“Nowhere. I just needed some air.”
She swept past him to the narrow balcony beyond a pair of glass-paned French doors, acutely aware of what had happened last time they’d been on a terrace alone. But it was either that or faint. Thank goodness this one was well lit with no inviting alcoves to speak of. The duke followed, his huge frame propping against one marble column, and Sarani bit back a groan.
“What did Lady Penelope say to you?” he demanded.
Had he been watching her while dancing with Ravenna?
Sarani brought up her fan and stared at it before fanning herself vigorously. Dancing couples were beginning to stare at them whenever they twirled past the glass doors, not even hiding their interest. Rhystan was the sort of man who drew attention wherever he went, and she… Well, according to the scandal sheets, speculation was rife. The two of them arguing on a balcony would be too delicious for words.
“Nothing,” Sarani said. “She was being her usual self.”
“A brat?”
A puff of laughter escaped her lips. “Categorically.”
“I’ve danced with several ladies of unimpeachable reputation, including Lady Pettigrew, who practically devoured me with her eyes, then with my sister, launching her off in the most respectable of ways, and now I wish to take a turn with you. Will you dance with me?”
Instant panic flooded her veins. Even standing an arm’s length away from him, she was barely managing to restrain herself from dragging him to a deserted room, plastering her body to his, and begging him to ruin her again. She couldn’t begin to imagine what feeling those large palms on her for the entirety of a dance would do. Already, she could feel the dampness between her legs and her nipples tightening in shameless arousal.
That would simply not do.
“I cannot, but thank you,” she blurted out, bringing her fan up between them and fanning herself with brisk strokes.
He frowned at the lace device and then at her. “Why not?”
In response, her fan increased its speed, her brain failing to come up with an acceptable excuse that wasn’t an outright lie. Her gaze fell on the elegant fan. “Did you know that there’s a whole language to the lady’s fan? For example, twirling it in one’s left hand means we are being watched, which we are,” she added for good measure. “Drawing it across one’s eyes says ‘I am sorry,’ while resting it upon one’s lips says the gentleman is not to be trusted.”
A slow smile curved those very sinful lips as though he could see right through her. He leaned in, his next words low. “And fanning at such a speed means you are head over heels in love.”
Both fingers and fan froze in midair, and then she snapped it shut.
“And snapping one’s fan shut, dearest, means you’re jealous.” Rhystan grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The playful look transformed his face, leaving her breathless at the glimpse of the boy she’d known. So he wasn’t quite lost.
“No, it doesn’t,” she said and then frowned uncertainly. “Does it?”
“How should I know? I’m a man. We tend to say what we think.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Unlike your sex, women have to communicate their desires in codes or be deemed indelicate and scandalous. It’s all rather absurd, isn’t it? That a woman should be afraid to speak her mind for fear of being shunned or ostracized and outraging high society.”
“Absurd how?”
Gracious, he had a knack for riling her up. “That a female’s opinion could create such world-destroying chaos.”
“Women have been causing chaos since Eden.”
Sarani snorted. “Good gracious, are you referring to the Bible? How positively low you have sunk, Your Grace. At least base your arguments on something that wasn’t written by a horde of ancient male historians.”
“What of Darwin?” he asked.
“Well, we are discussing absurdity.” She shook her head with disdain, warming to her subject and oblivious to their now avid audience in the ballroom, straining to hear their low but impassioned conversation. “The complexity of the human brain cannot possibly be determined by sex. My brain is no less effective than yours, and my parents proved that beyond the shade of a doubt with my unconventional education. Give us women a few decades, and chaos will be the least of what we can accomplish.”
“I don’t doubt that in the slightest, my lady.”
Sarani searched his quiet reply for sarcasm, but there was none. She tapped her fan with a small grin. “We did invent an entire language around fans, after all.”
A new voice cut between them.
“Tell me, my lady, regarding the language of fans, which I find mildly fascinating, what is the movement to say that one is engaged?”
Sarani turned, despite Rhystan’s immediate glower and the impropriety of a strange gentleman interrupting their conversation, and felt the blood drain from her limbs. This particular gentleman did not require an introduction, because she knew him well, even with a half mask. She would never forget how her skin crawled whenever he looked at her, the way it did now.
An icy-cold sweat formed between her shoulder blades, dark spots threatening her vision as her legs shook beneath her dress. No, no, no… This could not be happening. But her memory was not playing tricks on her. The regent of Joor stood in this very ballroom, his familiar watery blue eyes swimming with anger and lust.
“Lord Talbot?” she whispered.
He bowed. “In the flesh. I’ve only recently discovered that my fiancée, whom I thought dead, is alive and has betrothed herself to another.”
The weight of a thousand knives crashed down upon her. The depth of her predicament suddenly became clear. It wasn’t Lord Talbot’s return that struck fear into her heart. It was the fact that he knew who she was and who she was pretending to be.
He was judge, jury, and executioner.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’ve been promised.” His leer made her blood chill. “My bride.”
* * *
Rhystan had not immediately recognized the masked man. Until Sarani had whispered his name, he’d been at a loss. He fought the urge to slam his fist into the earl’s face. The fury coursing through him was impossible to control, the man’s lecherous stare and the idea that he had any prior claim on her making him see red. Around them, people had stopped dancing and were colliding with one another in an effort to eavesdrop.
“The lady is spoken for,” he gritted out.
“Why, Commander Huntley, no longer a boy, eh?” Talbot sneered. “And still chasing after these skirts, I see.”
Rhystan’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that no sane person would mistake for friendly. “You will address me with the proper respect, Talbot. I am the Duke of Embry.”
“Apologies, Duke. I’ve only just returned to England.”
Rhystan knew without a doubt that the earl would have been aware of his altered circumstances after his father’s death. The tragedy had been the news of London for months. The false ignorance was a deliberate slight, that Talbot still saw him as that weak, green lad of an officer. Well, he wasn’t that boy anymore, nor was he the normal kind of duke.
He let his rage show in his eyes. “Walk. Away.”
The earl’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Do you really wish for me to elucidate?” His voice lowered to a snarl. “Walk the hell away, Talbot.”
“Please, Your Grace,” Sarani whispered, touching his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene, for Ravenna’s sake, if not mine. It’s what he wants.”
“Always so clever,” Talbot said, his eyes pinning her. “We looked for you, you know, after your father’s body was discovered. Such a pity.” His sly tone indicated it was anything but, and Rhystan felt Sarani stiffen beside him. “It was speculated that you’d been taken, but the new maharaja insisted you were dead.”<
br />
“The new maharaja,” Sarani echoed.
“Your cousin Vikram.” He rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “Though who knows with you natives and your falsifying of heirs willy-nilly to keep it in the family.” His voice lowered. “Then again, he isn’t precisely the actual heir, is he, Princess Sarani?”
Sarani gasped, her eyes darting to the ballroom where people were craning their necks without shame, and she took a step closer to Rhystan without realizing it. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her that they could not hear, but he did not move a muscle, his stare narrowing on Talbot. He opened his mouth but Sarani spoke first.
“Why are you here, Lord Talbot?”
“Vice Admiral Markham… You remember your superior officer, don’t you, Your Grace?” Talbot said. “Shall we say that I received the most interesting piece of correspondence requiring my immediate presence in London.”
Rhystan’s fists clenched at the mention of both Markham and a letter. The story of his life was apparently repeating itself. This time, he knew that the culprit had to be his own meddlesome mother. Who else would make those connections between the present and his past? He would wring her interfering neck. Right after he dealt with this conniving piece of shit.
The earl went on, oblivious to his impending fate. “It inquired about an English lady, but strangely enough, including a locket with a miniature resembling”—his calculating gaze slid to Sarani—“none other than you.”
“A miniature?” Rhystan’s heart pounded, remembering the robbery at his residence. The thief must have been commissioned to seek out only the locket.
But why? For what purpose? His gaze slid to Sarani’s ashen countenance.
Unless someone was already here…looking for her.
Twenty-One
“I wish to leave,” Sarani said to no one in particular.
Her brain spun with a noxious concoction of fear, dread, and powerless rage. Who could have written to Markham? There was only one answer, truly. Rhystan’s mother had the only motivation. She could not have wanted to be rid of Sarani so badly, could she?
Of course she could. The dowager duchess was ruthless, especially when it came to what she felt was best for her children. Sarani had seen that same protectiveness with Ravenna, though the duchess hid it behind a facade of detachment. She loved her children, but she had a strange way of showing it. But perhaps that was the English way of things.
Despite her roiling emotions and the nausea pooling in the pit of her stomach, Sarani did not blame the duchess. The past would have caught up to her sooner or later.
Right now, she needed to get away from Talbot, from Markham—that odious, bigoted brute had to be here somewhere—before she did something unforgiveable. Her kukri were burning a hole in their sheaths against her legs. She only had to slip her trembling fingers through the concealed slits at her hips, and they would be in her palms.
Not that she intended to murder a man in the middle of Mayfair.
She just needed not to feel powerless.
Sarani jutted her jaw, using the very people who had been staring unabashedly all evening. “Let me pass, Lord Talbot, or I swear to everything holy that you will regret it.” She shot the earl a scathing glance. “Unless you don’t give a fig for your reputation, that is, because I have no qualms making a scene to end all scenes.”
“Wait.” Rhystan’s voice reached her, but she could not look at him now, or she would fall into his arms. And she needed to be strong. For herself.
Holding her head high, she swept past the curious onlookers toward the exit. She would call for a hackney if she had to. Her gaze scanned the crowd for Ravenna as she made her way over to the entrance salon to retrieve her cloak, but there was no sign of her. She glanced briefly at the duchess, who, like her son, had not deigned to wear a mask and whose face remained impassive. Then again, the untouchable dowager duchess would never lower herself to show emotion in public.
A body cut into Sarani’s path, halting her progress.
“I told you,” Penelope spit out viciously.
Sarani grimaced, stifling the urge to shove the girl aside. “Told me what?”
“That you would never have him,” she said triumphantly. “Not when you were already engaged. Gracious, you do get around, don’t you? Setting your sights on an earl, then a duke. Who’s next, Prince Alfred? I’m glad I took the initiative to write that letter.”
Her pretty face was marred with spite, but Sarani’s brain was spinning at the boast. Penelope had written to Markham? How on earth had she made that connection? Or known about Rhystan’s locket? But as quickly as she asked the question, she knew the answer.
It had to have been Ravenna, not knowing what Penelope would do, of course. Sarani had learned about the locket’s existence from Ravenna as well, and come to think of it, she had mentioned saying something to Penelope herself. If one had the connections, which the Duke of Windmere, Penelope’s father, would have, as well as the stolen miniature, getting information about Rhystan’s former commission would have been easy.
Penelope let out an ugly laugh. “Such aspiration, Lady Sara, though one wonders whether you are even a lady at all.”
“What are you talking about?”
Penelope winked and whispered, “I heard you’re a bastard that poor Lady Lisbeth didn’t even know who your father was.”
Sarani truly didn’t want to sink to her level, but she saw red. Tears smarted at the backs of her eyes. She was sick of being treated with such scorn. She let a slow, cold smile form on her lips and lifted a brow. “Why, you should know all about that, shouldn’t you, Penelope?” The girl went pale, but Sarani didn’t relent despite the sourness pooling in her belly. “Being born on the wrong side of the blanket, I mean.”
“I…”
Sarani took a page from Rhystan’s book. “Walk away, Penelope, before we both say something regrettable.”
To Sarani’s surprise, the girl did, hurtling backward like she couldn’t get away fast enough. That was the thing about bullies—they did not like it much when the boot was on the other foot. Penelope might have been casting stones at Sarani’s origins, but she’d forgotten about her own.
Sarani retrieved her cloak and was about to leave when she was stopped again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “How hard is it to leave this place?”
“Currying favor with your betters, I see,” a voice sneered.
Vice Admiral Markham’s bulk took up her vision in the foyer. Her eyes widened. Sarani would not have recognized him if not for the voice. Unlike Talbot, who had not changed in five years, Markham seemed rather worse for wear—he’d put on a stone or two and he looked like he had a rampant case of gout. He did not wear a uniform but was dressed in rumpled evening clothes that had seen better days. Her nose wrinkled. He also smelled like the inside of a chamber pot.
“Please excuse me,” she said, unwilling to trade greetings with a man who had treated her like filth on the sole of his shoe.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked. “I shall have to find your betrothed, then. One of them, at least.” He laughed as though he’d made the wittiest of jokes. “If Talbot had his preference, he would have swum here the minute I showed him that letter. Devil knows what he sees in you. But I’ll tell you what I see.” He swayed slightly. “Opportunity.”
Sarani had had enough of men seeing her as a piece to be played at their whims—whether it was for money or her fortune or her body. Gritting her teeth, she hiked her skirts, darted past him, and fled down the stairs to the crowded streets. It wasn’t that much of a walk to Huntley House—a few blocks at most. No one out here would harm her. The true danger was behind her in that ballroom, not on the streets of Mayfair.
Besides, she had her kukri and she had her wits. A brisk walk would clear her head. On her way past the line of stationary, luxurious coaches, she glimpsed a fam
iliar face on the back of one of them, talking avidly to one of the coachmen.
“Tej!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
Dressed in fancy livery, the boy smiled and sketched an elegant bow. “I was bored with my lessons so I’m pretending to be a tiger for His Grace this evening. Don’t I look dapper?”
“You do.” It was true. Tej looked happy and well fed, his small face glowing with health. The endearing plumpness of his cheeks made his young age even more apparent. “What kind of lessons?”
“Maths and reading.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I’m to start a fancy school soon as the duke’s ward.”
Sarani blinked her shock. “As the duke’s what?”
“His ward. Like his charge. He says if I want to stay, I can. I just have to be willing to learn and make something of myself when I get older. He says I can apprentice to Mr. Longacre if I want.” He screwed up his face. “He adores maths.”
Unexpected warmth filtered through her chest. Rhystan was paying to send Tej to school? The boy was whip-smart, and Sarani had planned to do the same once she got settled, but things had been muddled of late. And now with Talbot and Markham in town, who knew what the future would entail?
Tej grinned. “May I offer you a ride, Princess?”
She could not deny him, not when he’d asked so prettily, his adorable face bright with childish enthusiasm. “Why, of course, gallant sir. Lead me to your chariot.”
* * *
Rhystan stared at the calling card presented to him by his butler. What the hell did the disgraced Vice Admiral Markham want with him? He’d been caught corralling private wealth and had faced a court-martial that had had him cashiered and dismissed with disgrace. The bit of business he’d gotten into with illegal shipments of opium had been his end. That the man expected an audience now was entirely laughable.
In any other circumstance, Rhystan would have set the bastard out on his heels with a few choice words, but with Sarani’s reputation hanging in the balance, he hesitated. A duke of his station was unassailable…but Markham knew exactly who Sarani was. As did Talbot.
The Princess Stakes Page 23
