At her nod, he blew out a deep breath. Was there no end to her astoundingly unseemly ways?
“I loathe the constraints of a riding habit,” she returned blithely. “When I ride, it’s usually astride. I only conceded this time having no wish to offend the duchess’s sensibilities.” She gestured at her figure to illustrate her very proper riding habit. He deliberately tried not to focus on how her riding habit hugged her curves. The mere notion of her in trousers sent a surge of heat in his blood. He scowled. As he couldn’t bed her and he most certainly couldn’t wed her, his attraction to such an unacceptable female was really becoming a nuisance.
“You’re quite the hoyden.”
Color flooded her already windburned cheeks. “Because I eschew the constraints imposed by men on ladies of Society ?” She gave a small stamp of her booted foot, as if this were a sore subject with her. “Because I enjoy living and not being stuck indoors browsing fashion plates and working on needlepoint?” With a growl of what he assumed was frustration, she whirled in a circle, scanning the countryside. “Holy hellfire! Thanks to you our mounts are probably already back in the stables.”
“Again, I’m struggling to see how this is my fault.”
Without another word or glance for him, she started marching away with long, sure strides.
He stood still for some moments, amazed as he watched her retreat. She was without a doubt the most singular female he had ever encountered. She wasn’t impressed by him or daunted. Most females tittered in his presence, in awe of either his title or his form. He towered over most gentlemen with their lily-white hands and soft, fleshy bodies. Years of combat had given him a muscled physique. He was accustomed to inspiring admiration or at the very least deference in the fairer sex.
With a sigh, he followed after the termagant. In moments he caught up with her. His boots crunched softly over the snow, alerting her to his presence.
She slid him a wary glance as they marched. “You really thought you were saving me?”
He grunted. “A wasted effort on you, it seems. I’m gathering you’re not the type of female ever in need of rescuing.”
A smile twitched her mouth. “No, I’m not. I’ve been on my own now for years.”
He frowned. “And how is that? You are not without family. Your father—”
“He is scarcely a father to me,” she quickly inserted. “We’ve only just recently reunited. My mother passed away when I was very young. I have no memory of her. My . . . stepfather raised me.”
He sensed the sorrow in her as she uttered this, the difficulty she’d had in saying the word stepfather , and knew that this man had been a true father to her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know the pain of losing someone you care about. I lost my brother in the war. He was everything to me. To our people.” He swallowed against a rising tightness in his throat. “He would have made a much better king than I ever shall.”
She slowed her pace and sent him a peculiar look before continuing her strides. She shook her head.
“What?” he prompted, touching her arm and making her face him again.
She angled her head, tossing her tangle of auburn hair. She tried to capture the tendrils that blew across her wind-chapped face. “I did not expect humility from you.” She tugged a strand from her lips.
“Oh.” He squared his shoulders, the wind whipping his face not nearly as icy as the inexplicable surge of cold he felt at hearing she thought he was some unfeeling monster. “Well, you do not really know me.”
“I suppose not.” She nodded once. “Just as you know nothing of me.”
He couldn’t resist. He reached out and pulled several strands of hair free that clung to one wind-chafed cheek. “I think I’m beginning to know you.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed? A few brief encounters where we spar words constitutes familiarity?” She crossed her arms in front of her. Trying to erect a barrier, he supposed. Her voice was withering as she asked, “You mean you didn’t know me when you said I was common ? When you said I was fit for a mistress but not a wife?”
He winced. “That was badly done of me.”
She snorted. “But nothing you disagree with. And yet I suppose that’s the closest I’ll ever get to an apology.” If possible her eyebrow winged higher. “You’re sorry I overheard you, not that you actually said unpleasant things about me. To me. As far as you’re concerned I’m still some lowly serf unfit for your estimable company.”
With a huff, she stalked ahead of him, kicking snow up around her hem as she marched.
With several long strides, he caught up with her. Grabbing her by the arm, he whirled her around. “Why must you be so combative? I’m trying to make amends.” The words astonished him the instant he said them. He was trying to make amends? With a woman who should be beneath his notice.
“Why?” She tried to twist her arm free from him, but still he clung. “Why should you care—”
“Because—” He stopped at the sound of his voice, loud and jarring. “Because,” he repeated, his voice level, “I suspect you are one of the most singular women I’ll ever know.” His face heated at the declaration. It was as if the words spilled forth with no volition.
She eyed him suspiciously as if unsure whether he complimented her or not. “Singular?”
Truth be told, he wasn’t certain whether he complimented her or not either. He only knew he spoke the truth. “Singular,” he repeated. “And I should hate for you to . . .” He hesitated, searching for the word. “Dislike me because of the way I conducted myself on our first encounter.”
She moistened her lips. His gut tightened as he followed the movement of her pink tongue. “You care whether I like you or not?”
He gave a single nod, wondering how he’d gotten into such dangerous territory. He was actually trying to convince the female that he liked her. Why? To what end? Did he expect for them to be friends? That did not seem realistic. He’d never been friends with a woman before.
“Why?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Why should you care whether I like you?”
The only thing he could think about just then was his ominous warning to his cousin. When he’d staked a claim on Miss Hadley and called her his .
With that single thought burning through him, he inched his head toward hers, moving in slow degrees, as a hunter might close in on his prey. “I fear if you did not like me, I would never be able to do this.”
Chapter Twelve
Grier watched with wide eyes as the prince’s head descended toward her, certain she was dreaming. He slanted his lips over hers. She didn’t draw breath as the cool dryness of his mouth pressed to hers.
This was no dream.
She didn’t move, not even a stir. Much too shocked, too afraid that should she move it would be to toss her arms around his neck and drag him tighter against her. It had been too long since she had this . Since anyone felt inclined to reach out and touch her. She didn’t trust herself. Last night proved she shouldn’t.
He pulled back to look at her and her chest tightened at the sight of his handsome face. This close she could see that the tips of his lashes were far lighter than the rest of his hair.
His lips curved in a slow, seductive smile that pulled at her belly. “And I’m so glad that I can.”
“Can . . . what ?” Her head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.
“Kiss you.”
The words rolled over her, thick as syrup. And just as decadent.
“Oh.” She blinked, murmuring rather dreamily, “Yes. Kissing. You can do that . . . some more.”
“Excellent. Although you should know that this sort of thing generally works better when you move your mouth.” His head inched back toward her, his breath fanning her lips. “When you part your lips. Just a little. Remember?”
Her eyes drifted shut, lulled by that deep velvet voice, by the brush of his lips on hers. His breath was warm and sweet and she sighed.
She moved her lips tentatively at first, her thoughts racing, jumbled, trying to remember why this was wrong . . . why she shouldn’t be doing this. She’d known why last night.
All thoughts fled as he deepened the kiss, parting her lips wider for him. She shuddered at the first stroke of his tongue against hers and lifted her hands to his shoulders. She curled her fingers into the hard shape of him beneath his great cape and surrendered to his mouth, kissing him back. Their lips fused hotly, the perfect fit, like two long-lost pieces of a puzzle.
She wrapped her arms around him, clinging, pressing herself close with abandon. He moaned with satisfaction and slipped his hands beneath her cloak. Palming her back, he hauled her against him.
Splayed against the hard breadth of him, she was instantly enveloped in his heat. The wintry world around them disappeared. There was nothing but him. His hard pulsing body. His warm hands. His mouth. Those delicious lips with the faint taste of chicory coffee.
He slanted his mouth over hers one way and then another, exploring her, tasting, gliding his tongue sinuously against hers until a low throbbing twisted in her belly.
The kiss deepened until they clung to each other. Her hands moved, roved, reveling in the impossible strength she felt radiating from every inch of him.
Small starved whimpers rose from her throat. He slid one hand down her back and grasped her bottom, pulling her against him. She felt the definite bulge of him through his trousers. She was no green girl that she didn’t know what that signified. He wanted her.
It should have horrified her to know that she was all alone with a virile man, engaging in intimacies that could lead to only one thing. That should be reserved for her husband.
And yet she was not. In that moment, Grier did not care.
All her life she’d tried so hard to do what she thought was right , the good and proper thing. She’d tried so desperately to earn everyone’s acceptance and approval. Even when no one expected it of her. Even when all they saw when they looked at her was the game master’s mannish bastard daughter. But then it occurred to her that that voice had never served her well before. It had never won her acceptance. Why should she listen to it now?
He tasted delicious. And his kiss was deep and smooth, nothing messy or slavering like the way Trevis had kissed. This was bliss and she had no wish for it to end.
This man would know how to make your first time exquisite.
The shocking thought rushed through her head unbidden, making her cheeks flame hotter, her body ache and burn in places she never knew could even feel. She would be clay in his hands.
Suddenly the prince stiffened, and she wondered rather insensibly if he had gleaned some knowledge of her outrageous thoughts. Just because he kissed her did not mean he wished to take it that far after all.
He broke their kiss and lifted his head, looking beyond her shoulder. She tried to pull from his embrace, but he held fast, tugging her close.
She cleared her throat softly, distrustful that her voice would rise a mere squeak from between her kissed-numb lips. “Unhand me, please.”
His arm tensed around her and his brow furrowed as he continued to study the horizon. “Do you hear that?”
She listened, at first hearing nothing but the wind, but then she caught sound of it. Voices. Very faint. As whispery as the wind itself. “Yes.”
He released her then. Grasping her arm, he guided her forward. Together they climbed the small rise. She risked a glance at his face, but he stared ahead, his features impassive. Did he regret their lapse of restraint? Of course he did. He was here to find a bride, presumably the very worthy and estimable Lady Libbie. A rich earl’s daughter. She fit his needs perfectly. He certainly didn’t wish to become entangled with her.
Topping the rise, Grier spotted the several figures on horseback. “Stable lads?”