“Your Grace,” Sarani began, but his mother held up a palm.
“Please, before you say anything, I have something more to say. I know it’s asking quite a bit, but I hope you have it in your heart to forgive me. My very smart son has the right of it. A person should be judged by their conduct and character, not by the color of their skin or their place of birth. I was wrong.”
A stunned Sarani looked like she was considering her reply before she spoke. Rhystan would back her up no matter what, but he waited. “Thank you for saying that, Your Grace,” she said softly. “It’s hard when those who are different from others have to earn respect instead of it being afforded as a basic courtesy, but I can’t fault you for owning up to what you did. It takes great strength of character…and if I hope to honor my own mother’s and father’s teachings, it would behoove me to be equally gracious. We all make mistakes. What matters is that we learn from them.”
God, Rhystan wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her. She was in a word…queenly.
The duchess bowed her head. “I intend to. I truly am sorry.”
“Then I accept your apology.”
His mother let out a ragged breath. “So that’s it,” she said, her gaze drifting to Rhystan. “That’s what I came to say.”
She stood there, uncertain, and suddenly looking rather old and frail. He let out a breath. It took both courage and humility to admit when one was wrong, reinforcing his thought that the duchess was one of the strongest women he knew.
He stood and pulled her into his arms. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Oh, oh, dear boy,” she whispered, hugged him back, and then pulled away, dabbing at her eyes. “That’s quite enough. Wouldn’t want the servants eavesdropping outside that door to think I’ve gone soft now.”
Ravenna’s cheeks were wet, and even Sarani had a suspicious sheen to her eyes.
“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” Rhystan asked.
The dowager duchess smiled. “I would like nothing more.”
* * *
Sarani’s heart had swelled for both Rhystan and Ravenna. What had happened at breakfast had been a step toward them reconnecting as a family and the only thing she had ever wanted for him. For someone who had no family left, she knew how important it was to hold on to the loved ones you had. Her Grace’s astonishing confession, while heartwarming, didn’t change anything for her, however. She still had to leave.
“There, Princess, those trunks are packed,” Asha said, neatly stacking a few hatboxes to the side. Most of the fancier clothes would be donated to a local orphan asylum, where the residents could take what they needed and sell the rest. A sleepy seaside village in Cornwall did not require formal ballgowns. And now that Sarani’s banker in Bombay had been able to transfer the rest of her inheritance to London, she had no immediate need of money. Once the dust settled with Talbot, she intended to return to Joor. Something would have to be done about Vikram.
“Thank you, Asha.”
Tej pouted, sitting on one of the trunks. “I don’t understand why you have to leave. Everyone is talking about the duchess saying she was sorry.”
It amazed Sarani what got out through perfectly solid, closed doors. Then again, she wasn’t surprised. The duchess’s declaration had floored them all.
“I am grateful,” she said. “But that’s not the reason I’m leaving.”
“Then why?”
Because the duke does not love me.
That was part of it. It had everything to do with the letter he’d written her years ago and her place in his world. They’d both made mistakes, and though he’d written those sentiments in anger and apologized, that didn’t make them any less true. The truth was, a union like theirs was destined to be doomed, and if he did not love her, nothing on earth would save it.
Her heart squeezed. “Because I must stand on my own two feet, and I don’t belong here. Regardless of the duchess’s changed feelings toward me, she wants only to protect her family. The scandal will die down if I am gone, and soon the fact that the Duke of Embry was engaged to a woman of my petrifying ilk will be forgotten.”
“What about Lady Ravenna?”
“She’s promised to write and to help you write letters as well.” Sarani grinned and chucked him in the arm. “I expect to hear wonderful things about your excellent marks and your new school.”
Ravenna had not taken well to the fact that she was leaving. Sarani had sworn her to secrecy. She would tell Rhystan herself when she was ready…when her heart and mind were both prepared. In truth, if he asked again whether she would be his paramour, Sarani wasn’t sure she would have the strength to say no.
She had to stay the course and do what was right.
Even if it felt like dying.
“Don’t pack that one,” Sarani told her maid, pointing to a heavy, magenta-colored gown with intricate gold embroidery. “I’ll wear it for the ball tonight. Go out fighting, as the pugilists say.”
Asha’s dark eyes widened. The dress had not been acquired here in London. In fact, it’d been designed in Joor as a coronation gown, and Sarani had not wanted to leave it behind. It had cost a small fortune. If worse had come to worst, she’d planned to sell it. But for now, she’d wear it with pride.
It was undeniably the most magnificent gown she’d ever owned. Part European, part Indian, the dress had seemed to bridge both her halves. A fitted bodice with heavily embroidered, scalloped edges curved down toward her waist where a heavily embroidered stomacher adorned with gold flowers, connected the top with the bottom.
The lower half of the gown was even more extravagant than the top. The full skirts were sewn with hundreds of elaborate flowers, studded with tiny pearls and diamonds, and paired with a cream-colored gold-stitched underlay, visible only at the hem. The design was elegant but bold in both color and style.
A perfect amalgamation of Eastern traditions with Western flair.
And if she wanted to make a statement, which she did, this would be the gown to wear. It was a statement that she would be seen, no matter who wanted to render her invisible. It was a statement that she mattered.
That she was there, not to stay, but there nonetheless.
* * *
God knew why his mother wanted to throw a ball of all things. Rhystan sighed. Half of the ton had accepted the invitation out of morbid curiosity. The other half had been too afraid to decline, given her influence, which apparently had not waned as much.
Rhystan had not seen Sarani since she’d returned to Huntley House. It was to stave off any more salacious gossip, she’d said, especially now that the scandal sheets had painted her as a greedy fortune hunter with the most eligible duke in London in her grasp. Not that they knew that she had more money than most of the ton combined.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d laughed off the awful caricatures.
“If only my eyes were that large,” she’d joked. “Or other parts of me.”
Rhystan had grinned. “Other parts of you are perfect as they are.”
Not that he’d seen any of said parts since the bathing chamber, a cherished memory that had gotten him through a number of lonely nights since. Neither of them had spoken about what would happen next. His ship was leaving in a week or so, and he knew that she was still set on finding a quiet cottage somewhere. Who was he to take away her choices?
The ballroom at Huntley House was enormous and it was already crowded, even though it was early in the hour. The sharks were out for blood, while other smaller fish circled in the hope of scraps. Rhystan couldn’t believe that Sarani had agreed to this, but she understood what the duchess was trying to do. His mother wanted to show the peerage that the Huntleys were a united force. He knew it was her way of making amends.
“Your Grace,” someone said to his right, where he stood in the shadows of a pillar. “Lord Beckforth,
at your service.” Rhystan tensed, but the man’s expression was not hostile. “Princess Sarani’s cousin,” he added helpfully when Rhystan kept frowning.
“You know who she is?”
The earl nodded. “I was informed of the gossip from the previous assembly with Talbot, and of course, took it upon myself to research my relative Lisbeth, who we were told had died shortly after leaving England. I did not know that she had married. Nor that it was to an Indian prince. I was only ten when she was removed from the family annals by my granduncle, the then earl. We were only told never to speak of her and that she had disgraced the family name by running off with a colonial laborer.”
“Not a laborer,” Rhystan said. “A prince who worshipped the ground she walked on and showered her with every affection. And then gave her a daughter they both adored. Until her death a decade ago, your aunt was loved.”
“Thank you for that. I’m glad she had a happy life, at least.”
Rhystan cleared his throat, not adding that it was likely Lady Lisbeth had been poisoned because of deeply ingrained prejudices, much like those Sarani faced. “And your cousin?”
“Whenever she is ready, I wish to get to know her,” he said. “And I wish for my wife and children to know her as well. We are family, after all.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to the newssheets when asked about being possible relations?”
The earl inclined his head. “It was not my place, and I wanted to respect her privacy.”
An unfamiliar emotion expanded and thickened in Rhystan’s chest. It was gratitude mixed with a growing esteem. “And now, do you not care what everyone will think?”
Beckforth smiled. “The thing about scandal, Your Grace, is that it only hurts you if you choose to let it, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s just noise, fleeting and irrelevant. My family has been touched by more than its fair share. I am the grandson of a pig farmer on my mother’s side. We were poor as dirt, but we were loved, and when I became earl, others shunned us because of that. I vowed never to let anything get in the way of family. Or love.”
Rhystan was silent for a moment, suspecting that last part was meant for him, but then he nodded. “I will pass on the message. Thank you, Beckforth.”
After the earl took his leave, Rhystan considered what he’d said. As much as his peers pretended they were better than everyone else, they weren’t. They had the same flaws and the same fears. All that separated them from their common-born brothers were chance and circumstance of birth.
He was a duke, but he’d made his own fortune, carved his own path. Sarani was a princess, but she’d defied all odds of her sex to educate and arm herself. She was no wilting flower, no tame English rose. And the truth was, he didn’t want her to be. He wanted her exactly as she was: vibrant, singular, and so sublimely beautiful she made his heart hurt. Rhystan kept glancing to the staircase, waiting for her to walk down the steps.
“Hiding, Rhyssie?” Ravenna asked, poking him in the side.
“Trying to,” he replied. He glanced at her, struck by how splendid she looked in an aquamarine gown. Her auburn hair was piled into high coils, and her coppery eyes glowed. “Are you partial to a rich French marquis by the name of Marchand?”
She scowled. “I’m not partial to anyone. I told you, I don’t want to marry yet.”
“Ravenna—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She tossed her head, but not before he saw a flash of misery in her eyes. “I’m wrecking your plans because you want to run away again. I am aware.”
He drew in a breath. “That’s just it, Ravenna, I’ve just now decided I’m not leaving. At least not for a while. Gideon can manage the fleet for now.”
“You’re not going?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve responsibilities here, and you and Mother are here. I want to have Elodie visit with the girls and get to know my nieces.” He paused, drinking in her radiant smile. “But we’re still finding you a husband.”
The smile disappeared behind thunderclouds. “I’ve told you that…”
But Rhystan wasn’t listening. At the tingling sensation along his spine, his eyes lifted and connected with a pair of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Even in the thronged ballroom, she’d found him instantly, and then the breath lodged in his throat, his heart beating so fast he could scarcely countenance it.
“Oh, my,” Ravenna whispered, her gaze following his. “She’s a vision.”
That was the least of what she was.
Sarani Rao was a goddess in the flesh, and now everyone would know it.
Twenty-Six
This was it. No turning back.
“Her Highness, Princess Sarani Rao,” the majordomo for the evening said, giving Sarani a conspiratorial wink. She’d come to know and was quite fond of Her Grace’s staff. Fullerton, in his role of butler, was one of her particular favorites.
But as hundreds of eyes fastened to where she stood at the top of the staircase, Sarani’s already jumbled nerves weaved into knots. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t! It was a bad idea to make a statement. Any statement at all. These people would eat her alive. Heaven knew friends of Talbot and Markham would be here, ready to draw blood with their eyes and their words.
They hated based on an ideal, and that was the most ignorant kind of hate.
She reminded herself of Asha’s advice. “Sticks and stones,” she murmured and took the first step down. At the bottom, the Duke of Embry stood waiting, and she almost stumbled as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Gorgeous in his tailored evening wear, his brilliant ocean-blue gaze glittered with pride and smoldering desire.
His voice was low, only for her ears. “Woman, you’re killing me.” And then louder, “Princess, your beauty casts everyone in the shade.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said with an elegant curtsy, though she felt her body respond as he devoured her with his eyes. Only Rhystan had ever looked at her that way, as though he could hardly keep his hands off her. She would miss that.
“May I escort you to my mother?” he asked.
Basking in his admiration, Sarani accepted and took his arm. She kept her head high, but she could feel the contempt and wariness from many of the guests, scrutinizing her distinctive gown and studying her face, looking for signs of her other half—the lesser half.
Her dual heritage would be evident in her choice of gown and in the gold bangles on her wrist, the extravagantly embroidered veil falling from her crown, and the heavy kohl lining her eyes. But her skin was as beautiful as theirs, the blood beneath her skin just as red.
When they reached the dowager duchess, she gave her a small smile as Sarani made a curtsy worthy of the queen’s court. “Your Grace,” Sarani said.
“Your Highness,” the dowager greeted her in return. “That’s a rather intriguing choice of dress.”
Sarani almost fell over at the use of her title and then bit her lip at the fastidious survey of her gown. Despite their recent truce, she’d expected nothing less. “It was designed in Joor where I grew up.”
The dowager duchess gave the tiniest of smiles, the light in her eyes reminding Sarani of her son’s. “It’s extraordinary, and I have to say, it suits you remarkably well.”
That was a resounding stamp of approval if ever there was one.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The strains of a waltz echoed through the ballroom as the musicians tuned their instruments. “Dance with me?” Rhystan said.
Sarani bit her lip and nodded. All eyes were on them as the duke escorted her into the set. Sarani’s entire body felt wooden, but she followed his expert lead. Normally, she felt deliciously light in his arms, but for some reason, she felt only hollow.
This was the last time they would dance.
The last time he would hold her.
Her eyes stung.
&nbs
p; “What is the matter?” he asked, ever in tune with her emotions. “You looked sad for a moment there.”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m happy.”
“Fibber.”
She smiled as he spun her through a turn that she almost bungled with a double step. He didn’t push any more, but she could see the small pleat between his brows as if he could sense the maelstrom of feelings barreling through her. It took all her poise to keep from bursting into tears.
“You’re a disgrace.”
The ugly accusation came out of nowhere. Sarani wasn’t sure whether it was directed to her or to the duke, but he came to an abrupt stop, nearly colliding with some of the other dancers. They, too, stumbled to a halt and the music petered out.
“Who said that?” he demanded. When no one answered, he raised his voice. “Show yourself.”
A sneering Markham stepped forward. At the violent, hateful look on his face, Sarani’s entire body braced for attack. Now that the truth of her identity was public knowledge, he was an embittered man with nothing to lose.
“I did.” His eyes scraped down her person. “You can dress her in pretty clothes, but it doesn’t change who she is. And you’re a disgrace to the entire aristocracy bringing that…creature here and parading her as one of our own.”
“She is one of your own, you inbred imbecile,” Rhystan shot back. “Her mother was a countess with more patrician blood in her veins than you have in yours.”
“Her father was a blackie.”
“He was an Indian prince,” Rhystan corrected with a glare. “Do you plan to make a salient point anytime soon, Markham?”
“She does not belong here.”
A few bodies turned away from her toward the vice admiral, hands opening fans to block her from view, and Sarani felt her stomach churn.
The Princess Stakes Page 28
