by Renée Dahlia
‘The Doctrine of what did you call it?’ asked Wil. Ravi’s fingernails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists.
‘The Doctrine of Lapse.’ The unfairness by which a business could strip away a dynasty, strip their wealth and leave them in poverty, while they profited, burned in Ravi’s stomach.
‘What is that?’ asked Claire.
‘Inheritance of a Maharaja is not a simple patriarchal system like the peerage. The East India Company took advantage of that, and when an obvious heir didn’t exist, at least according to the company, they used it as an excuse to transfer all assets to themselves.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The pit of anger at the company’s actions had to be tempered by the advantage he gained from his father’s position. He and Sanjay had grown up safely here on the Dalhinge estate, had been educated here as English Lords, benefiting from their paternal bloodline while their royal blood had been dismissed. The complexities tore at him, especially now that India suffered further under the Divide and Rule policy. There were rumours of famine too.
‘That’s all too serious for an empty stomach,’ said Wil. The throw-away comment punched him in the chest. Only the depth of care in Claire’s eyes as she growled Wil’s name under her breath allowed him to keep his ground. Ravi shook his head minutely.
‘The breakfast room is that way,’ he said, unable to keep the bitter tone from his voice. Wil flicked his hair back from his forehead and wandered away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire quietly. He stepped towards her and breathed in her skin, a clean smell with a hint of fresh violets. ‘Wil is not normally so offensive,’ she said.
He tucked his glasses into his jacket pocket and ran his hand through his hair.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said.
She rested her hand on his shoulder, and shook her head.
‘I disagree. Wil knows better. He ought to understand the inequalities built into the system.’ She snatched her hand away and stared down at the floor. He wanted to reach for her chin, to lift her face towards his, but instead he rubbed at the spot on his shoulder that she had touched.
‘Then he is welcome to lash out occasionally.’ He often felt the burden of his messy background as a festering need to make the world better. Perhaps Claire did know about Wil and Dalhinge, given her comment about understanding inequalities.
‘You have sympathy for him? He may not be in the peerage, but he’s the only living son of a wealthy businessman. The system tends to benefit him.’ Her eyebrows raised up.
‘Unlike how the system treats you?’
‘Yes, we are no different, apart from one minor detail, yet I am declared inferior without a second thought.’
He paused, wanting to tell her that he didn’t see her as inferior, but unable to figure the words. He pulled in a long breath and changed the subject.
‘I became a lawyer so I could change things. But what have I achieved? I’ve spent the last decade reinforcing the very people who created this system. The ones who ruined my mother’s country. At least my brother has used his place in Lords to help move the power base towards the Commons.’ He reached behind his head with both hands, rubbed the back of his neck, and blew out that breath. He might never reconcile the differences inside him.
‘Is that why you took this chance to help my father?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out in a whoosh of relief. ‘Yes. If I can solve this puzzle and get my own legal practice, I might make a difference.’ His breath came out too hard as his mind grasped at the possibilities. His hands dropped, and he grasped her hands. A jolt of energy flowed from her to him and back again in an instant.
‘Look sharpish then,’ she said with a sly grin. ‘We are wasting time standing here discussing it.’
‘We have to go back to London,’ he said at the same time. He grinned at her, his heart racing in his chest, and she smiled back without moving her hands. He ran his thumb over her wrist, her pulse beating at the same rapid speed of his own heart. She licked her lips, and he leaned in to kiss her. When his lips were almost against hers, she twisted away and his mouth brushed against her cheek. She pulled backwards, and shook her head.
‘No, that’s not wise. Save your fervour for the task at hand.’ Her hands slipped out of his and she rushed down the hall in a swirl of violets, and the gentle whisper of her silk skirts as they rustled against her rapidly pacing legs. He rubbed the frown between his eyes and stared after her. He didn’t think he’d misinterpreted her attraction to him, but the flash of fear in her eyes as she bolted away from him made him wonder if perhaps he had it all wrong.
Chapter 11
Claire wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out the front door of Belfington House. She could feel the end of summer in the wind that wafted gently across the driveway. A few leaves had started to turn, showing rather more enthusiasm for the onset of autumn than she had. Jackson stood beside her, looking as regal as ever in his red jacket.
‘Thank you so much for your assistance,’ he said. She’d spent all yesterday with Mrs Jackson, ensuring that she had a good start as a new mother.
‘It was my pleasure. To successfully deliver twins was a wonderful experience, and I thank you for sharing that with me.’ She held out her hand to him. He hesitated before reaching out and shaking hers. His huge palm dwarfed her hand for the short moment of their handshake. Wheels crunched on the driveway, and Claire nodded once to the butler before walking down the few steps. Ravi leapt out of the carriage.
‘Jackson, do you have our luggage?’
‘Of course, sir.’ The butler carried her valise and a large carpet bag with ease and placed them in the rear of the carriage.
‘Are you ready to leave, Dr Carlingford? We have to be at Kirkstead in an hour to get the morning train to London,’ said Ravi.
‘I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t ready,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Cook has made us a small feast with coffee for our trip.’ He offered his hand for her, which she ignored as she climbed up into the carriage. She sat on the forward facing side, and waited for Ravi to climb in, thanking the fates that she hadn’t been born fifty years ago. She couldn’t have coped with a life spent either waiting for a man, or waiting on a man. Perhaps her daughters or granddaughters could stand on truly equal ground with men. It wouldn’t be her lifetime, she knew it would take considerable years and effort to erase the centuries of oppressive habits.
Change tended to happen slowly, at least in matters of people. The sciences, on the other hand, were expanding at a breathtakingly rapid pace. So much so that the pile of papers yet to be read would have continued to pile up during her week away from London. Ravi stepped in, his large presence making her breath hitch in her throat at the sight of him. He reached under the seat to pull out a large wicker hamper.
‘Let’s see what Cook left for us,’ he said as he sat down. The carriage started to roll, and they were on their way. He pulled a wooden box out of the hamper, and flipped the lid open. Grey silk lined the box, and several porcelain cups sat in their own containers in the box. Ravi handed one to her, and pulled a large pewter coffee pot from the hamper. She held out the cup, and he poured the steaming brown coffee for her. The warming aroma filled the air in the carriage. She brought the cup to her lips and breathed in the reviving steam.
‘Would you like milk?’ Ravi poured his own cup as he asked. She shook her head, and sipped. The coffee warmed her throat as she swallowed it down, a nice contrast to the fresh morning air. The carriage continued to rattle along as she sipped, and the liquid sloshed a little in her cup. She glanced occasionally at Ravi as he sat quietly drinking. Even first thing in the morning, he appeared handsome and at ease with himself. His slightly long hair had a naturally unkempt look on all occasions, but particularly suited him when he’d just rolled out of bed. Claire longed to thread her fingers through his locks, to feel the weight of them against her skin. She gulped the remnants of her coff
ee a little too fast and blinked as it hit the back of her throat unexpectedly.
‘Do you have a copy of the timetable?’ she asked when she felt she could trust her voice again. Her words still had a smoky hint of her curiosity. Maybe she should indulge with him as a scientific experiment? To discover the truth about men and their physicality. Her brain already trusted him, a fact that scared her, but so far, he’d lived up to that trust and had kept his distance when they’d been alone. He stepped back when she’d asked him to, and here she was, alone with him again. She was saved from her own foolish musings when he answered her question.
‘We need to meet the early train at Kirkstead in—’ he consulted his pocket watch, ‘—forty-five minutes. The drive from Belfington typically takes thirty, so we have some time to spare in case any unfortunate events happen.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual annoying things. A lame horse, or issues with the carriage. We haven’t had highwaymen here for a century or so. I believe the laneways between the house and the station are perfectly safe.’
‘That is rather reassuring,’ she said sarcastically.
His eyebrows raised up. ‘Would you like some bread? Cook has left some for us.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He reached into his hamper and pulled out a small bun. He broke it in half, and the yeasty scent of fresh bread swirled through the air for her.
‘Butter?’
‘Yes, please.’
He reached into the hamper, and after a moment, he pulled out a knife with a dollop of butter on the end. He spread the butter onto the bread and Claire’s cheeks heated, the heat spreading down her spine. There was something almost, dare she say it, seductively sensual about watching a man perform a simple domestic task for her. She wanted to fan her face, but had to content herself with a long, slow exhalation of breath. He handed her the bread, which she took with one hand. Their fingers brushed, sending a pulse of energy zipping up her skin. He looked deep into her eyes, seemingly right down into her soul. Her other hand shook slightly, and the last dreg of coffee wavered in the cup leaving the aroma to hang in the air. She handed him the cup, and he took it without touching her. A small sigh of disappointment escaped before she could pinch her lips to keep it in. He put the cup away in the hamper, and grabbed some bread for himself. She held her own piece, hovering, just in front of her mouth as she watched him add butter to his slice, unable to look away.
‘There is chutney if you want some too,’ he said.
‘Chutney? Is that like the dish we had for lunch yesterday?’
‘No, that was daal, I guess you would call stew. It’s lentils and spices cooked into a thick paste. Usually we eat it with fresh coriander, yoghurt and naan. It is best fresh. I would never eat it re-heated on the following day. Chutney is a vegetable preserve to use as a spread.’ He half shrugged one shoulder, and raised his eyebrows a little with his query.
‘Thank you, I would like to try some.’
He smiled. ‘Here, pass your bread back.’ He held his hand out palm up, and she carefully placed the bread without letting her fingers touch him. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he knew that she didn’t want the sparks between them. He spread a yellow tinged food on her bread, then topped it with a small spoonful of pale white yoghurt. Even if she didn’t like the taste, she loved the contrasting colours, so this experience had been worth something, regardless of the outcome. Oh, who was she kidding? The entire time since she’d woken from her illness had pushed her into uncomfortable thoughts and new sensations that she wasn’t ready to embrace. Ravi produced a plate from his hamper, and handed her back the dish with an air of civilisation.
‘You offered me plain bread and butter without a plate, but now that you’ve added chutney to my bread, I also get a plate?’ She smiled to show him that she meant it to be amusing, and he grinned back at her. He tilted his head to one side, and handed her the plate of food.
‘Before it was just a snack. Now it is a proper meal, so the food deserves a proper plate.’
‘That makes no logical sense.’
‘Or perhaps I was just distracted by you before, and forgot the plate.’ His face flushed as he spoke, and she had to look away before she blurted out something far too revealing. She took a bite of his creation and a wealth of tastes overwhelmed her palate. She swallowed.
‘That is amazing. Where has that been for my whole life? And what is in it?’
‘This one is a tomato onion chutney. Dalhinge’s chef makes it with dried spices such as turmeric, mustard seeds, hing, cumin, as well as fresh ginger and chilies from the hothouse, and she substitutes lemon because tamarind is impossible to get here in England.’
‘Dalhinge’s chef is a genius.’ She bit into the soft yeasty bread to get another hit of the extraordinary new set of flavours. The next bite included the yoghurt and now another texture, smooth with a tart, sharp taste, layered over the previous flavours. She enjoyed the newness of this experience, unable to speak as she devoured the buttered bread and chutney. After the last mouthful, she licked her lips and looked up at Ravi.
‘I take it you enjoyed that?’ he said.
‘Yes. No wonder England conquered India if that was what they found there.’ She bit back a curse as a frown danced over his brow. ‘I meant that the food is amazing, not that the English should have gone there. I—’
‘Don’t panic on my behalf.’ He spoke carefully into her pause. ‘History can’t be changed, and the journey for my mother’s country still has many miles ahead of it.’
‘But I could acknowledge it better. Please accept my apologies for the dismissive comment. I will endeavour to do better.’
‘It is a complicated subject. Even between different sectors in India, there is a diverse range of opinions on the matter.’
‘Just as there is on voting rights here.’ She passed him the empty plate, and he stashed it back in the hamper.
‘Yes. Any difficult subject will garner a wide range of opinions.’ He rubbed just above his ear where the ear piece of his glasses would usually sit.
‘Voting rights is simple, though. Everyone should get a vote. All this nonsense about only property owning men being able to vote doesn’t help anyone. How do the majority of the people get their voice heard?’ She leaned forward on the seat, gesturing wildly with her hands. He sat up straighter and glanced to the side before staring at her.
‘Do you expect me to disagree on this subject?’
‘Well, you are a mix of lordly and royal blood.’ She slid backwards and rested her back against the leather seat. She wanted him to laugh, but he simply raised one eyebrow and chuckled.
‘And you are a minx.’
‘Is that a problem?’ She laughed unsteadily.
What was it about Ravi that brought out all her big mouthed inadequacies? She blurted awful comments around him. Her brash, deliberate boldness had deserted her from the moment they’d shaken hands in his office. She wanted to blame that single touch for this uncertainty. She wanted to be able to pinpoint the moment when she lost herself, or at least when she lost her defences against him. It wasn’t one moment though, he slowly managed to sidle past everything she used to keep the world at a distance. She peered at him and bit her bottom lip as she tried to understand how he had infiltrated her world. His mouth quirked upwards and his dark brown eyes twinkled.
‘Not for me,’ he said.
She sat up straight on the seat, her head jerking upright, then her rigid back muscles softened as she recalled his minx comment. She gave her head a rueful shake.
‘Life with a minx couldn’t possibly be peaceful. It wouldn’t suit you and your staid lawyer offices at all.’
He laughed, this time a proper laugh, the one she’d wanted to drag out of him. ‘You are right. A minx would be an endless source of problems that would provide entertainment and fascination.’
‘You want to be entertained?’ Her friends thought she understood men, and she b
elieved them. As Ravi stared at her, she realised it was business she understood, not men. She’d been blinded by the fact that men almost exclusively did business. She’d made the wrong correlation. She turned and looked out the window, slightly light-headed. Obviously, she didn’t understand men at all. She’d assumed they wanted someone sweet and biddable, not an outspoken, educated woman with too many opinions and a loud mouth. Had she gotten it so wrong? Or was it just him?
‘In a life partner, yes. I want someone who will challenge me, who won’t pander to my ego, or let me fall into bad habits. I want someone strong enough to—’
A flush rose up her neck and cheeks. ‘A life partner? The word you want is wife.’
‘I prefer my version. I don’t want a possession. I want a willing partner,’ he said.
She twisted back towards him. Possess me. She blinked to make the internal whisper go away.
‘Those are pretty words. I’m sure you are aware that the law doesn’t agree with you,’ she said tightly.
‘Not precisely. The Married Women’s Property Act of 1882 allows a woman to keep the possessions she brings to a marriage.’
‘That doesn’t make her any less of a possession herself.’ The whisper in her ear became a wild roar, and she spat out, ‘I refuse to be any man’s possession. No matter how prettily he speaks about challenges and ego.’
‘I don’t believe I was speaking about you. Just a general comment about my own preferences,’ he said.
She gasped and her hands flew to her flaming cheeks. How dare he?
‘I suppose you prefer someone pretty with a large fortune too,’ she said, as snidely as she could manage, but her voice cracked with the underlying conflicting emotions.
‘A large fortune is always desirable.’ Was it her imagination, or did his eyes just dip down and graze her body? Her skin came alight with his visual caress.
