Wicked in Your Arms by Sophie Jordan Page A

room to reclaim her seat. How did she sway her hips like that?
    With all eyes fixed on her, there was only one stare she felt as keenly as the prick of a knife. She knew it was he, knew the prince was watching her.
    â€œM-me?” Despising the quiver in her voice, she spoke again, her voice firmer. “You wish to hear me play?” She flattened a hand against the bodice of her gown.
    â€œYes, Miss Hadley. Do take a turn.” The dowager motioned to the pianoforte with a sweep of her heavily beringed hand. “Such a lovely evening we’re having. Our own impromptu musicale. Let us continue with it. “
    â€œIndeed. Most entertaining, however . . .” She moistened her suddenly dry lips.
    Cleo sent her a sympathetic smile, well aware that Grier did not know how to play. In fact, she’d never even seen a pianoforte until arriving in London.
    Grier cleared her throat to finish. “Oh, I’m not very good, you see—”
    Persia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I’m certain you’re most accomplished. Please, don’t deny us.”
    â€œI can play!” Marielle volunteered, half rising.
    â€œThat’s quite all right, Marielle, we’ve heard you play before. We’d like to hear Miss Hadley.”
    The marquis’s granddaughter dropped down with a pout.
    The viscount smiled at Grier kindly. “Shall I turn the pages for you, Miss Hadley? I’d be most happy to oblige.”
    Miserable heat washed up her face. Even Jack looked sorry for her, no doubt aware that she couldn’t play. Playing the pianoforte was a ladylike occupation, and Grier was no lady.
    She moistened her lips again and admitted, “Truth be told, I can’t actually play.”
    â€œOh.” Persia blinked with mock surprise, a slender hand drifting to cover her mouth as if Grier had just confessed to murder.
    Grier glared at her, not fooled for a moment. Persia wasn’t the least surprised. She’d guessed that Grier wouldn’t know how to play an instrument that was commonplace in all elegant households of the ton . Heat crept up Grier’s neck. Was it that obvious she was an impostor among them? A simple, common girl playing at being a lady?
    Persia lowered her hand. “I-I didn’t realize. I assumed you . . . well—” There was a beat of silence as her words faded. A moment of silence in which Grier felt that infernal yawning gulf again . . . between her and everyone else in the room.
    The one person she both wanted and didn’t want to glance at—to see how this evidence of her lack of breeding registered upon him—stood silent. She could not bring herself to look at him again, to see in his eyes the conviction that he had been right. She didn’t belong here. The dowager’s kitchen maids were better suited to the role of lady than she.
    â€œShe can sing,” Jack abruptly volunteered. “Like an angel!” His ruddy face looked anxiously at the dowager.
    Grier glared at her father, shaking her head at him in mute appeal. His eyes stared earnest and hopeful back at her and she realized he thought he was helping.
    He’d once walked in on her in the library singing an old Welsh ballad as she was browsing for a book. She had a passable voice. He’d remarked on the song, that it was one her mother used to sing, which, at the time, had quickly silenced her. She didn’t want any comparisons made to the mother who had been so weak-willed as to fall for Jack Hadley. As far as Grier was concerned, marrying Papa was the only good thing her mother ever did.
    Grier wasn’t like her. She was stronger. She would marry. She would be a proper lady.
    â€œSing for us,” the dowager commanded.
    â€œOh, I’m not really very—”
    â€œCease being so reticent, will you, Miss Hadley.” The dowager was beginning to look annoyed.
    Grier sighed in defeat. “Very well.”
    Rising,