Free Wicked in Your Arms by Sophie Jordan Page A

and all these lily-handed aristocrats widening.
    You need only find and marry your country gentleman and you’ll endure no more of this. With a title attached to your name, you’ll be free to be yourself. No one will dare ridicule you again.
    She turned her attention to the viscount sitting several seats away. The candlelight cast shadows on his boyishly rounded features. Was he younger than she? The notion sent a frisson of discomfort through her. The uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her belly. Again she thought of the prince and his comments. He’d called her old —made her feel like a veritable hag.
    She shook off such musings and blinked her attention back to the viscount—where it should be—resisting the temptation to look even farther down the table where the prince sat. The length separating them served as reminder enough of the distance between them. He had no business in her thoughts.
    Focusing on the viscount, she wondered if he enjoyed the hunt and what he would think of a wife who did. What would he think of a wife who eschewed parties and shopping on Bond Street and would rather flush out grouse?
    It was worth finding out. What else was she here for except to explore her options?
    â€œAnd do you, Lord Tolliver, enjoy the hunt as well?” Grier lifted her voice to carry to the viscount, sending a slight nod in the direction of the duke and prince, who talked without once looking down the table length, even though the subject of his conversation could be heard.
    Tonight it was as though she did not exist for the prince. He never looked her way. Unlike before, his aloof stare did not so much as stray in her direction.
    Lord Tolliver cast a glance toward his brother, his smile rueful. “I’m a passable shot and spent a fair amount of time chasing the hounds in my youth. Growing up alongside my brother, how could I not?” He took a sip from his soup spoon. “However, I confess I can hardly claim to be the expert huntsman my brother is. I spend a good amount of time in my library, nose buried in a book. I’m not much for the outdoors.” He chuckled then. “That must make me sound a dreadful bore.”
    She smiled and lied, “Of course not.” Not that she didn’t enjoy a good book then and again. But to claim no liking for the outdoors? That was not at all what she had been seeking, but then must her future husband have to hunt and ride as much as she to tolerate her love of hunting and riding?
    Persia cooed. “I love to read as well. Novels, mostly.”
    The viscount smiled. “Perhaps it’s unmanly of me to say, but I’m quite the fan of Mrs. Radcliffe.”
    Persia clapped her hands merrily, her chestnut curls bouncing on each side of her head. “Oh! But I adore her work!”
    Grier stifled a wince. Her reading preferences were mostly histories and biographies.
    She swept another spoonful of savory broth into her mouth. Unable to stop herself, she let her gaze drift to the table’s far end—and it collided with the prince. Heat flooded her face. Was he aware how many times she had been looking his way tonight?
    His inscrutable stare gave nothing away. He studied her over the rim of his glass of claret. Her fingers tightened around her spoon and she resisted the urge to toss it down the length of table at his head. It was unaccountable really, this effect he had on her.
    Looking away, she returned her attention to those around her and reminded herself that her purpose this week was to become better acquainted with the dowager’s youngest grandson . . . and any other gentleman worthy of consideration.
    With that thought firmly in place, she pasted a smile on her face and did not glance down the table again for the rest of the night.

Chapter Seven
    A fter dinner that evening, they all moved into the drawing room. Grier took a spot on the sofa beside Cleo. Lady Libbie quickly followed the