Something Sinful

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Ha, ha! Excellent.” Seating himself again, he opened the binder to pull out the contents. “One guinea apiece. Not bad at all, ladakii.”

  Sarala grinned, appeased again. “I had to send Warrick back to the table twice to get that price. He would have settled at a guinea, ten shillings.”

  “I don’t doubt it. He knows numbers, but he hasn’t much of a backbone.”

  “And I should warn you not to call me ladakii any longer,” Sarala continued. “I’ve already been reprimanded for referring to you as Pita.”

  “So I suppose that henceforth I should settle for calling you ‘daughter.’ Ah, well. Your mama’s only trying to help us fit in. We should be more appreciative.”

  “But I don’t want to fit in. All I’ve heard since we left the ship is what proper English ladies don’t do. And they apparently don’t do anything except shop and gossip. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s the way things are, Sarala.” He glanced at the open ledger books before him. “And I’m afraid we’re here to stay. We’ll have to adapt, you and I.” The marquis cleared his throat. “Any difficulties at all? What about that fellow who told you about the shipment?”

  Sarala shrugged, keeping her expression carefully bland. “He arrived late to the table. His loss. Our gain.” She doubted the Duke of Melbourne’s brother would describe the venture that way, but if he was half the businessman rumor made him out to be, he would realize that he’d erred and would give up his claim on the silks. Her last glimpse of his expression made her secretly doubt that, but if he didn’t appear, then she wasn’t going to say anything about it.

  An hour and a half with the commerce ministry usually left Charlemagne happy as a cat with a bowl of cream. Not today, though. He’d barely managed to keep up his corner of the conversation, and he knew neither Polk nor Shipley had been keen on his views of the tariff conflicts with the United States, or whatever the Colonies were calling themselves these days.

  He hadn’t expected them to like his suggestions, but generally he went to the effort of charming them around to seeing his point of view. Today he’d spent the entire meeting doing nothing but imagining his hands around Sarala Carlisle’s slender neck, or his mouth hard on hers, their naked bodies entwined in a hot, heaving p—

  “How was luncheon?”

  Starting, he looked up from tearing off his gloves and throwing them into the hat that Stanton the butler held silently for him. “What?”

  “I asked how your meeting went,” Sebastian said from the top of the Griffin House stairs. “Not well, I presume, judging from your expression.”

  “I thought you had Parliament.”

  “I did. We adjourned early. How did you think Polk and Shipley managed to meet with you if we hadn’t recessed?”

  “Some people skip sessions.”

  “I don’t.” The duke waved a hand at Stanton, who instantly vanished down the hallway. “I know the idiots disagree with our stand that negotiations would serve us better than war, but that’s hardly a surprise to you.”

  “Ha. Shipley still thinks America will return to the fold, the halfwit. He’s worse than Liverpool, calling the Yanks traitors.”

  “What has your hackles up, then?”

  “Nothing.” Charlemagne started up the stairs, only refraining from taking them two at a time because Melbourne was watching him. “I’m only here to change my jacket. I’ve another appointment.”

  “With whom?”

  With a damned Indian princess who owed him five hundred bolts of fine Chinese silk. “No one you know.”

  “I doubt that. I know everyone. You took care of your silk shipment this morning, so…” The duke gave him an intent look and paused.

  Damn it, Sebastian couldn’t read minds, and Charlemagne wasn’t about to inform his older brother voluntarily about anything that had transpired this morning. “So?” he prompted.

  “So I’m assuming your appointment is of a more personal nature. Whoever she is, Shay, if she makes you this angry I suggest you look elsewhere.”

  “It’s business, not pleasure,” Shay grunted, passing his brother and heading for his bedchamber. “And I’m not angry. I’m…focused.”

  “Ah,” the duke said from behind him. “I see.”

  Actually he was feeling extremely unfocused. It was all so damned odd, and he didn’t appreciate the sensation or the circumstances one bloody little bit.

  By the time he reached Carlisle House his brain had begun to sort things out rationally, and he was able to resist the urge to pound on the door and smash the pots of ferns on the front portico. The chit obviously ran wild, so he wouldn’t deal with her. Business was business, and business was for men.

  A large, gray-clothed man opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Charlemagne Griffin, here to see Lord Hanover.”

  The butler blinked. Someone in the household knew him by name, at least. He stepped back, gesturing Charlemagne to follow him inside. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, I shall fetch him.”

  The morning room was small, tasteful, and, unless he was mistaken, smelled of cinnamon. The scent forcibly reminded him of the chit who’d bested him. And considering what she’d been doing with him in his dreams, it almost felt like a double loss on his part. And he didn’t like to lose.

  Before the butler could finish closing him into the room, he heard a rush of footsteps and a hurried, muttered conversation. A second later the door swung open again, and the lady herself practically skidded into the room. She wore a frilled dressing gown, one sleeve hanging to reveal a tantalizing view of smooth collarbone and shoulder. That black hair was everywhere, half up and tumbled down, caressing her cheek and sagging into an unfinished knot at the back.

  The angry comment Charlemagne had been about to make vanished back into his throat, making him cough a little. Glory.

  Belatedly she tugged up her sleeve. “Lord Charlemagne.”

  Mentally he shook himself. Business, man. Business. “You stole my silks.”

  “I did no such thing. You informed me of a potentially lucrative business opportunity, and I acted on that information.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I discussed my business with you because I was under the impression that you were an admirer—not a rival.”

  She snorted. “Then you made two mistakes.”

  Charlemagne took a step closer. “Where’s your father? I came to speak with him, to discuss the return of my property in a rational manner.”

  Lady Sarala gave what might have been a brief frown, then lifted her chin. “This is my affair, and you will discuss it with me, or not at all.”

  Good God, she had some nerve. And her sleeve had sagged again, so that he could see the pulse at her throat and the quick lift of her breast. “Then return my property,” he said, returning his gaze to her soft mouth.

  “It’s not your property. But for a price, I will let you have every stitch.”

  He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What price, then?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  His jaw fell open, then clamped shut. “Five thousand pounds? So you would steal from me and then overcharge me to recover my own goods?”

  She looked him right in the eye. “Once again, I did not steal anything from you, or from anyone else. Make me a counter offer, or bid me good day and leave.”

  Incredulous, he shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Where’s the liquor?”

  “Over there.” Lady Sarala pointed toward the cabinet beneath the window.

  Her fingers shook, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her up against him. “You’re not frightened of me, are you?” he murmured.

  “Is that your intent? I’d heard you were a fearsome opponent, but you seem to be harping on one point of contention, which does neither of us any good. Make me a counter offer, my lord.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her upturned mouth. Sensation flooded through him, all the way to his cock. He didn’t know how to describe wh
at she tasted like—sunshine, warm summer breezes, heat, desire.

  When she began to kiss him back, he forced himself to lift his face away again. “How was that?” he drawled.

  Sarala cleared her throat, belatedly recovering her hand and backing away. “Fair. But hardly worth five thousand pounds.”

  Mm-hm. She knew how to play the game; he could concede that. But no one played it as well as he did. “You have a rare focus, Lady Sarala. I’ll give you that. And I’ll acknowledge that you are the owner of something which was meant to be mine.”

  Her eyes widened. “You admit it?”

  “I just did. What did you actually pay for them, since we both know it wasn’t five thousand pounds?”

  “Something less than that. I acquired them, however, in order to make a profit, as I assume you meant to do. I have yet to hear a counter offer.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth again. “Very well. Since you won’t tell me, I’ll assume you managed a fair price, which would be what, a guinea and a half per bolt? That’s the exact amount I will compensate you for them.”

  She hesitated for a heartbeat. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have seen it. “Where, then, is my profit?” she demanded.

  “Your profit is in learning not to cross a man simply because he deigns to dance with you.”

  “Ah. I wouldn’t say you deigned as much as begged to dance with me over my objections,” she countered. “Five thousand pounds.”

  Charlemagne took a slow breath. This afternoon had gone nothing like he’d imagined. And at the moment he wouldn’t describe that as a bad thing. “No.”

  “Then I believe we are finished here. Good day, my lord.”

  He caught her arm again as she began to turn away. “I have contacts who would appreciate the quality of these silks and pay me what they’re worth. You’ve been in London for eleven days now, according to what you told me last night. I would assume, given that fact, that your plan is to sell the bolts off one by one to dress shops and seamstresses.”

  Lady Sarala delayed a moment before removing her arm from his loose grip. “What I plan for the silks is my own business, and certainly none of yours. And since I don’t believe you’ve offered me anything I want,” she returned in the same low voice, “I’ll tell you good day once again. But do keep in mind that any negotiations are to be conducted with me—not my father. Unless you can’t match wits with a female.” She went to the door, and the butler practically fell into the room as she opened it.

  It wasn’t wits he wanted to match with her, but something much more physical and intimate. “Very well.” Charlemagne shoved away his more heated thoughts in favor of a few that might leave him some dignity, and went into the hallway to collect his hat and gloves. “I hope you don’t think this is over, Lady Sarala,” he said, facing her again as the butler opened the front door. “I want my silks back.” Unable to resist, he lowered his gaze once more to her sensuous mouth. “But I do have something you may want in return. We’ll merely have to discover what that something might be.”

  Before she could reply, he left to collect Jaunty. This was one negotiation he had no intention of losing.

  Selfish, arrogant man. A day later, and her mind still refused to let go of her conversation with Charlemagne Griffin. If any mistakes or errors had been made, they were his. All that nonsense about the silks being his was just that—nonsense. Thank goodness she’d seen him ride up the drive after luncheon yesterday and had intercepted Blankman before the butler could tell her father that someone had come calling. That would have been a true disaster, especially with a half-dozen gossiping ladies of her mother’s acquaintance eating sandwiches in the drawing room, as they were again today. And thank goodness they hadn’t seen her running through the house in her dressing gown before she’d made it back to her bedchamber.

  “My lady?”

  Sarala shook herself. “I think I’ll wear that one tonight,” she said to her maid, indicating the deep blue gown her maid held in her left hand. “With the silver barrettes.”

  “But my lady, the marchioness told me specifically that you was only to wear the gowns made since you’ve been in London. She said the others were too outdated, and some of ’em not even in the English style. All those was to go to the rag and bone man.”

  Sarala took a deep breath. Perhaps she’d encouraged the seamstresses in Delhi to stray a bit toward the native style, but she’d been raised to appreciate it, after all. Perhaps the blue gown had a snugger waist and lower neckline than the gowns she’d acquired in London, but there was nothing wrong with it. And it was not outdated. The red one she’d worn night before last had been of a similar style, and that man had seemed to appreciate it.

  Of course that particular gentleman would probably never speak to her again. All she could hope for at this juncture was that he was too much of a gentleman to cut her in public. Just the idea that he could ruin her for besting him in a business venture was patently unfair; that he would actually do so, unthinkable.

  Still, best be a little cautious tonight, just in case. With a grimace she flicked her fingers toward the pale peach gown her mother had particularly liked. “The blue one goes back in the wardrobe—not to the rag and bone man.”

  Jenny curtsied. “Yes, my lady. And you’ll be splendid in the peach. I’ll go press it.”

  Splendid and perfectly, properly British. Yes, she’d also been raised British, but the most fun she’d had in India had been when she’d managed to steal away from home for an outing with some of her native friends. Her mother made sense, insisting that she fit in here now, but Sarala didn’t particularly like being in this wretched, rainy place to begin with. If she needed an example to prove it, the thing she most looked forward to was another encounter with Lord Charlemagne Griffin, and that couldn’t possibly come out well.

  He’d kissed her yesterday, and she’d let him. She never did anything like that during a business negotiation. Business was business. Of course it didn’t hurt that her opponent in this instance had high cheekbones, a sensuous, expressive mouth, and dark hair that brushed his collar—or that he had shoulders which filled out his coat, thighs which looked as though he spent as much time on horseback as on foot, and not an ounce of fat on his lean, muscular frame.

  Sarala scowled. Yes, he was devilishly handsome, and powerful, and he knew it. He was arrogant enough to tell other people of his pending business dealings and then expect that they would do nothing about it. Well, yesterday he’d been taught a lesson. And she had acquired a fortune in silk—which, if nothing else, would help her father get out from under some of the debts Uncle Roger had left behind.

  She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs beneath her window, picked up her discarded book on Roman history, and glanced outside. Thankfully her mother’s daily set of luncheon guests had begun departing—in another quarter of an hour the house would be free of the gossip brigade. That everyone had missed Lord Charlemagne’s visit yesterday had been a tremendous stroke of luck, but even the strategy she and her father had begun planning afterward for reselling the silks to a selection of high-class dress shops hadn’t distracted her from realizing how close a call she’d had. A lady didn’t conduct business, and she could only continue to do so if she, her father, and Charlemagne were the only ones who knew about it. India had been so much easier.

  Sarala lifted the skirt of her dressing gown to her knee. On her left ankle the dainty henna tattoo her friend Nahi had given her as a farewell gift from India still showed, though it had begun to fade a little. Sarala smiled, lowering her skirt again. If her mother ever found out that she’d been tattooed, temporarily or not, she would have the devil to pay.

  Jenny scratched at the door and opened it again. “My lady, the marchioness has asked to see you in the drawing room.”

  Sarala nodded, unhappy if unsurprised, and reached for a green muslin day gown. Most of her mother’s friends were old acquaintances from more than two decades ago before she’
d left London for India. The majority of them seemed to be hapless busybodies moaning over the current state of things and trying to marry off their daughters or sons to one another’s children. They were probably the reason Charlemagne had acquired such a low opinion of women and thought they had no head for business.

  She certainly had no objection to marrying, but she wasn’t going to be bandied about and matched hither and thither to fit some mama’s matrimonial puzzle. She’d been a marquis’s daughter for less than a year, and she didn’t consider that the fact had increased or decreased her value. Other people did. Of course with the way the lot of them frowned at her hair and her tanned skin and what they whispered was her foreign accent, they probably wouldn’t want her joining their family, anyway.

  Her mother sat before the fire in the large drawing room; despite her stated delight at being back in civilization, as she called it, the marchioness seemed to be having her own problems adjusting to the cooler weather. Sarala could already almost recite the coming conversation; a lecture on behavior or etiquette inevitably followed one of her mama’s luncheons. What surprised her, though, was the presence of her father, leaning against the mantel and looking distinctly as though he wished to be elsewhere.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “My dear, your father and I have been discussing the way you’ve adapted to the family’s new position and residence.”

  “What have I done wrong now?” Sarala asked flatly.

  “Nothing. It’s more…something we’ve done to you.”

  Sarala frowned. “Beg pardon?”

  The marchioness cleared her throat, then motioned at her husband. “Your father has something to tell you.”

  Howard Carlisle shook his head. “This is not my idea. I’m here under protest.”

  “Howar—Fine. Fine.” Sending a scowl at her husband, the marchioness sat forward. “You know that your father and I settled in India with the idea of staying there, and that his position with the East India Company…benefited from his ability to gain the trust of the local citizenry.”