She bit her lip, looking anxiously to the door again.
He certainly wouldn’t salvage her honor by offering to marry her. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Make no mistake, he did not deem her worth saving from ruin. She was merely a bastard. Too old. Too freckled and sun-browned.
“Then I best not linger here,” she retorted at last. “Since every moment with you places me at risk.”
She turned for the door, determined that this time, he would not stop her.
And he didn’t. He didn’t utter a word as she fled the room.
And why should he? As she hurried down the corridor, she grasped her skirts in two clenched hands, chasing her repeating shadow and reminding herself that she was nothing to him. Nothing. Just as he was nothing to her.
Chapter Five
Sev stared at the closed door that Miss Grier Hadley had departed through as if the hounds of hell chased her heels. He scratched his jaw in bemusement.
Grier, Grier. Grier.
He let the name roll around his head. What kind of name was that anyway? He could visualize his grandfather grimacing at the sound of it. So very . . . common. Not like Elizabeth. Or Catherine. Those were queenly names. Names all of former Maldanian queens.
He caught his blurry reflection in a mirror and grimaced. Why was he even thinking about her name?
He stared at the door again, imagining the swish of her skirts as she fled the room. And why wouldn’t she flee him? He’d been his most boorish toward her. But there was no help for it. She was an exceedingly unsuitable female, no matter how interesting he found her. The best thing to do was send her running.
He rose from the bed and strolled aimlessly about the chamber to give her several more moments to find her way back to the ballroom before following. It would not do to be spotted too closely in her wake.
What he’d said was true. Wagging tongues wouldn’t harm him, but what he hadn’t said was that he did not wish for her to become fodder for the gossip mill. He imagined with her shady pedigree she already endured a fair share of censure.
Contrary to what he’d shown of himself, he did possess a heart. Even if only a small, charred bit of one. That was the only thing left to him after the last ten years of war . . . years of watching his family and comrades die all around him, his country dwindle and wither like something rotting on the vine.
He needed to make a good match. Simple as that. It wasn’t a matter of want . . . this needed to be done.
Unbidden, the image of Miss Hadley rose in his mind once again. He saw her flushed cheeks when she’d stumbled from the armoire, and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. She was quite correct in her accusations. He had not needed to touch her so intimately. He hadn’t needed to, but he had. He’d been unable to stop himself.
She smelled of brisk, wild winds and verdant hills. She’d reminded him of home. The hills and mountains of Maldania. And her skin had been as soft as silk. His fingers twitched at his side in memory.
The smile slipped from his mouth as he carried that memory further. She’d rebuffed him. True, he’d not been his most charming, but his crown alone usually had women throwing themselves at him.
He shook his head as if to clear it of thoughts of her. This was frustrated desire, nothing more. She must plague him because his tryst with Lady Kirkendale had been interrupted. He simply suffered from unfulfilled lust. Nothing more.
There was nothing about her that would normally attract him. She was not at all his sort of woman. Not her sun-browned skin, not her waspish tongue, especially not the unfortunate circumstances of her birth. All combined to make her a female beneath his notice. At least she should be far from his consideration. Some English nobleman in need of funds might deem her acceptable, but not a future king of Maldania.
And yet she had his full notice.
She was precisely the sort he’d put up as his mistress and keep in one of the family’s seaside estates, a safe distance from court. If he were here to find a mistress. If she would entertain such an offer.
He knew his duty. He would not fail. He’d find the perfect bride. One to fill his coffers and the nursery. A female who would breathe life back into his country. The needs of his heart or body did not bear consideration.
“Well, let’s hear it. How was your evening? Anything interesting to report?”
Grier covered her yawn with her hand and stared bleary-eyed at her father, a man she had only recently come to know.
The faint tinge of dawn painted the air that crept in through the carriage curtains. Now she understood why the echelons of Society slept the day away. They didn’t fall into bed until sunrise.
Jack didn’t look the least tired as he gazed at her with bright, expectant eyes. No, in fact he looked invigorated after a night spent with the aristocrats among whose ranks he so badly wanted to be counted. She grimaced. Enough so that he suddenly decided his illegitimate offspring were worth acknowledging.
Grier glanced at her half sister. If either of them could gain him access to that glittering world through marriage, then they were suddenly worth something in his eyes.
Grier was no fool. She didn’t look to the older man seated across from her and anticipate he would harbor a soft spot for her. Essentially he bought her presence in his life. He hadn’t been struck with sudden tender feelings for the daughters he never knew. She accepted that. She, in turn, would never hold a warm place for him in her heart, either. His love was not something she had spent her life missing. She’d had a father. The man her mother married after Jack Hadley tossed her aside. The man she had called Papa. He’d comforted her and shielded her as best he could from the cruel world that would punish a child for being illegitimate.
Her mother’s husband had taught her to ride and fish and shoot. He’d never treated her like another man’s daughter. He’d treated her like his own.
She rubbed fiercely at the center of her chest, feeling a pang there at the memory of Papa. He’d been gone almost three years, but she still missed him. If he was still alive, she was certain she would not find herself here, sitting in a carriage with Jack Hadley, complicit in his scheme to see her wedded to some blueblood and convinced that was the answer to all her troubles.
“Well?” Jack prompted. “Tell me. Who did you charm this night?” He rubbed his thick hands together as if she had already succeeded in snaring an aristocrat.
Grier turned at the sound of Cleo’s sigh.
She managed a wan smile for Grier as she slumped against the side of the carriage, waiting for Grier to take the lead, as she usually did with their father.
In the month they’d resided with Jack it had been a constant whirlwind of routs, balls, fittings with the modiste, and nights at the opera. They’d scarcely had time to breathe between each event.
Jack, too, was apparently waiting on her. He said her name with heavy emphasis, “Grier? Have you nothing to report about tonight?”
He’d made his expectations clearly felt. As the oldest, she should wed first.
“The evening went well,” she lied.
“Well?” Jack’s lips puckered around the word as if it were something distasteful.
“Yes. Very . . . fine,” she amended.
“Fine?” Jack frowned, spitting the word out. “Merely . . . fine? That doesn’t sound very heartening. Did you win no hearts tonight? I thought you wanted to snare a husband, my girl. A fine evening doesn’t sound like you were working toward gaining a proposal.”
Grier looked helplessly at her sister. Cleo arched an eyebrow as if to say, You did spend a good portion of the night hiding behind a fern.
Moistening her lips, Grier finally said, “It’s not as easy as you think. Most members of the ton find our lineage less than impressive.”
Jack waved a thick, meaty paw. “Nonsense. I’ve made it clear the extent of the dowry placed on each of your heads.” Your heads. Like they were scurrilous outlaws.
“Since your sister Marguerite married that partner of mine, I’ve withheld her share, so there’s more for the two of you. I’ve made that known as well. Trust me. There’s plenty of interest out there. Just make yourself obliging and you’ll have a proposal within the fortnight.” His eyes narrowed ruthlessly and she was reminded of what her father was. He’d made his wealth through crime and upon the misery of others. “Unless you aren’t obliging. Unless you don’t want to be here—”
“I’ll be obliging,” she replied, feeling oddly hollow inside at the bitter realization that she had to do very little to attract a husband. If Jack was to be believed, she need merely be obliging and she’d soon have a proposal. Her father did it all, everything, by offering a king’s ransom to the man who married her. It was humiliating when considered in that light.
She lifted her gaze back to her sister and read some of the same disillusionment in Cleo’s gaze. They were sacrificing any hope, any dream of a man marrying them . . . for them. For affection . . . for love.
Unwanted, the image of Prince Sevastian rose in her mind. At least he’d been attracted to her. Even if his manner had been wholly offensive, he’d made no attempt to hide that he’d found her desirable. Could she even expect that from her future husband?
She sighed and closed her eyes, pressing at the backs of her eyelids with her fingertips where they ached.
Yet the reward was great—respectability, security, comfort in home and hearth, in knowing a roof would forever be over her head. Having lived on the brink of poverty and hunger, Grier and Cleo both knew that these things were essential in life. They did not take such things for granted.
“I’ll be more obliging next time,” she promised, meaning it. She’d agreed to this venture. She might as well go about it in earnest. No more dragging her feet.
“Very good. I expect to see an improvement.” He nodded. “We leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Cleo sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “For where?”
Jack puffed up his chest a bit. “The Dowager Duchess of Bolingbroke has graciously invited us to her country seat for a week. Along with a few other feted guests. It’s a great honor. Not many among the ton are gifted with an invitation to a house party at Pemberton Manor.”
A house party. There would be no escape this time. Grier swallowed. She could not hide behind potted plants or in her rooms for the week.
A small shudder racked her before she summoned her resolve once again. This was for the best. She was no coward. She’d set herself on this course, and she’d see it through.
Jack pointed a finger at each of them. “I expect one of you to snare the youngest grandson, the viscount. And while we’re there it wouldn’t hurt to focus some attention on the duke as well.”
“You said the dowager told you he was not for us,” Cleo reminded as their carriage slowed before their father’s Mayfair home, an obscenely large monstrosity that perfectly summed up the ambitions of Jack Hadley.
He shrugged. “So use your wiles. He’s a red-blooded man.” He waved at each of them. “He can just as easily fall for one of you as any other chit. You’re more comely than some of those horse-faced hags the ton boasts.”
A groom opened the door just then and her father clambered down from the carriage. He strode up the steps and into the house, leaving them to descend the carriage with the help of a groom.
Arms linked, Grier and her sister advanced up the steps side-by-side.
“It will be a small group,” Cleo voiced, and Grier wasn’t certain who she was trying to reassure—herself or Grier. “No mad crush of another holiday ball or soiree.”
“There is that,” Grier agreed.
“And we’ll be away from Town for an entire week.”
A smile curled her lips all the way up to her bedchamber. The thought of fresh air and trees and unfettered winds lifted her spirits. She wouldn’t have to visit Hyde Park for a ride on one of her father’s placid mares. The next time she climbed atop a horse she would race the wind. The breeze would tear at her eyes. She’d feel the pins tug loose in her hair.
A sleepy-looking maid arrived and helped her from her gown into her night rail. When the girl offered to help her with her hair, Grier waved her away, unaccustomed to being waited on hand and foot.
Sitting at her dressing table, she removed each pin, one by one, until the mass of auburn hair fell past her shoulders. Several curling wisps that refused to grow as long as the rest of her hair framed her face. She ran her fingers through the thick strands, massaging her tired scalp.
Picking up her brush, she tackled her hair until it crackled and gleamed in the low glow of firelight. She paused, staring at her reflection. Even in the dim light, the brown freckles spattering her nose stood out clear as day.
“I’m not that brown,” she muttered to her reflection, her tone defensive, as if she addressed one of the gossiping biddies from tonight who’d called her dusky. It was simply that all the ladies in the ton preferred a paleness usually reserved for the dead. Grier liked color in her skin.
“And I’m not old.” She set her brush down with a clack and climbed into bed, sinking deep in the center of the soft mattress and wondering why thoughts of a certain prince still plagued her. Her cheeks washed hot and cold at the memory of him. The stolen moments in the wardrobe played so vividly in her head.
It was almost as if he were there, beside her, whispering his taunts, touching her with hands that were far too bold, too callused to belong to a blueblooded prince.
She’d never reacted to Trevis this way. Rolling onto her side, she allowed herself to think about her former employer, careful that she did not collide into any of the humiliation that usually accompanied thoughts of him.
He’d been her best friend since childhood, comfortable and constant—he even stood up to those who would bully her. She thought they would spend the rest of their lives together. His kisses had been nice . . . but apparently that hadn’t been desire. Not true desire. She recognized that now. She knew.
After what she felt tonight in that armoire, she knew she’d been wrong. Rather appalling when she considered the prince had not even truly kissed her. Her belly had never filled with butterflies before tonight, her lungs had never felt so tight she couldn’t draw breath.
Her cheeks warmed as she imagined what an actual kiss from Prince Sevastian would feel like. She curled into a small ball,
drawing her legs tightly to her chest, and let her imagination take over.
She closed her eyes, visualizing his face as close as it had been earlier. Only in her mind his mouth closed over hers, his lips moved, caressed . . .
Her eyes flew open with a gasp. She had no business entertaining such fantasies. Certainly not for a wicked man who thought her beneath his regard—save for a quick tryst. Eyes wide, she stared out at her bedchamber. Suddenly the night loomed endlessly.
Snow started to fall in fat wet flakes, licking at the windowpanes. She rearranged the pillows behind her head and settled back. Slipping a hand beneath her cheek, she watched the flurries of white outside her window, letting the sight block out everything, everyone, especially her fleeting glimpse of Prince Sevastian’s smile.
Chapter Six
The dowager duchess’s country seat sat nestled amid manicured lawns. A great lake stretched before the massive gray-stone edifice like an inviting carpet of velvet blue. She could almost imagine the geese floating across the lake’s glassy surface in the spring.
Grier held her breath as they were ushered up several steps into a cathedrallike foyer and tried not to feel like a total impostor. The butler led them to the drawing room. Discordant music erupted from a pianoforte within, escaping through the tall, cracked double doors. The butler pushed the doors open and guided them to the gathered group.
Apparently they were the last to arrive. Several other guests took their tea, the dowager included. She sat in a great throne of a chair before the fire, reigning like a pasha over the assembly. Following the butler’s stiffly delivered introductions, the grande dame waved them to chairs with plump, beringed fingers.
Jack forged ahead like a blustery wind, greeting the dowager in jarring tones, heedless of the soft tones everyone else used as a young lady painfully banged her way on the pianoforte.