“To my residence in Mayfair.”
She’d bitten her lip. “Is that…proper?”
“We are engaged,” he’d replied. “But if you are worried, Asha can assume the role of your companion and chaperone. Problem of respectability solved.”
“Even I know that a lady’s maid won’t pass muster as a companion, at least not according to the rules of etiquette here.”
Unreadable eyes had met hers across the carriage. “You are engaged to the Duke of Embry.”
“You say that as if anyone in the ton will refrain from gossiping like fishwives at market. If decorum is not observed, the shame will fall upon me, not you.”
To her surprise, he’d nodded after a beat of scrutiny. “Very well. I will retire elsewhere tonight. Once I meet with my mother and introduce you, perhaps you can stay at Huntley House. My sister should also be in town for the season. She’s a few years younger than you, just now eighteen.”
“What’s she like?”
A fond smile had curved his lips, making her heart hitch an unexpected beat. Seeing any kind of emotion on his face that wasn’t lust, loathing, or some combination thereof was a bit of a shock. “Demure, sweet, dutiful.”
The opposite of her, clearly.
He didn’t have to say it, but the implication had been more than obvious.
They’d passed the rest of the journey in silence. And then, as they’d driven through the bustling streets of Mayfair, not even Rhystan’s sourness could detract from her fascination with the clean lines of the architecture, carriages pulled by matching teams of plumed horses, and the neat groups of sedately dressed lords and ladies. It was the antithesis of Joor, lacking the joyful chaos, intricate architectural styles, and broad palette of bright color she was used to. It was all so very…structured.
She’d smoothed nervously at her skirts, drawing Rhystan’s stare as they’d pulled up in front of a gorgeous town house.
“What’s the matter?”
She’d swallowed, not sure why she suddenly felt panicked. “I didn’t expect it to be so pristine. Even the cobblestones are freshly scrubbed.”
“Don’t let the exterior fool you,” he’d murmured. “Beauty is only skin deep. After all, the loveliest of smiles can mask the cruelest of intentions, can’t it?”
Her eyes had flashed to his, drawn by the harsh, bitter note in his voice, but he’d already returned his attention to the signet ring on his finger.
Now, Sarani’s nerves returned in full force while Asha combed and styled her hair into a low chignon with looped ringlets over her ears. She gave herself a critical look in the mirror when Asha was finished. The remaining weeks of travel after St. Helena that she’d spent cooped-up belowdecks had been effective in making her look like an English corpse bride. She pinched the apples of her cheeks, making them flush with a dusky hue. There, that was marginally better.
Now she didn’t look quite so sallow. Sarani glanced at Asha in the mirror whose brown skin practically glowed next to hers. Unlike her, Asha had been parasol-free and soaking up the sun for days. Sarani swallowed her envy and grimaced at her reflection. She wished she could line her eyelids with liberal amounts of kohl—it always made her eyes pop like jewels—but that would set her apart even more, and the goal was to fit in…not stand out.
She was beginning to feel an acute sense of pressure.
“Do you require face powder, Princess?” Asha asked.
Sarani wrinkled her nose. She hated the stuff, though blending in was the point, wasn’t it? But when her gaze slid to the translucent dust in its decorative dish, everything inside of her suddenly choked. Did blending in mean becoming invisible? The parasol was one thing, but this was one more step of erasure.
“No, not tonight.” Not ever. She lowered her voice, glancing over to where the undermaids were bustling about the antechamber. “And it’s ‘my lady,’ don’t forget. And remember, you are to play the role of my companion as well, so you must act accordingly.”
Asha nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
After donning a bottle-green gown from her portmanteau, Sarani gave herself one last look. A tepid English rose stared back at her. Perfectly coiffed hair, freshly scrubbed skin, and elegant clothing combined to groom her into the future Duchess of Embry.
All except for her eyes, which blazed. They burned with fire, defiance, and pure, unadulterated ferocity. As if to say: How dare you give in? How dare you become this parody? How dare you?
Sarani gulped, her throat tightening, and lowered her lids. Now was not the time for her inner tigress to come out fighting, claws first. It was a matter of necessity if she was to survive. There were rules that had to be heeded, modesty that needed to be minded. She had to be perfect.
“Ask His Grace’s valet about an available modiste,” she said to Asha. “I will require a full wardrobe befitting a future duchess. Money is no object.” It would not be, with a raja’s fortune in gems in her carpetbag. “And ask Gideon to look into how I can sell some of my jewels.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Sarani inhaled and exhaled, risking a final peek at her eyes. The fierce gleam there had calmed, thank heavens. Eyes could reveal so much about a person if one knew how to read them. She’d learned that as a girl in her father’s court. They often gave away when a man was lying or revealed what he truly desired. Smiles, expressions, and words could be easily faked, but the eyes rarely lied.
Markham’s disdain beneath his official bearing had been obvious. Talbot’s lust had shone through his gentlemanly reserve. The ladies of the court had envied her while they derided her. Back then, even Rhystan had been transparent, his affection shimmering in those blue-gray eyes. Now, not so much. These days, he was near impossible to read between the irregular bursts of anger and desire, which meant that she had to tread carefully.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young maid said at the door, “but His Grace is inquiring whether you are ready to depart for Huntley House.”
Canting her head, she stood and smiled graciously at the maid. “Thank you. You may inform His Grace that I’ll be down shortly.”
Sarani pasted a demure smile on her lips and clasped gloved hands together at her waist, channeling the many lessons her mother and her stalwart governess had imparted about English high society. Such lessons of comportment were also part and parcel of being a princess, but what was needed of her now as Rhystan’s future bride would require a strategic touch. She elongated her spine, angled her chin a smidgen downward, and held herself with impeccable poise.
A line from Rumi’s poetry struck her: “Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am,” and she let a serene smile touch her lips.
Time to be the rose.
Fourteen
Huntley House wasn’t more than a few streets away, but the duke had insisted on taking the carriage. Restlessly, Sarani twined her fingers into her fine skirts, her nerves on edge. She would have preferred to walk—at least to get rid of some of the tension coiling in her limbs.
But apparently, walking was out of the question, at least for the distinguished Duke of Embry and his betrothed. It’d been on the tip of her tongue to quip that London made a man weak in the knees. But delicate, well-bred ladies did not mention parts of men’s bodies. Nor did they tease gentlemen, nor poke at their masculinity. They sat and simpered, smiled when they were spoken to, and pretended to be objects of voiceless decoration.
Sarani had never been any good at sitting still or staying quiet. Words were powerful, and she had no intention of being cheated of hers. Not by anyone, not even the man pretending to be her future husband.
Despite being born in Joor and honoring the traditions of her people, Sarani had also been raised by a strong half-Scottish mother whose opinions did not match those of her peers, which was why she’d eloped with the love of her life in the first place. She’d taught her daughter to t
hink for herself and to be resilient and relentless in her goals. That unusual approach had given Sarani an outlook unlike any other woman of her acquaintance.
Unlike proper English ladies.
Then again, most proper girls probably would not have leaped like a freedom fighter into the trenches…spied for a militia, lied through their teeth to avoid an arranged marriage to a jackal, and sent all their pin money to fund their best friend Manu’s efforts against the British.
Maybe that was why Vikram was coming for her.
Treason was punishable by death, wasn’t it?
Sucking in a breath, she lifted her surreptitious gaze to the somber man sitting opposite, wondering for the dozenth time whether she was out of her mind for putting her faith in him. Rhystan wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t even an acquaintance. He was just someone she’d known once, perhaps loved in the most innocent of ways. Someone she might have married under different circumstances.
Had she made the right choice?
It was a loaded question. Before, she’d chosen duty over love, but a part of her always wondered what would have happened if she’d run with him. If she’d said no to her father and asked Sanjay from the Flying Elephant to help her get to him. What would their life have been like? Would they have been happy? Would he have become the same hard, guarded, intimidating man he was now?
The duke’s formidable presence fairly crowded the spacious coach. A pair of gloves along with a satin-trimmed top hat rested on the sliver of bench beside him. His attention remained on the signet ring on his small finger, though she could tell that he was quite distracted by whatever held his thoughts. Judging by the downturned curve of his mouth, it wasn’t good.
Sarani took the rare opportunity to study him.
Inasmuch as the windblown guise of the sea captain suited him, this look of the London gentleman suited him even more. His finely milled, charcoal frock coat fit his broad shoulders to perfection, and contrasting dove-gray trousers hugged the length of his long, muscled legs. Polished Hessian boots peeped out at the hems. He was every inch a duke, and she could not deny that Rhystan wore wealth and elegance well.
Even when he was fastidiously clothed, no one could question the duke’s raw virility, nor the power that lay coiled beneath all those pressed yards of fabric. Danger curled from him in a way that made her blood heat. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a hardened pirate disguised in gentleman’s trappings. Her eyes trailed back up, her mouth going unreasonably dry as her stare collided with his.
A smirk tugged at a corner of his full lips.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked.
Swallowing her mortification at being caught, she lifted her chin on a small huff of air and let a bit of her captive tigress loose. “Shouldn’t I? After all, this isn’t a look I’ve seen before.”
“Look?”
She gestured to his person. “The Duke of Embry, in the flesh.”
“I was a duke on the ship.”
“You were captain on the ship,” she corrected. “This is different. It’s like you’ve put on a costume and you’re about to go on stage.”
“All life’s a stage, my lady.”
Her heart gave a thump at the possessive caress over the last two words. “This isn’t a performance, Your Grace. At least not for you. This is real life. You’re a duke now, and you have responsibilities.”
His mouth tightened as he gave a humorless laugh. “Trust me, Lady Sara, I’m well acquainted with your position on the matter. For you, duty is the death of anything that matters, isn’t it?”
The words cut like daggers, despite being the truth. Though she’d rebelled in small subversive ways, she’d always been a servant to her position. With him. With Talbot. With anything that had been required of her. At least on the surface.
“When one is a princess,” she ground through her teeth, “duty is the only thing that matters.”
“You were a princess.”
Her burning gaze collided with his. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were a princess. You’re an English lady now on hallowed English soil. Daughter of a Scottish countess. Fiancée of an English duke. The only duty you have is to me as your future husband.” His mouth widened into something that could hardly be counted as a smile, his eyes remaining cold and slyly calculating.
Sarani felt like a mouse being toyed with by a lion, and she did not like it one bit. Her gaze slid to the door latch. She could end this right now. Open that carriage door and leave. Find her own way out of this mess somehow. Her emotions crashed and jumbled, spinning wildly.
“Have second thoughts already?” the duke asked, watching her. “Might I remind you of the dangers you’re facing, Princess.” His use of her defunct title was a mockery. “You need me, remember? You have no home, a family that might not welcome you, no connections, an assassin on your heels, dwindling funds, and nowhere to go.”
The perfunctory list slammed the wind from her sails. When he said it like that, her problems sounded insurmountable. Sarani gathered her anger, cloaking herself in it. She refused to feel powerless, even in the face of such miserable odds. With a hiss, she reminded herself that he needed her as well.
“I have money,” she snapped. “And you need me, too, my lord duke. You have no marriage prospects, a mother who expects you to wed for the sake of the dukedom, and no way out of your predicament but for me to pretend to be your fiancée. People in glass castles should think before casting stones.”
A bark of laughter burst from his lips. “Good thing we’re trapped in this glass castle together, then.”
“You and your castle can get buggered.” She gasped as the vulgar oath left her lips, a hand flying to her mouth. Blast those foul-mouthed boatswains…and blast her ungovernable temper where the duke was concerned.
“So crude, Lady Sara.” Rhystan tutted, though something flashed in his eyes before it disappeared. Heat? “Surely, you don’t expect anyone to believe you’re a demure English lady when such filthy sentiments fall from such pretty lips.”
“This is never going to work,” she muttered. “How can I be your fiancée when you make me want to tear my hair out by the roots? I can’t pretend to…care for you when all I want to do is stab you with a shard of glass from your stupid invented castle.”
“Ouch,” he said, his mouth twitching. “That hurts.”
“The truth always hurts.”
He stuck out his hand. “I propose a truce, then.”
“A what?”
“Truce. A cease-fire. Temporary amnesty.”
She glared at him, ignoring his hand. “I know what truce means, you jackanapes. No one, least of all your mother, is going to be convinced that we are a love match. This is foolish. She’ll see right through this. Through me.” Her feeble confidence dissolved as panic set in. “I have a feisty tongue, made worse by weeks spent with your crew. I despise being told what to do. I couldn’t possibly make you or any Englishman a dutiful, proper wife. This is impossible.”
“You gave your word.”
Sarani clenched her jaw as the carriage rolled to a smooth stop. The sounds of the coachman descending from his perch reached her ears. Within moments, he would be opening the door in front of Rhystan’s childhood home, and then there would be no turning back. “Why don’t you want to be duke?”
The brief hint of humor evaporated, shutters closing down over his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It just does. Answer the question.”
He went silent for a long moment, but then he spoke, his voice dripping with coldness. “Because I’m not fit for it.”
* * *
Rhystan stared at Sarani, his throat like a vise. Hell if he ever wanted to admit that to her of all people. But as she’d so eloquently pointed out, he needed her as much as she needed him if he had any hope of thwarting his mother. A
nd the only answer he could give to her question was the truth. The ugly, pathetic, awful truth.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s your birthright.”
“No,” he bit out. “I wasn’t even the spare. It was only by a horrific accident that this fell to me. They died in a fire. I didn’t.” His breath sawed out of him in short bursts. “Because I wasn’t there. I was never part of this life. It was never supposed to be me—the ne’er-do-well third son. The rotten egg.”
“You’re still the son of a duke,” Sarani said after a beat, reaching out to touch his sleeve and then pulling back as if uncertain of its welcome. “What happened to your father and brothers was tragic. We can’t always choose our paths. Sometimes, they’re chosen for us. And you’re not rotten.”
“Because you know me so well?” He laughed, the sound harsh in the confines of the coach. “You met an idealistic boy, one who had the naivete beaten out of him, and it taught me one thing: I carve my own path, Princess.”
The coach door opened then, and he took the opportunity to hop out, his soles making a clapping sound against the cobblestones. Sarani looked like she had more to say, but as her eyes swept outward at the exterior of the ducal residence, apprehension flooded them.
Taking his hand, she stepped down and took in a clipped breath at the bottom of the stairs. Oddly, Rhystan wanted to comfort her, but he buried the impulse. She would not welcome it, and he would not open himself up to being spurned in the middle of the street.
Inside the foyer, the duchess’s butler took their outer trappings, and Rhystan scanned the familiar space. Not much had changed despite their apparent astronomical decline in fortune. The furniture was polished, the marble floors shone, and familiar paintings hung on the mahogany-paneled walls. He half expected to hear his father’s and brother’s baritones in low conversation. A knot of emotion formed inside him.
“Rhyssie!” The high-pitched screech was the only warning he got before a whirling devil in skirts crashed headlong into him. He braced as a pair of wiry arms wound around him with no regard for propriety, squeezed, and then released. Despite being a good foot shorter than he was, his baby sister scrutinized him down the length of her pert nose. “Good Lord but you’ve turned into a mountain! And your arms are like slabs of granite.”
The Princess Stakes Page 15
