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Authors: Sophie Jordan
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butlerâs 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.
Grier and Cleo exchanged glances at the smirks her father earned from the half-dozen guests lounging in chaises and sofas about the room. Wealthy or not, invited or not, they were objects of disdain for the dowagerâs guests.
Grier pasted a polite smile on her face and tried not to feel like a mongrel who snuck inside to escape the storm. She belonged here just as much as anybody else. She was an invited guest.
For some reason the image of Prince Sevastianâs face swam in her mind just then. He, of course, would disagree. He thought she was common and beneath such elevated company. The realization stung as it shouldnât. She bit back a groan of frustration that heâd found a way into her head again.
Shaking memories of him away, she lifted her chin a notch and inquired after the dowagerâs health.
The dowager offered a reply and smiled. Grier tried to detect artifice in the brittle curve of her ashen lipsâthe same artifice she met at every turn within the ton âbut then she called a stop to such wonderings. Such thoughts were pointless. Of course the smile was a sham. The dowager didnât want Grier or Cleo to wed her grandson. She merely wanted Jackâs fortune to save her family.
It didnât take much to assess the direness of the dowagerâs situation. The evidence was there, all around Grier. The faded wallpaper wouldnât be so obvious but for the few squares of brighter, cleaner paper where paintings had once hung. Sold to fetch much-needed funds, she surmised. Grierâs gaze darted to the maids standing in attendance. Likely to pay for the servants required to run this mausoleum.
And there were other signs. The drawing room furniture, once of the finest quality, was worn and faded. Something she easily noted after residing with her father for the last month and being surrounded with the finest furnishings and most lavish decor.
The dowager snapped her wrist and the viscount appeared, lifting up from a chaise across the room, where he had been in close conversation with a pretty brunette. The girlâs eyes followed him longingly as he moved to his grandmotherâs side and bowed over Grier and Cleo. On the other side of the girl, her plump friend patted her arm consolingly and stared sourly at Grier.
Grier frowned. Was the girl in love with him? Was he in love with her? Perfect. Another reason to feel uncomfortable.
The viscount did his part admirably though. He smiled and bowed over their hands with perfect grace. His boyish good looks betrayed nothing. He showed no sign that his heart was otherwise engaged. A gentleman to the core. Unlike a certain prince whose memory she could not seem to dismiss.
Grier angled her head and took a bracing breath, reprimanding herself for thinking of that brash scoundrel again. Would he never be far from her thoughts? Over the course of their journey to reach the dowagerâs estate, his face and taunting words filled her head more often than not. Strange, really.
Holy hellfire . She almost imagined that one of the two gentlemen stepping inside the drawing room even now resembled him.
She blinked and looked again as he approached. The gentleman didnât resemble him. It was he.
He was here. Her prince was here. No! Not her prince. She swallowed tightly, cursing herself for that slip. He wasnât her anything.
Panic swelled up in her chest, tightening her throat. How was she to forget him when he attended the same house party with her? He would be here, underfoot the entire time. For well over a week. She would see him down the length of the dinner table, constantly hear his voice everywhere she turned.
His gaze found
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.
Grier and Cleo exchanged glances at the smirks her father earned from the half-dozen guests lounging in chaises and sofas about the room. Wealthy or not, invited or not, they were objects of disdain for the dowagerâs guests.
Grier pasted a polite smile on her face and tried not to feel like a mongrel who snuck inside to escape the storm. She belonged here just as much as anybody else. She was an invited guest.
For some reason the image of Prince Sevastianâs face swam in her mind just then. He, of course, would disagree. He thought she was common and beneath such elevated company. The realization stung as it shouldnât. She bit back a groan of frustration that heâd found a way into her head again.
Shaking memories of him away, she lifted her chin a notch and inquired after the dowagerâs health.
The dowager offered a reply and smiled. Grier tried to detect artifice in the brittle curve of her ashen lipsâthe same artifice she met at every turn within the ton âbut then she called a stop to such wonderings. Such thoughts were pointless. Of course the smile was a sham. The dowager didnât want Grier or Cleo to wed her grandson. She merely wanted Jackâs fortune to save her family.
It didnât take much to assess the direness of the dowagerâs situation. The evidence was there, all around Grier. The faded wallpaper wouldnât be so obvious but for the few squares of brighter, cleaner paper where paintings had once hung. Sold to fetch much-needed funds, she surmised. Grierâs gaze darted to the maids standing in attendance. Likely to pay for the servants required to run this mausoleum.
And there were other signs. The drawing room furniture, once of the finest quality, was worn and faded. Something she easily noted after residing with her father for the last month and being surrounded with the finest furnishings and most lavish decor.
The dowager snapped her wrist and the viscount appeared, lifting up from a chaise across the room, where he had been in close conversation with a pretty brunette. The girlâs eyes followed him longingly as he moved to his grandmotherâs side and bowed over Grier and Cleo. On the other side of the girl, her plump friend patted her arm consolingly and stared sourly at Grier.
Grier frowned. Was the girl in love with him? Was he in love with her? Perfect. Another reason to feel uncomfortable.
The viscount did his part admirably though. He smiled and bowed over their hands with perfect grace. His boyish good looks betrayed nothing. He showed no sign that his heart was otherwise engaged. A gentleman to the core. Unlike a certain prince whose memory she could not seem to dismiss.
Grier angled her head and took a bracing breath, reprimanding herself for thinking of that brash scoundrel again. Would he never be far from her thoughts? Over the course of their journey to reach the dowagerâs estate, his face and taunting words filled her head more often than not. Strange, really.
Holy hellfire . She almost imagined that one of the two gentlemen stepping inside the drawing room even now resembled him.
She blinked and looked again as he approached. The gentleman didnât resemble him. It was he.
He was here. Her prince was here. No! Not her prince. She swallowed tightly, cursing herself for that slip. He wasnât her anything.
Panic swelled up in her chest, tightening her throat. How was she to forget him when he attended the same house party with her? He would be here, underfoot the entire time. For well over a week. She would see him down the length of the dinner table, constantly hear his voice everywhere she turned.
His gaze found
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