The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  “Ravenna,” he said with a fond grin. “You’ve grown, too.”

  And she had. The last time he’d seen her for the funeral, she hadn’t been so tall. Or so pretty. It’d only been two years, and she’d gone from girl to woman in a blink. Coiled loops of auburn hair framed a narrow, heart-shaped face, and there was a distinct look of coquettishness in her eyes.

  Rhystan frowned. Wasn’t she still twelve or some such? Eighteen, a voice in his head reminded him. He scowled at the revealing bodice on her gown but was saved from growling his displeasure when his sister turned an appraising gaze to Sarani, who was standing quietly at his side.

  “Who’s this, then?”

  He touched Sarani’s elbow, keeping the fond smile on his lips firmly in place. “Allow me to present Lady Sara Lockhart,” he said. “My fiancée.”

  “Your what?” Her shriek could probably be heard all the way to Piccadilly.

  “You heard me,” he said with an exasperated look. “Lady Sara, this is my apparent hellion of a sister, Lady Ravenna, who evidently has forgotten her manners and not to scream like a banshee indoors.”

  Sarani’s brow rose infinitesimally as she shot him a look that said: Demure, sweet, dutiful? He felt heat crawl up his neck. Perhaps he had exaggerated slightly in his description of Ravenna. Then again, the last time he’d seen the little minx, she’d been barely out of the schoolroom…and maybe a bit intimidated by the drifter-turned-duke brother she hadn’t seen since childhood.

  “I don’t know, Your Grace,” Sarani said, her rich, mellifluous tone curling over his senses. “I, myself, can be a hellion on occasion. It’s rather liberating.” She inclined her head and offered a conspiratorial smile to the incorrigible chit. “It’s a pleasure to make a fellow hellion’s acquaintance, my lady.”

  His sister’s grin lit up her entire face. “If we are to be sisters, I insist you call me Ravenna.”

  Sarani smiled back. “Ravenna, then. And I’m Sara.”

  Remembering her forgotten manners, Ravenna ducked into a hasty curtsy, eyes gleaming with sudden mischief as her bright copper-colored gaze returned to Rhystan. “Now this is a surprise. We expected you, but not two of you and certainly not a fiancée. Does Mama know?”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet. Is she at home?”

  Ravenna grinned. “She’s been at home ever since word arrived that you’d put into port. You are in so much trouble, you naughty boy.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m a grown man, Ravenna.”

  “As you say, Your Disgrace.” She stuck out her tongue and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She’s in the drawing room. Come along before she sends reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements?”

  She gave an unrepentant grin. “Your harem of female suitors.”

  Rhystan felt his jaw drop. “I beg your pardon, did you just say ‘suitors’?”

  “Oh yes, she’s been interviewing them by the handfuls—who wants to be the next Duchess of Embry? It’s been the rage for weeks all season.” She leaned in and lowered her voice in a stage whisper. “I’ve heard from the servants’ grapevine that the wagers at White’s are through the roof. Lady Penelope is the favorite so far, though I find her a tad…conceited for my liking.”

  Her gleeful gaze slid to Sarani, who, to her credit, hadn’t said a word despite her rapidly twitching lips…which indicated she was either going to scream or burst into laughter. Rhystan grimly suspected the latter.

  “She’s the daughter of the Duke of Windmere and quite an heiress,” Ravenna went on, quite oblivious to her brother’s brewing frustration. “A splendid catch, the papers are all saying. Well, bully for them. Because Lady Sara from”—she paused and frowned at Sarani, wrinkling her nose—“wait, where are you from?”

  “India.”

  Ravenna’s eyes went wide, her scrutiny sharpening on Sarani’s face and clothing with newfound appreciation. “Truly?”

  “By way of England and Scotland,” Sarani added hastily. “A relation to the Earl of Beckforth.”

  “Oh, lovely. I don’t believe I’m acquainted with him.”

  Rhystan nearly swore under his breath. He saw the same aggravated look cross Sarani’s face as if realizing what she’d just admitted out loud. It wasn’t a calamity per se, especially if Ravenna didn’t share it with the duchess or any other nosy members of the ton. But it could not be taken back, not without drawing more attention. And Ravenna, as devoted a sister as she was, was still a girl at heart. Juicy secrets had a way of getting out…and Sarani’s truths were hers to share.

  “Come along,” Ravenna said, striding along the corridor. “I wasn’t jesting about the reinforcements, though it will likely be Fullerton. He’s our exceedingly proper butler. He’s new. Don’t worry, Brother dear, none of your prospective brides are here. I was teasing.”

  “Thank God for that,” Rhystan muttered, his brain muddled by her incessant prattling. He spared Sarani a glance. Despite the earlier glimpse of humor at his predicament—which seemed to grow darker by the second—she hadn’t said a word. His hand grazed the small of her back, his voice lowering. “Are you well, my lady?”

  “Very well.” She peered up at him, eyes glittering with a glee to rival his sister’s. “Honestly, I’m quite excited to meet your harem. Assess the competition, if you will.”

  Ravenna’s laugh trilled back toward them. “Oh, Rhyssie, I do like her immensely. Please do marry her.”

  Rhystan bit back a sigh. The two of them together spelled trouble, but it was too soon to dwell upon it as he caught sight of his mother, ensconced in a divan in the drawing room, her back resting upon a mound of cushions. He narrowed his eyes at her complexion, checking for signs of illness and finding none. She was as hale as anyone; he’d bet his fortune on it.

  Not that he expected her to be ill—not if she was busy interviewing a harem of prospective future duchesses.

  “Mother,” he said in greeting.

  “Embry, darling,” she said softly as if it pained her to speak, and Rhystan almost rolled his eyes. “How wonderful to see you.”

  “And you,” he said, moving to kiss her outstretched hands. “You look rested.”

  She smiled. “I’m much recovered, and better now that you are here.” Her gaze shifted to where Ravenna stood with Sarani, and he could see the widening of her pupils and the suspicion that instantly filled them. “I thought I heard voices in the hall. Who, pray tell, is your guest?”

  “Mother, may I present Lady Sara Lockhart.” He reached back, pulling Sarani to his side and leaving his mother in little doubt of their familiarity. “Lady Sara, my mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Embry.”

  Her eyes panned between them, incisive, cold, and ever assessing, falling for an instant on the place where his hand gripped Sarani’s elbow with possessive ease. A sharp intelligence glimmered in her gaze, followed by an imperceptible tightening of her lips.

  “Who, exactly, is she to you?”

  “Why, the future Duchess of Embry, of course.” Rhystan couldn’t quite curb the smug note in his voice. “Do be the first to offer us your blessing.”

  He should have been prepared, because honestly, it was to no one’s surprise when the duchess fell back to her cushions in a dead faint.

  Fifteen

  A week later, an anxious, jittery stomach had become the bane of Sarani’s existence. For every pristinely appointed London home she’d set foot in—one assembly, one musicale, and two soirees—the roiling sea of nerves never seemed to get any easier. In fact, the bloody fretfulness had worsened to sickening proportions. Unease was her constant companion.

  At first, she’d thought that maybe it was a premonition or an instinct for danger. Had her cousin’s assassin found her? But Rhystan had insisted that Gideon and a few of his men were watching the harbor for a ship resembling the one that had been tracking them, and nothing
out of the ordinary had been reported. That ship had to have been coincidence.

  But Sarani couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Perhaps she was sensitive to the foggy airs and false humors of England. It was a distinct probability.

  Because, goddess alive, she missed Joor more than she’d thought possible.

  She missed the vibrant splashes of color, the singsong chattering of people in the market, the smells of simmering spices. The hot breezes dancing over her skin. The river and secret waterfall. She missed swimming and staring up at the clouds. Even though she didn’t have many friends or extended family, Asha and her other handmaidens had kept her company. She missed their jokes and their palace intrigues with the guards. But most of all, she missed being herself and not having to observe some breath-strangling English drawing room rule every sodding second.

  Sit this way. Stand that way. Don’t have an opinion.

  Simper. Flutter your eyelashes. Sip overwarm punch.

  Be the rose.

  She hated the dratted rose—it symbolized everything she could never be. And that had been made evidently clear by the most perfect of roses herself: the Dowager Duchess of Embry.

  After reviving from her faint upon hearing of their betrothal, the dowager duchess’s disposition had not improved. She’d looked upon Sarani as one would a bothersome flea when they’d first been introduced, and now Sarani had the distinct impression that the dowager duchess suspected far more than she was letting on. She was much too clever to be tricked.

  And that terrified Sarani to no end.

  She had been prepared for an explosion after the duchess recovered, but the woman had handled it with remarkable poise, a cool if dignified felicitation falling from her thinned lips. The call for champagne had surprised Sarani, given her swoon, though the coldly appraising look Rhystan’s mother had leveled across the rim of her flute had not.

  A keen judge of character, Sarani guessed that the dowager would be a formidable enemy, and already after only eight days—having been swiftly ensconced at Huntley House for decorum’s sake—she felt the knife edge of disapproval. A huff here, a curl of a lip there. The keen glances at Asha, who had accompanied Sarani while Tej had stayed on with Rhystan under the kindly eye of Harlowe.

  None of it was ever in view of her precious son, of course. No, her smile was practically painted on for her dear duke of a boy. With him, her subterfuges were much more practical.

  Embry, dear, don’t you want to wait to make an official announcement? You’ve only just arrived.

  Or Sarani’s favorite: At least allow me the dignity to save face before you’re taken off the marriage mart. Surely you don’t wish to embarrass me, given the soirees I’ve held on your behalf?

  And by soirees, she meant interviews for her son’s future wife.

  Of course, Rhystan had diplomatically agreed. The farce of their engagement had been only for his mother’s benefit, after all. Though his acquiescence didn’t seem to have deterred her efforts in the least. No, the competition was still fierce. Ravenna had been delighted to show Sarani the popular London newssheets, which were calling the contest for Rhystan’s hand the Duchess Duels.

  The Duchess sodding Duels.

  Like that arrogant devil was some spectacular prize to be won. On paper, he was, considering his title and fortune, but if his head were to grow any bigger with self-importance, he’d float away to the moon.

  “It’s ridiculously brilliant,” Ravenna had giggled one evening after she’d snuck into Sarani’s chamber, a regular occurrence that Sarani didn’t mind. Unlike the duchess, Ravenna had been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise suffocating space. The girl’s dry sense of humor, unfailing honesty, and clever mind were things that Sarani appreciated. Admittedly, at times not so much the unfailing honesty. Especially with respect to her brother.

  Ravenna spread out the Times and pointed to a ridiculous caricature of galloping women on a racecourse. “They’ve likened it to the Gold Cup during Ascot week. See here. Lady Penny is two leagues ahead of Lady Margaret. They’re the two favorites and have the best odds.” She’d jabbed at the drawing, nearly poking a hole in the paper. “And here’s Lady Clara. Sadly, she’s at the very back of the pack with no hope unless a miracle happens. She’s my friend and not interested in the Duke of Disbelonging in the least, but her mother is making her. She’s on her second season with no prospects.”

  “Duke of Disbelonging?” Sarani had snorted. “That’s not a word.”

  Her grin had turned impish. “Do you prefer Duke of Dashing Desire?”

  “Hardly,” Sarani had protested.

  Ravenna had giggled and waggled her eyebrows. “When Rhystan isn’t looking, you stare at him like he’s a juicy plum pudding you can’t wait to dig your spoon into and get to the warm fruity, gooey center.”

  Sarani’s face had heated to boiling, though she’d be a liar to deny it. Seeing the man sweep through ballrooms like a disguised predator made her faithless heart kick up a notch. Something about him polished to perfection and dressed in formal wear made him seem more dangerous, as though he were a wild, savage beast in a crowd of house-trained pets waiting to pounce. Sarani couldn’t deny that she stared her fill of him…whenever he was not aware, of course. The fact that Ravenna had noticed her staring, however, filled her with alarm.

  “You’re sorely mistaken. I loathe plum pudding,” Sarani had said and steered the subject away. “And you, have you had a season?”

  “This was meant to be my first.” The girl had tried to hide the flash of disappointment behind careless bravado. “But after mourning for so long for Papa and my brothers, Mama wished to wait until Rhystan returned. I suppose she knew he’d be back this season, because I was presented to the queen after Easter along with a hundred other girls, so I’m officially out. But who needs parties anyway? All you get are stuffy ballrooms, silly smelly sirs, and warm lemonade.”

  Sarani had blinked, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place. So the dowager duchess had intended her son to return. The timing of Ravenna’s presentation at court as well as the interviews of potential brides were part of a meticulous scheme to see the Duke of Embry settled. After all, any enviable match of a duke would only help his unmarried younger sister. An odd feeling had squeezed against Sarani’s ribs.

  Was it pity? For Rhystan, Ravenna, or herself?

  “Silly smelly sirs?” she’d asked, shaking off the strange reaction.

  “Have you ever noticed how gentlemen think that bathing means dabbing oneself with copious amounts of perfume and calling it done?” Ravenna had wrinkled her nose with an affected huff of disgust. “It’s bloody awful. Like putting rose water on a pile of refuse and expecting a perfectly clean lady to dance with it.”

  Sarani had burst into laughter, though a part of her had wondered whether Ravenna’s marriage prospects had all been put on hold because of Rhystan. He’d been gallivanting who-knew-where while his sister languished in a state of painful limbo, waiting to be presented to society by her only remaining brother, the duke. And he had not been there.

  Then again, Rhystan had been running from his own demons. From expectation.

  Daughters and sons of the aristocracy were pawns to be played at will—to increase fortunes, to gain a title, to strengthen an alliance. Even she had not been spared from the crushing weight of duty, until she’d had no choice. She had run from Talbot and Vikram, unwilling to be prey either to a smarmy rotter or an underhanded assassin.

  Rhystan had run from his birthright and mother.

  That didn’t mean she trusted him, just that she empathized.

  Swallowing past the growing lump of nausea in her throat, Sarani stood at the threshold of the staircase of the dowager duchess’s home leading down into the lavish ballroom, her stomach in its usual knots. This “intimate” welcome home party was yet another ploy by the duchess to make her so
n come to his senses and select a woman of her choosing. Sarani could feel it.

  She hadn’t seen Rhystan in days. Apparently, he’d been busy dealing with some estate issues with his solicitor. Though he hadn’t shared anything with her, she could see the strain of it in his features whenever she did see him. Admittedly, the burden of the charade was wearing also on her. Pasting a smile on her face, she approached Fullerton.

  “Lady Sara Lockhart,” the butler intoned as she descended.

  She felt the gazes flock and settle on her as though she were some circus oddity or breed of rare creature that the Duke of Embry had brought back from his travels. It was India, for heaven’s sake, she wanted to scream, not some uncivilized hellhole. Even as she thought it, she almost laughed. Most of these narrowminded people likely viewed her birthplace and home as worse than that.

  Propaganda…it was a dangerous weapon.

  Though the people in this room might not suspect her mixed origins, she knew they had already judged her harshly for having been raised in the colonized east…a place full of murderous heretics, according to the Times, which would undoubtedly have tainted her somehow. British news commentary denounced colonial society everywhere, often portraying its people, even in their own colonies, as mad and promiscuous.

  Now walking among these hubristically superior English nobles, Sarani had never felt more like Miss Swartz in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. Even now, she could see the author’s written words in her mind’s eye: “Marry that mulatto woman? I don’t like the color, sir.”

  Gracious, if they only knew the truth…

  Would they snub her as well?

  Sarani held her head high, catching the eye of the dowager duchess, who stood surrounded by fawning admirers. The ice in the woman’s glare did not dissipate, and Sarani felt the scrape of it like a blade. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes and leave, she approached and bowed her head in greeting, curtsying elegantly.