“What isn’t?”
She waved an arm. “England. Here. Being Lady Lockhart. I am not my mother.”
“We had no choice, did we?” Asha said softly. “We left to save our lives.”
That was true. She glanced at the maid. “Are you happy here?”
“My feelings do not matter, Princess. I am here to serve you.” She took a breath. “But if you are asking whether I am content, I have a roof over my head, food to fill my belly, and a safe, warm place to lay my head. Everything else is hullabaloo.”
Sarani frowned. “Hullabaloo?”
“My nanijan used to say, ‘Sticks and stones can crack your bones, but words are as light as air.’”
“They can still hurt.”
“Sometimes,” Asha said with a shrug. “The other servants may view themselves as my betters and gossip when I walk past, but my only duty is to you, Princess. I remind myself that there are others in much worse situations. Survival isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It takes great courage to lift one’s feet and step forward.”
The maid’s quiet words were exactly what Sarani needed to hear. Not caring who might be observing from the many windows of Huntley House, she gathered Asha into an embrace. “Thank you, my dear friend. Your counsel is invaluable.”
“You are welcome, Princess Sarani.” Asha smiled, dark eyes crinkling with affection. “Tej and I are off to the market. His Grace has requested you join him for a ride in Hyde Park this afternoon. I’ve pressed your green riding habit.”
Sarani felt the constriction in her chest ease and loosen.
Perhaps a ride was exactly what she needed.
* * *
Rhystan watched as Sarani commanded the mare with a light, firm touch on the reins. Even sitting in a lady’s sidesaddle, which she’d never much liked, she rode with such grace. She’d always been an excellent horsewoman, and that had not changed in the last five years. A vision of them racing across the plains beyond the palace in Joor darted into his brain. Even then, he’d rarely been able to beat her. And he’d tried. She’d been fearless and skilled—a winning combination.
“Do you still race?” he asked, steering his stallion to trot abreast with her.
Sarani glanced at him, her eyes glittering with pleasure. That was better than how solemn she’d seemed earlier when she’d met him at the mews. “On occasion. The races have grown in popularity with the princes. However, they particularly did not like losing to a woman, and my father forbade me from entering.”
He arched a brow. “You let that stop you?”
“Hardly,” she teased, her lips curving into a wicked smirk that shot straight to his groin. “I dressed like a man and took their money that way.”
Rhystan couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Minx.”
“I prefer ‘impresario,’” she tossed back. “I rode until I took a bad fall a few years ago that weakened my spine. The doctors said I would never ride again, and yet here I am. Though I confess, I’m not as hell-for-leather as I used to be.”
Rhystan wasn’t surprised in the least. She’d always been dauntless. The girl he knew would never let something as life-altering as an injured spine slow her down, nor would she let anyone tell her she couldn’t do anything. His mouth bowed into a reluctant smile.
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I’m physically capable of it,” she said. “But the mind, you see, once it has known pain and associated that pain with an event or action, it doesn’t forget. If I go too fast, my instinct is to slow to a safer speed, which makes me lose the competitive edge. Fear is a rather powerful thing to conquer.”
Rhystan had the sudden thought that she was no longer speaking of racing. Though her face remained composed, he could feel the thoughtful weight of her sidelong glance. “So you’re afraid of taking another fall?”
“Aren’t we all a bit fearful of pain, Your Grace? Falling or otherwise?”
“You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life.”
He did not attempt to hide the depth of his esteem. Why would he? He’d always valued her mettle…her spirit. Sarani’s gaze swung to his as she faltered, her horse veering sharply as her hands jerked on the reins.
Deviltry tugged at him. “Besides, you seem to be falling for me quite happily. Most women do, you know. It’s inevitable.”
The horse jolted to an ungraceful stop.
“Good gracious, your arrogance is astounding.” Splotches of color skimmed her cheeks, but she kept her expression calm when she started moving again and regarded him haughtily over one shoulder. “I’m not ‘most women,’ Your Grace.”
“No, you’re not.” He grinned, clicking at his horse to speed up to match her increased gait as she angled her horse away from him. Her cheeks were blazing now, making an indistinct rush of pleasure gather in his chest. God, she was lovely. “Are you blushing, my lady? My word, the boatswains would argue that London Town has made you soft, cabin boy.”
She shot him an arch look. “We are not on your ship now, Duke.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he said. “Would that we were, however.”
In truth, he’d give anything to feel the salty sea spray on his face, to stand in the path of a hurricane, or even outrace brigands in the Caribbean Sea. Anything was preferable to the tedium of the city. Balls, assemblies, dinners, and hours and hours of incessant discussion on etiquette and suitability. He was sick of it. Sick of pretending to be someone he was not. This duke whom everyone revered…that was not him. Even the women his mother insisted on foisting upon him were wearing him ragged. If he heard one more simpering giggle, he was going to strangle someone.
Rhystan glanced over at his riding companion. She most certainly was not like those women. Sarani did not simper or giggle. She laughed with everything in her, full and raw and so sultry it made his bones melt. And she did not trifle. She always had something intelligent to say.
He recalled his mother’s intervention in the study earlier and fought a wave of disgust. Her thoughtless words galled him, but he knew she wasn’t alone in her sentiments. If the ton got wind of who Sarani really was, they wouldn’t hesitate to treat her with veiled disdain or ridicule her behind closed doors in their drawing rooms as they had her mother after she’d left England. If there was one thing the aristocracy loved more than celebrating their own importance, it was slander.
And by association, his family would be smeared by the scandal.
The gossip in the wake of the Duke of Embry taking such a bride would ruin the dowager’s standing in the eyes of the ton. They would never insult her directly, but invitations would dwindle, as would her influence. She would become the subject of gossip, something he knew she loathed. Ravenna, too. The Huntley name would lose its eternal luster.
Who gives a tinker’s curse about the title?
He didn’t, but others would, namely his peers. Not that he gave a shit about the ton… It was Ravenna he worried for. She needed to secure an excellent match and a husband who would look after her. He worried for his mother as well. For all her endless faults, she loved her children dearly and was steadfastly loyal to her family.
Rhystan shoved down his worries, determined to enjoy the few moments of peace and quiet. They were nearing the corner of Hyde Park. He rolled the knotted tension from his neck muscles. “Shall we have a race on Rotten Row? Last I heard it’s been significantly widened and new railings installed.”
“You wish to race?” Sarani asked, but her eyes glittered with excitement. “Are ladies allowed?”
He glanced down at his pocket watch. “It’s early. Most of the toffs won’t be out for the afternoon promenade for hours yet. And besides, a future duchess can do as she likes.”
“I am not a future duchess,” she said.
“A princess, then.”
She laughed, the sound hollow. “Trust me, no one he
re sees me as that. They see me as a strange creature, likely raised by wolves in some remote, vulgar corner of the world, whom the gallant and brave Duke of Embry doubtless rescued from a ghastly life.”
“Well, at least they got the ‘gallant and brave’ part right,” he teased. “You did forget handsome though. The gallant, brave, and dashingly handsome Duke of Embry.”
“One day, your head will explode with all that vanity, and that will be the end of you.”
“Will you mourn me?”
She grinned. “I’ll dance on your remains like the Goddess Kali did with her lover, Lord Shiva.”
“I expect no less from you, my bloodthirsty princess.” He reached over and grabbed her reins, enjoying the snap of temper in those brilliant eyes. “Though we are not lovers. Yet.”
Her gorgeous skin bloomed. “Never, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Never is a long time,” he said, tracing a gloved finger over her delicate wrist. “You might change your mind.”
Sarani snatched her hand away. “The sun will rise in the west before I come to your bed, Your Grace.”
“Not even if I beg you for hours on my knees?”
He let the erotic slant of his thoughts show, his gaze sweeping her body with scorching intent. She gaped at him, chest rising and falling beneath the hunter-green bodice that brought out the emerald fleck in her eyes. “We are in public. You are unspeakable!”
“In public or in bed.” His smile was wicked. “I am the robber of all speech.”
“You’re obsessed with the bedchamber,” she shot back, her voice husky and her expression wild. Damn but he loved teasing her. He wanted to watch that becoming blush spill down into her décolletage, then distill even lower, and he wanted to trace its path with his tongue. His groin ached with pure, self-inflicted torment.
“Aren’t all men?”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched as she fought to keep her natural inclination to spar battened. “Only the clearly deprived ones.”
His smile was slow. “Are you offering to rescue me?”
“No!” She steered the mare away in a huff toward the start of Rotten Row. “Are we racing or is it only your tongue you intend to put to use?” She froze, her face as bright as a summer strawberry. “Don’t you dare answer that!”
Rhystan had to laugh at her chagrined look as the sounds of a few choice foul oaths reached him. God, he’d missed their banter and her fire. Even on the ship, he’d look forward to the wordplay. She made him think, she made him laugh, and she made him forget that he was anything but a man. It was grounding.
“We need to decide on a prize for the winner,” he said. “Something of value, otherwise neither of us will make any effort.”
“I win simply for the thrill and to put you in your place, Your Grace.”
He wound his hands into the reins of his stallion and patted the horse’s sorrel-colored neck. “Alas, I require more of an incentive.” He put his fingers to his chin and squinted into the distance as though deep in thought. “I claim a kiss when I win.”
“When you win?” she asked.
“You are riding sidesaddle, you’ve admitted that you’ve lost your edge, and the part of you that desperately wants me to kiss you again will sabotage your competitive instincts quite thoroughly.”
Sarani opened her mouth and shut it, incredulity filling her gaze. “You…you…”
“Yes, yes, I’m unspeakable. Saying it more won’t make it any less true. Stop stalling. What do you choose as your prize?”
“It is truly a wonder that you aren’t married with all that conceit.”
He winked and leaned in. “You adore me.”
She shook her head in wary disbelief as though he’d transformed into a stranger before her eyes. Rhystan supposed he had. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Not since…well, five years ago.
Sarani narrowed her eyes at him. “Somehow I do not remember you being this vexing.”
“In my defense, I was trying to impress you back then.”
“And now?”
“Now I intend to trounce you soundly.” He pasted on a determined expression. “I’ll have you know, I take my kisses very seriously.”
She rolled her plump lips between her teeth as though not to smile and studied him, resolve firming her jaw before she nodded. “If I win, you’ll escort Ravenna to the next three balls of her choosing, including the one at Lady Windmere’s.”
Lady Windmere? He blinked, his brain cataloging the endless procession of eligible ladies who had been thrust upon him in the past week. A voice like razors on glass came to him, followed by roving hands better suited to a flash thief in St. Giles than a lady in Mayfair. The Duchess of Windmere was none other than the mother of Lady Penelope. The girl was tenacious and bold in an entirely unattractive way. How his own mother thought he would ever be inclined to marry a chit like that was beyond him. It was nearly enough to drain the lust from him.
He almost groaned and peered at Sarani, but her face gave nothing away. “That’s three things. Do I get three kisses?”
“Stop stalling,” she mocked. “Deal or no deal, Your Grace?” One slim, ebony brow arched, her horse prancing beneath her as amusement flashed in those autumn-colored eyes. God, she was beautiful. He wanted to lean over and claim that tart tongue right then.
Good thing he had no intention of losing. “Deal.”
Seventeen
The Duke of Embry seemed to be going a bit green in the gills. Sarani grinned. He looked like he’d eaten a bowlful of crow and was going to cast his accounts all over the ballroom. But the greenish tinge to his features was worth the look on his sister’s face when they’d been announced together by the majordomo at the entrance to the Duchess of Windmere’s midseason ball.
Lady Ravenna Huntley, accompanied by His Grace, the Duke of Embry.
Etiquette dictated that the duke be announced first, but Rhystan must have instructed the majordomo otherwise. Sarani had to admit it was a nice touch. Every eye in the room had turned to them, and even the grim dowager duchess—whom Sarani had arrived with earlier and, by some miracle, had not throttled in the carriage—had cracked a proud smile. Ravenna had not had her own coming-out ball after her presentation at court, given her brother’s absence, and this was the next best thing: a public presentation at the most popular ball of the season.
As Sarani had hoped, within moments, every single dance on Ravenna’s dance card had been claimed. Every bachelor in attendance longed for a connection, even through marriage, with the wealthy, elusive, and powerful Duke of Embry. As Sarani had also expected but wasn’t sure she liked, the duke had not been able to escape the clutches of Lady Penelope all evening.
The girl was relentless. Though she had ignored Sarani after that first soiree, deeming her of no consequence, once word of their engagement got out, Sarani knew things would take a turn for the worse. She recognized the type—the entitled girl who felt everything was her due. Including men.
Watching Rhystan surrounded by twittering debutantes, Sarani attempted to hide her grin behind her fan. She’d beaten him soundly in the horse race down Rotten Row, despite the challenges he’d enumerated, the least of which had been her scorching desire to be kissed. What an arrogant rotter! The thought of it still heated her insides to mortifying levels.
Because she had wanted it. She’d wanted him to kiss her. Hard. Deep. Soundly.
She’d wanted so much more than a kiss.
The way he’d looked at her when he’d teased of going to his knees… Intimate, wicked visions of him doing exactly that had crowded her brain. Even now, her body tingled with desire, her nipples pebbling beneath her bodice at the mere thought of being seduced by such a fit, virile man. She’d had such scandalous thoughts before, of course, but years ago, when her chaste fantasies had been those of a young girl.
Now, they were much less chaste.
Memories of Rhystan lying half-naked on his cot when she’d first climbed aboard his ship burst into life in her head. They were quickly followed by flashes of him in his copper tub—large, wet, and glistening—and then him on his knees before her again… She lifted her fan, employing it briskly to ward off the sudden flare of heat. Oh, her thoughts were ungovernable!
Air, she needed air.
Hurrying toward the balcony along the border of the ballroom, Sarani slipped outside to the less-crowded terrace. The change in location didn’t make her imaginings any less filthy, but the cool evening breeze helped.
She needed to stop thinking about him.
It wasn’t as though she intended to have any husbandly prospects after she and the duke went their separate ways, and Sarani still had an assassin to contend with, though as the days went by, she was less and less sure that they had been followed on the high seas. Perhaps it had been a coincidence. Perhaps Vikram had given up and let her go.
“Pardon the intrusion, my lady,” a quiet male voice said, a glass of champagne appearing before her. It was attached to a man she did not immediately recognize, though he was well heeled and undoubtedly titled. One had to have been invited to this particular ball.
Sarani was desperately parched, but she knew better than to accept drinks from strangers, even at exclusive parties, and he was breaching decorum in the worst way by approaching her without an introduction. She shot him a pointed look. “We have not been introduced, sir.”
He gave a slow nod. “Forgive my trespass, then. I’m quite new to town, you see. New to all this, really. We rarely come to London for the season as my wife prefers the country.”
Sarani stared at him, at a loss for words. “Is there something I can help you with, Lord…”
“Beckforth.”
Heart in her throat, she turned to stare at him more fully, but nothing registered beyond the fact that he was about a decade older than she was and had a stern if handsome face.
The Princess Stakes Page 18
