Wicked in Your Arms by Sophie Jordan Page B

she moved near the pianoforte, reminding herself that her voice was passable. She wouldn’t embarrass herself on that account . . . and it wasn’t as though anyone here would understand the lyrics. They were in Welsh, after all.
    As she opened her mouth and began to sing, she took secret delight in knowing that she sang a tawdry tale of a buxom milkmaid to a room full of nobles.
    The prince watched her, his gold eyes inscrutable as her lungs expanded and the words rose up from inside her to hang mournfully on the air. She tried to look away from him, or at least let her stare sweep over the room, but it was hard to do so when he stared at her as if he understood every word. As if he could see into the inner workings of her mind.
    When she finished, the room was silent for a moment. Then the clapping began.
    â€œWhat language was that? Gaelic?” Persia asked over the applause as Grier passed her on her way back to her seat.
    â€œWelsh,” she replied.
    â€œMy, how . . . rustic.” ’
    â€œIt was simply haunting,” Cleo exclaimed, still clapping. “I have chills.”
    â€œThat was lovely, Miss Hadley, and sung with such feeling,” said the viscount. “You must tell us what it means.”
    Several others in the room echoed the request. Except Persia. Her face flushed at the viscount’s praise.
    â€œOh, a love ballad, I’m sure,” Cleo insisted.
    â€œOf course.” Grier lowered her gaze at the lie. “A love song.”
    â€œHow quaint,” Persia inserted, her voice tight. “Peasant songs always have such charm. Thank you for treating us. It’s not something we get to hear every day.”
    Grier’s cheeks caught fire. Trust Persia to deliver a thinly veiled insult.
    Perhaps not so thinly veiled. A heavy pause of silence filled the room as Persia’s words sank in. No one save Persia could meet Grier’s eyes. Lord Tolliver seemed suddenly fascinated with the carpet pattern. The implication was there—that Grier was a peasant.
    â€œYou were marvelous, Miss Hadley.” The rich, rumbling voice broke the deep silence. Grier started at the sound of it, her gaze flying to the man near the fireplace.
    All heads swiveled in the direction of the usually aloof prince. Everyone stared at him, clearly surprised that he had spoken such high praise on her behalf. Of course, no one was more surprised than Grier.
    Did he mean his words? A glimpse of his face hardly indicated that she’d managed to impress him. And yet if she hadn’t impressed him with her singing, then why had he spoken up? It was unfathomable that he should wish to spare her from Persia’s ridicule. Why should he care how others treated her?
    His face still looked carved from stone. The jaw square hard and chiseled, but his eyes glowed molten.
    â€œQuite the highlight of my evening,” he added with a sharp nod of his head. Goose bumps broke out across her skin and the tightness in her chest eased.
    She fought off the ridiculous urge to smile. “Th-thank you.”
    â€œQuite so!” Jack exclaimed. “I told you she was a fine singer.”
    â€œIndeed. It was a lovely ballad. Reminds me of the songs my nanny used to sing to me when I was a girl. She was Welsh, too, you know.” The dowager began to rise. The viscount rushed forward to assist her. “You remind me of her.”
    Panic fluttered in Grier’s belly. The dowager didn’t understand Welsh, did she?
    â€œAlso like my dear nanny, you’ve practically lulled me to sleep.” She stopped before Grier and smiled rather sleepily. “Thank you for a splendid end to the evening.” She gave Grier a fond, two-fingered pat on the cheek.
    After her departure, the other guests also began to rise.
    The prince departed without a word or glance. She watched the broad expanse of his back as he vanished from the drawing room, still wondering why he had bothered