Her hand shook, the contents of her glass sloshing dangerously near the sides. She inhaled an indignant breath. She was not one to lose her temper, but he went too far, royal pedigree or not. She might not have had the finest education, but the man she considered to be her true father had taught her to read and write beside the evening fire in their small cottage.
What’s more, he’d taught her about dignity.
About what it meant to possess true character.
Who was this jackanapes to make such aspersions against her? He might have been born royal, but he clearly lacked any true sense of nobility.
“Well, you said you wanted to wed one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, and posthaste. It’s not even the Season yet, Sev. Half the ton is wintering in the country. The Hadley girls are perhaps the best to be had.”
“Bloody hell.” He ran a strong, capable-looking hand through hair that was longer than fashionable. Perhaps that was the style in his homeland. “I should have taken that ship for America. I require an heiress with an impeccable pedigree. I can’t present some nobody with ignoble roots as the future queen of Maldania. Grandfather would perish on the spot.”
She swallowed. He was a king ? Or soon to be? She stood an arm’s throw from a prince ? Her stomach heaved.
Grier suddenly longed for home, for cool, rolling hills of green and woods so thick one could lose herself forever. That was home, that was familiar. This ballroom with its columns and glittering chandeliers and liveried servants with silent, watchful gazes was not.
In her world princes existed only in the safety of fairy tales, and there they were . . . well, princely. Honorable and charming and not above rescuing a simple maiden with ignoble roots. They didn’t sneer at the mention of someone like her. No. They would look her in the eyes, see the beauty within, and sweep her off her feet.
He continued crisply, “Solomon’s treasure wouldn’t tempt me enough to wed someone so common . Heiress or not. Come, Malcolm, you dragged me here. Is there no one else to consider this night? If not, then let’s waste no more of our time and take our leave. I have an audience with the queen on the morrow. Perhaps she will have a recommendation.”
Grier seethed. Indeed. Take your leave .
“I’m certain you’ll wish to linger. I spot the lovely Lady Kirkendale beckoning you. Apparently she did not get enough of your company at the dinner party she hosted last week.”
“Evidently not.” The prince’s voice took on a decidedly lascivious tone and she could well guess at the lewd turn of his thoughts. “She served a welcome diversion.”
Grier felt her lip curl at the prince’s mild tones. Lady Kirkendale was a married woman. Apparently he wasn’t too noble to dally with a married lady. Wretch .
“Perhaps we can linger,” he continued lightly. “She might provide a diversion yet again and make this evening not a total loss.”
“It needn’t be a loss. Look, there’s Lady Libbie. I did not realize she was in attendance this eve. Her father is an earl with deep pockets. He made a fortune in railway. You may recall she’s on the list I gave you. You should most certainly make her acquaintance.”
“An earl’s daughter certainly exceeds the thoroughly ineligible Hadley chits you suggested.”
Again, that cool, unfeeling tone chafed her nerves.
“The kind of chits you wed, not bed, eh? That it?” Malcolm chuckled.
“Precisely,” the prince agreed.
That did it!
Before she could stop herself, Grier peeled back a handful of fronds and lifted her glass high, watching in rapt horror as her hand tilted the cup high over his dark-haired head, tilting, tilting . . .
She watched as if the hand were not her own. The glass someone else’s.
The moment the lemon water struck his head, he burst out with an exclamation in another language—an expletive, she was certain from the fierce growl-like sound. She took immense satisfaction at the reaction.
Grier jumped back, letting the fronds settle back into place. She held her breath, every muscle freezing as if that would make her somehow invisible.
Whirling around, he swiped a large hand at the frothy green fronds, clearly determined to see just who had dared to give him a soaking.
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.
“Quite so,” Malcolm said, sounding dangerously near laughter.
Sev sent his cousin a quick glare. “Deliberately,” he stressed. “She deliberately doused me with her drink.”
“To be fair, can you blame her? You did make the most unflattering remarks about her.”
“You’re assuming she overheard.”
“Given her reaction to you—”
“Very well. Let’s assume she overheard then.” Sev stared after the woman as if she possessed two heads. “As I recollect, nothing said was untrue.”
He recalled her face those brief moments they gazed upon each other. Nothing about her indicated a lady gently reared. Not her bold stare. Not her brown skin or the brown freckles upon her nose. Certainly not her manner of speech. She spoke too directly, defiance bright in her eyes. Indeed, nothing like a demure lady.
He scratched his jaw. “No one has ever poured a drink upon me.”
“You mean after ten years of war you’ve never suffered a drink in the face?”
“That was war, Malcolm. I suffered bayonets, cannons, and bullets. Dodging lemon water was not part of the routine.”
“I wouldn’t know of such things.” Malcolm plucked at a piece of lint on his sleeve. “And I don’t see how you came to know, either. You’re the crown prince. You should have been sequestered away and not fighting on a battlefield.”
If his cousin couldn’t understand Sev’s need to rally his people and lead an army against insurgents determined to overthrow the royal house of Maldania, then he wasn’t going to explain it.
“You do what you have to do,” he muttered. “Come, introduce me to this Lady Libbie.” Clasping his hands together behind his back, he strode across the room, all the while keeping an eye trained on the intrepid Miss Hadley.
“Very well. I think she may be just the thing you’re looking for. Quite pretty, too—”
“Pretty is not a requisite, Malcolm.”
“Very well.” His cousin shook his head in wonder. “All business then.”
Sev’s roaming gaze caught sight of Lady Kirkendale standing to the far side of the ballroom near one of many shadowed alcoves. She beckoned him again with her fan. Not a requisite in a wife , but he found it most desirable in a bedmate of a less permanent nature.