Wicked in Your Arms by Sophie Jordan Page B

she gazed upon his face, his features starkly handsome in the room’s gloom, even tense and brooding as usual.
    She gave a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “What do you want?”
    He merely stared.
    She stared at him in frustration, wondering why he did not speak . . . wondering why he was here at all. Had he come to insult her with another indecent proposition? An ever so helpful reminder of where he thought she belonged in the order of things? Or had he come to bewilder her further by treating her almost kindly—as when he complimented her singing.
    The prince slid a hand inside his deep black waistcoat and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to her with a steady hand. She stared at the pristine white square rather resentfully.
    â€œWhat’s that for?”
    â€œThere appears to be a . . . glimmer in your eyes,” he explained, his words stoic, like he was uncomfortable pointing out the fact that she was on the verge of tears.
    â€œThere is not,” she snapped.
    Just the same, she snatched the fabric from his hands, careful not to brush those blunt-tipped fingers. She turned and dabbed at her eyes.
    After a moment, she peered over her shoulder, tensing, waiting, dreading for him to ask why she was upset. The last thing she wanted to do was unburden herself to him. As if he would care.
    She dropped her gaze to the soft patch of linen in her hands and looked back at him curiously. Well. Perhaps he cared a little . At least enough to extend her the courtesy of his handkerchief. A fact which did not mesh with the opinion she’d formed of him.
    Frowning, she motioned back toward the doors. “Any number of individuals would gladly grovel at your feet. You are wasting your exalted company on me.” She offered him back his handkerchief.
    He shrugged, and accepted it, replying with an idleness that set her teeth on edge, “One can only abide so much groveling.”
    â€œSo you seek someone who will not pander to your ego, is that it? Is that why you’ve followed me? You wish to consort with someone who will denounce you for what you are?”
    â€œAnd what am I?” His gold cat eyes danced with something dangerously akin to merriment as he stopped before her. Close. Too bloody close. “Do enlightenment me.”
    She could smell him. He smelled like no man she’d ever smelled. Not that she went about sniffing men, but she’d stood close to a few. He smelled clean and crisp and . . . and manly . Was that a scent? A faint whiff of brandy teased her nose. Was this what a prince smelled like, then?
    She swallowed, suddenly unable to speak. His nearness rattled her. Her tongue struggled to form the words.
    â€œCome now, you claim to possess the courage to denounce me.” His gaze looked her up and down.
    His seductive, rolling accents stroked like velvet against her skin. His voice was an aphrodisiac, impossible to resist. She took a hasty step back. She must. Otherwise she would be just what he judged her. Not a lady at all—no better than a light-skirt.
    â€œ I do! ” she retorted. “You’re a bounder—and a snob!” She lifted her chin a notch. Not such a simple task when he stood so much taller than she. “You’ll not see me making a ninny of myself simply because you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth.”
    Wrong, perhaps, but he became the perfect target for her ire—for the despondency that had filled her the moment she stepped within this room. He never knew what it felt like to be lost or lonely . . . or rejected for the circumstances of his birth. Indeed not. The circumstances of his birth afforded him great advantages.
    â€œAnd why is that, Miss Hadley? Why are you so opposed to showing me the due reverence everyone else does?” he prompted, his keen eyes fixed on her in that ever unnerving way.
    â€œAside from the boorish things I overheard you say about me upon our first