Free Wicked in Your Arms by Sophie Jordan Page B

dowager’s directive and took up playing on the pianoforte. She played well, and the music soon became an airy background to the conversations in the room.
    No one paid Grier and Cleo much heed where they sat together on the sofa. With the exception of the viscount, who dutifully paid them his polite attentions, everyone seemed oblivious to them. Cleo sent Grier a smile and lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.
    â€œAre you riding in the morning?” Cleo asked when the viscount drifted away to converse with the marquis, Lord Quibbly.
    â€œPerhaps. Or I might just take your example and sleep in,” she teased.
    Cleo blinked wide eyes. “You? Never. Surely the world would end first.”
    Grier smiled. She always rose early and rarely missed an opportunity for a ride. Even in this weather, she enjoyed escaping outdoors.
    Understandably, Cleo enjoyed sleeping late since it was a luxury she never experienced before. Before, she had children to dress and feed and countless chores to perform.
    â€œYou should do so, of course,” Cleo said in all seriousness. “It feels marvelous waking up to sunlight streaming through your room. Much better than waking when it’s still dark and then stumbling around beneath the eaves for your shoes, in your too small room you must share with five others.
    â€œIt does sound like something I should experience.” She grinned. “At least once.”
    â€œQuite.” Cleo nodded. “I heartily recommend it.” Her expression grew rather intent. “I vow to never go back to my old life where I’m forced to complete a day’s work before the sun even rises.”
    Grier nodded and hoped that Cleo demanded more than that for herself. A life of luxury and indolence wouldn’t guarantee her happiness. Cleo deserved more than that. She deserved love.
    And don’t you, as well?
    Grier pushed the small voice aside. She knew it wasn’t a question of what she deserved but more a question of what she could expect. Aside of her fortune, she possessed nothing to recommend her to these bluebloods. A fact made glaringly clear by how little notice they paid her.
    She was no beauty. She lacked grace and youth and breeding. Cleo was young and pretty and charming. She could expect a love match. It was within her reach, and Grier wanted that for her. For herself, she was more practical.
    Grier observed Prince Sevastian from the corner of her eye. He stood ramrod straight, one arm tucked behind him in a very military pose that appeared somehow natural to him, and she wondered at that. Did he never relax? Never let himself go in the slightest? In the privacy of his rooms, did he carry himself with the same stiffness?
    Her fingers twitched against her silk skirts, tempted with the impulse to muss his hair and loosen his cravat, to make him look more . . . human .
    He stood at the mantel beside the duke. Naturally, the two men of highest rank in the room would gravitate toward each other. The fire in the great hearth crackled behind them, casting a red glow on their dark trouser-clad legs.
    The Duke of Bolingbroke swept a bored glance over the room. His gaze passed over Grier and Cleo as if they were not even present. Grier followed his gaze where it did rest, stopping with interest on Lady Libbie. Apparently the prince wasn’t the only one interested in her. She was lovely and elegant as she played, the perfect wife for the likes of a duke. Or a prince.
    Lady Libbie finished and Cleo was called upon next. Grier listened with pride, impressed that her sister played so well. Even with a household overcrowded with children, Cleo’s mother had installed a pianoforte in their small cottage to ensure that her daughters all knew how to play. Not such a surprise, she supposed, from a woman who named her eldest daughter Cleopatra. She had high hopes for her daughters . . . hopes that might come to fruition, after all, with Cleo.
    The duke’s