She forced a laugh. “Then you know I am quite the dull creature.” Hardly as exciting as the sophisticated and elegant ladies of his acquaintance, she was sure.

“On the contrary. Is it true you acted as game master after your stepfather’s passing?”

He knew. She winced, unsure how to respond to that. Her father had taken pains to suppress that information. Could Cleo have mentioned it? Or perhaps the dowager had nosed about and learned the details of Grier’s background. She wouldn’t put it past the old lady.

He stared at her intently, waiting.

She tugged the cuff of her sleeve. The fabric suddenly felt constrictive.

“Unusual occupation for a female.”

“One does what they must to survive.”

She held her breath, waiting, expecting his censure—at the very least a display of the same arrogance he’d treated her to before.

Instead he merely nodded, his gold eyes glowing softly in the room’s muted light. Almost as though he understood. And agreed. Absurd . Of course the rude boor she’d first met wouldn’t understand anything about her. Nor would he look at her with compassion. “I know a bit about doing what one must to survive.”

She blinked, wondering—and then understanding. The war. He would have a sense of what she meant.

Feeling out of sorts, and not knowing what to make of him, but realizing there was more to him than she had first judged, she glanced from the fern to her plate. She forced a lightness into her voice. “You always seem to find me like this.”

He crossed his arms and studied her with seeming amusement, his gold eyes sparking in a way that made her breath catch. “You mean hiding? Indeed I do. And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I tire of making polite conversation at these affairs.”

“Would you rather make impolite conversation?”

Her lips twitched. “No. But that would be decidedly easier. Or rather speaking freely would be, without having to weigh each and every word.”

“It would be amusing, I wager.”

She laughed. “Only for you, I fear. Others would take offense.” A day ago she would have thought he would have taken offense.

“I daresay others would enjoy an interruption to the monotony, too. I’m convinced you would be vastly entertaining if you gave your tongue free rein.”

Her laughter faded. She motioned to the gaudily attired group assembled in the drawing room. “It always feels like a strategically orchestrated arrangement with them . . . and I’m forever clueless as to how to navigate it.”

He considered her for a long moment, and then she realized he was one of them, too. The bluebloods she referred to. Idiot . He didn’t understand what she was talking about at all. And why should he? The heat in her face only burned hotter.

Instead of holding her tongue, she cleared her throat and forged ahead. “Should you not be in their midst hunting for your bride?” Lady Libbie .

“It’s not much of a hunt,” he replied distractedly.

She pulled a face. “No, not for you. I suppose not. For others of us it’s not so simple a task.”

Were they actually talking? She and this prince? It almost felt natural. It almost felt like they were . . . friends .

He angled his head, studying her as he uttered, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you will have no difficulty winning yourself a proposal.”

Heat climbed her face at his words, at the rather intense look in his eyes. Her chest suddenly became too tight, air a struggle to draw in.

Just not from you .

She looked away, lest he read some of the disappointment that thought fed into her heart. The totally misplaced disappointment. She had no business longing for a prince. It was wishing for the moon.

“When is your birthday?” he asked, the question smoothly inserted into the lag of conversation.

Her gaze shot back to him. The wretch. She should have known it was too good to be true.

“Not that again,” she snapped, suddenly turning cold when confronted all over again with the cad who’d declared her old . “Why must you insist on pressing me for that information? You already know my age—”

“Not your exact age.”

“What difference can my exact age make to you? You already know I’m eight and twenty. The same age as you.”

“You’re right. It’s a trivial matter. So why won’t you tell me?”

“Perhaps because it’s not trivial to you ,” she retorted. “You only want to know if I’m older than you.”

He stepped closer—until it was just the potted fern at her back and the breadth of his chest at her front. She was instantly assailed with the sheer masculine presence of him. “Are you ashamed?”

“Why would I be ashamed of my age?” She sniffed, angling her chin. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Precisely. So tell me.” He smiled an infuriating grin down at her and she wanted to smack it off his handsome face—only the sight of it weakened her knees and made her stomach flip wildly. With that smile directed at her, it was easy to forget other people lurked near, only feet away.

“Why do you care one whit how old I am?” she breathed.

“Simply . . . curious.”

She moistened her lips. “Curious to know if you dallied with a woman older than yourself?”

At his slow, deepening smile, she knew she’d made a fatal mistake bringing that up. Instant awareness sparked between them. “Been thinking about that, have you?”

Only every waking moment.

“No,” she denied. “Not at all.”

“I have,” he countered, encroaching even closer. “Every moment of the day.”

He didn’t mean that! Her heart pounded violently against her rib cage.

“Well—well—stop. You shouldn’t!” She looked wildly from him to the drawing room at large. No one seemed aware of them behind the fern. They were shrouded. Lost in their own private world. A very dangerous situation indeed.

He shook his dark head. “I’m afraid I can’t stop. You see, every time I close my eyes, I see these dark eyes.” He gently stroked her cheek. “These freckles.” He brushed a finger over the bridge of her nose—against the brown freckles she’d done her best to ignore for most of her life. His finger drifted down and stroked her bottom lip. “This mouth.”

“Stop,” she repeated, but her voice lacked conviction. It was little more than a puff of breath, released from her trembling mouth.

His dark gaze slid up, locked on her eyes. “Really, Grier. Is that what you want me to do? You want me to stop? Be honest with yourself. I’ve decided to stop lying. Why don’t you? Can you really leave this house party knowing you and I will never see each other again?”

It was the first time he’d uttered her name. And the way he said it . . . she trembled.

He continued, his voice a purr, “Can we part knowing we will never satisfy this . . . thing that we feel between us?”

“Ah, Sev, there you are. And Miss Hadley, didn’t see you there.”

Grier jumped at the sudden arrival of another into their midst. Sev stepped back easily, as if his cousin were not interrupting an intimate moment. Only his eyes showed a flicker of regret.

Her heart racing, face flaming, Grier quickly darted past him, convinced that anyone who took one look at her face would know she was a woman lost. She had to get away. Quickly. She needed to find someplace to regain her breath, to still her racing heart and remind herself just why she loathed the Crown Prince of Maldania and why she should detest his flirtations.

He was merely toying with her, attempting to make another conquest.

He thought her less than himself—a female of no worth. Common . She mustn’t forget that.

No one called out to her as she slipped from the drawing room, further evidence that she was of no importance and would not be missed.

“Y our timing leaves a lot to be desired, cousin.”

“Thought you might need rescuing.”

Annoyance flared sharply inside him, a pinch in his chest. With great effort, he tore his gaze from Grier’s fleeing back. The light gilded her auburn hair in certain spots, and his palms tingled, longing to touch the strands, to feel for himself if they felt as silky and warm as they looked.

“And why would you think that?” he asked with a mildness that he did not feel.

“You’re inordinately fascinated with her. I confess it concerns me. You can’t possibly be considering her for a potential bride—”

“Of course not,” he said with far more lightness than he felt. He’d been trained early to school his face into a perfect mask of impassivity. No one should ever know what he was thinking. “I’ve said as much.”

“And yet you wanted me to find out as much information on her as I could.”

He shrugged and admitted, “She’s of minor interest to me.”

“As what? A mistress? Her father will not countenance that. He’ll only take a husband for her. Sorry, cousin. You’ll not be easing yourself between those thighs.”

His hand knotted at his sides. Jaw clenched, he slid his cousin a dangerous look. “Malcolm, your assistance has been useful thus far. If I require advice I shall ask it of you. Tread carefully.”

Malcolm flushed, doubtlessly thinking he did not wish to return to his rented rooms in the stews any sooner than he must. “Of course. Forgive me. Anyone can see she’s struck your fancy.”

He looked sharply at Malcolm. “What do you mean, anyone ?”

“Well, not everyone here, I suppose, only the most perceptive. As a prince you’re a point of fascination. You can count yourself fortunate that Lady Libbie appears unaware of the many stares you’re sending Miss Hadley’s way.” His eyes grew cunning. “Nor do I think her father is aware.”

Sev swiped a hand through the air at the reminder of the rich earl’s daughter. He was definitely taking things too far with Grier if he was risking such a promising match. One that would get him home where he belonged. “I’ll press my suit with Lady Libbie.” And forget about a pair of deep brown eyes and bewitching freckles. “No more dragging my feet.” He swept a glance across the room, searching for the golden-headed girl with fresh determination. “Grandfather should be quite satisfied with her.”

“Yes. Yes, he would,” Malcolm agreed.

Feeling the need to ease any tension between them, he offered, “Thank you for advising me in this, Malcolm. I wouldn’t have gotten far without you.”

“What are cousins for?”

With a decisive nod, Sev murmured, “I’d best locate the lady and begin to woo her properly.”

Ignoring the heaviness tightening his chest, he strolled out into the room, scanning for golden curls, even though he only saw rich auburn hair in his mind.

G rier knew Jack would reprimand her severely for taking her leave so early in the night, but she could not abide another moment in the same room as the confounding Prince Sevastian. What did he want from her? Did he think she would toss convention aside and embrace an illicit affair the duration of this house party?

She could tolerate no more of his teasing, no more of his gold-eyed stare, no more of his proximity. Not if she wished to keep her sanity. One look at his handsome visage and she was overwhelmed by the memory of his body pressed against hers those times she’d been so foolish to forget herself with him.

Her shadow stretched long before her as she walked briskly down the corridor—as if she could escape her vexing thoughts the faster she walked.

Her tread fell silent on the runner. She was close to her bedchamber now. The tension ebbed from her shoulders as she contemplated the warm bed waiting her.

A sound disrupted the tomblike hush. Soft as smoke curling on the air, hushed whispers reached her ears, penetrating the silence. She paused, listening. They were the type of whispers that actually succeeded in achieving the opposite of their intent, which was clearly discretion.