Something Sinful

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I know all that,” Sarala replied. “I certainly have no regrets about growing up in Delhi, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

  “It is. I—we—have regrets about the way we raised you in Delhi. As I was saying, we never expected to return to England, and so when your father insisted that we give you a native name, I didn’t object too strongly. Now, however, we are here, and you are an English marquis’s daughter. It’s not Indians whose trust and cooperation we need to cultivate any longer.”

  Deep worry burrowed into Sarala’s chest. This sounded more serious than the what-to-wear talk, or the how-to-be-demure lecture. “Yes?” she prompted after a moment.

  “We—that is, your father and I—have decided that in order to ease your path into proper London Society, you should be known by and referred to as Sarah, rather than Sarala.”

  Sarala’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?” she stammered, while her father pretended to be elsewhere.

  “Sarah is an English name. It will serve you well, and you’ll have an easier time making friends and meeting eligible young gentlem—”

  “You’re changing my name?”

  “As I said, it’s better for y—”

  “This was the idea of those gossiping friends of yours, wasn’t it?”

  The marchioness put out a hand. “Please do not insult my friends. Think of it as everyone else does, Sarah. What’s the f—”

  “Sarala,” Sarala broke in.

  “Sarah,” her mother countered in an equally firm voice. “What’s the first thing everyone says when you’ve been introduced?”

  “Here? They comment on what a pretty and unusual name I have.”

  The marchioness gazed at her. “And then what? Why have you only danced a half-dozen times since we arrived here? Why haven’t you been invited out to tea or to go walking? Why don’t you have any friends in London?”

  “Mama, that’s not fair. We’ve been here less than a fortnight. Both you and Papa have friends from before you left London. I don’t.”

  “And you won’t, if the first impression everyone has of you is that you’re odd. It’s bad enough that your skin is so dark—I always said you should wear a bonnet and carry a parasol, and you never listened to me.”

  Obviously her mother had made up her mind. Sarala turned to her father. “Papa, you can’t be seriously considering this. It’s absurd. You named me Sarala.”

  The marquis shifted. “Consider that we’re only shortening your name. Sarah can be your pet name, except that it’s how everyone will know you. I know it’s a difficult thing, but in this instance I do think your mother has the right of it.”

  Sarala backed to the doorway, feeling as though someone had drugged her and spun her into some outlandish nightmare. “I like my name. I’ve had it for two-and-twenty years. I’m not giving it back.”

  “You’re going to have to, Sarah. We haven’t made this decision lightly. You will have to, unless you want to be miserable here in England. And there must be other changes, as well. I’ve already discussed your wardrobe with your maid, and don’t think your father and I didn’t notice that paint on your face night before last.”

  “It’s fashionable in Delhi.”

  “For the last time, Sarah, we are not in Delhi any longer! And we never will be again, unless you marry some peer who wants to make his living there. When you return, then you may change your name back, but not until then.”

  “I cannot believe you would do this.” Growling, Sarala stormed out of the drawing room and back up to her bedchamber. Her parents could call her whatever they liked; she certainly couldn’t stop them. As for herself, she’d grown up as Sarala, and that was who she would remain.

  If she went by Sarah in her own mind and in her own heart, the next thing she knew, she would become one of those English ladies who didn’t conduct business. A blink after that, she would be selling the blasted silks to Charlemagne Griffin for a shilling. And that was not going to happen. Ever.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m merely pointing out the fact that tariffs don’t concern my business. I raise English cows on English grass and sell English butter and cream to proper English households.” Smothering a grin behind a mouthful of roast pheasant, Lord Zachary Griffin lifted both eyebrows.

  “That’s the stupidest, most short-sighted economic argument I’ve ever heard,” Charlemagne retorted. “Pass the salt.”

  “It’s not an economic argument. Those give me a headache. It’s a statement about how much I don’t care about whatever it is you and Melbourne are arguing over.”

  “Twit.”

  Melbourne’s daughter, Penelope, lowered her glass of lemonade. “Papa, Uncle Shay said ‘twit.’”

  “Yes, I heard him, Peep. Thank you very much. Mind your tongue, Charlemagne.”

  “That’s right,” Peep continued. “There are ladies present.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Lady Caroline, Zachary’s auburn-haired bride, said with a chuckle.

  “Me, neither.” Eleanor, Lady Deverill, handed the salt down the long table to her brother. “In fact, I’d have to say that I agree with Shay’s assessment. You are a twit, Zachary.”

  “Thank you, Nell,” Charlemagne returned, “both for the salt and the agreement.”

  Pasting an affronted expression on his face, Zachary leaned forward to gaze at their brother-in-law, Deverill, the only one who hadn’t contributed to the conversation. “And what do you say, Valentine?”

  “You’re a twit.” The marquis returned to his pudding.

  “Oh, thank you very m—”

  “Papa, now everybody’s saying it!”

  “Yes, everyone has appalling manners,” the duke agreed. “Desist. Valentine, do you know of anything that might persuade Morgan to change his vote in Parliament tomorrow?”

  “I presume you mean blackmail,” the Marquis of Deverill replied. “I’ve heard that he finds ladies’ night rails very comfortable.”

  Peep giggled, wide-eyed. “He wears ladies’ clothes?”

  The marquis lifted an eyebrow. “Only at night.”

  Melbourne cleared his throat. “I was actually asking about political activities. But given our audience,” he continued, with a pointed glance at his seven-year-old daughter, “we can continue this later.”

  Valentine nodded. “You started it. I’m perfectly happy to stay out of the Griffin dynastic struggle. I have your sister, and that is all I require.”

  “God, you sound domestic,” Zachary chortled.

  “At least I’m not obsessed with cows.”

  Generally Charlemagne enjoyed these evenings, when the extended Griffin clan came together for dinner before a soiree or an evening at the theater. Tonight, however, his thoughts were already on the ball at Lady Mantz-Dillings’, and more specifically, on who else might be attending. He hadn’t seen the devious chit in a day, and only the devil knew what she might have done with his silks in that time.

  “Yes, Shay, we do get first pick of your silks, don’t we?” his sister, Eleanor, was saying.

  He shook himself. “Certainly. As soon as I get them sorted out, Nell, you and Caroline may select a bolt each.”

  “Is the quality as fine as you’d hoped?”

  Lady Caroline Griffin, the newest member of the family, thankfully had a wit and intelligence that more than equaled her husband Zachary’s, but she still showed a bit of reserve in Melbourne’s presence. Charlemagne couldn’t blame her for that; her claim to nobility lay in her great-grandfather, and she was a professional portraitist, of all things. And she knew that Melbourne had initially disliked the match. To his credit the duke had softened considerably, and that was probably in part because Caroline could definitely hold her own when push came to shove.

  “They are the finest I’ve ever seen,” he returned. “I should make a tidy profit.” If he could wrest them back from a certain clever, stubborn, exotic chit. After a moment he realized that everyone still gazed at him. “What?”

  “
And you tease me over my obsession with cattle.” Zachary grinned at him. “I only asked if you were going to sell the lot of it up in Milford, or piecemeal here in London.”

  “I’m not certain yet.” And if some of the silk began appearing in local dress shops, he wanted an excuse for it.

  Melbourne eyed him. “I thought you had Tannen chomping at the bit for the entire lot.”

  Damn. This was the last time he would count his chickens or his eggs before he had the ownership papers in hand. Neither, though, was he going to admit to having been outmaneuvered by a chit just off the boat from India. “I’m reassessing,” he improvised.

  “They must be good quality, then.”

  “You have no idea, Seb.”

  As soon as he could manage it without appearing to be rushing, Charlemagne got everyone away from the dinner table and out to their waiting coaches. There. At least he’d been fairly smooth about it, and now he could determine whether Lady Sarala Carlisle was brave enough to face him on neutral ground, or whether she would only stand up to him in the safety of her own home.

  “Why the hurry?” Zachary asked as he settled into the coach beside his wife.

  Charlemagne opposite him, conjured a frown. “What hurry?”

  “It’s barely half past nine, and Cook made strawberry cakes.”

  “If we waited for you to finish eating, we’d never leave,” Charlemagne retorted.

  Zachary looked thoughtful. “Can’t argue with that, I suppose.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Did Caroline tell you that Prinny wants to sit for her next month? The finished portrait’s to go up in the main gallery at Carlton House.”

  “If His Majesty approves of it,” his wife added, shaking her head at him.

  “I’m not surprised,” Charlemagne said. “In fact, the only thing about you that continues to astonish me, Caroline, is that you agreed to marry Zachary.”

  She snorted delicately, looking sideways at her husband. “He’s very persuasive, and much more artistically inclined than you give him credit for.”

  For the moment Charlemagne settled for nodding. He liked Caroline, and he was glad that Zachary had been able to persuade her to marry him. They obviously loved each other—and while he wasn’t jealous, he certainly recognized the rarity of the phenomenon. “The rest of us give him credit. We just don’t like to let him know it. Swelled head and all that.”

  “Why, thank you, Shay.”

  Charlemagne shrugged. “Melbourne and I aren’t completely unobservant.”

  “Neither am I. Who was the chit you were dancing with the other night?”

  With some effort Charlemagne managed a puzzled look. “Eloisa Harding? You know her.”

  “Not her. The glittering one with the black hair.”

  “Oh, her. She’s Hanover’s niece. The new marquis’s daughter.”

  “They’ve just come from India or something, haven’t they?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Hm. From her coloring and choice of wardrobe, apparently the chit’s gone native.”

  “Apparently.” Charlemagne shifted. The less conversation about Sarala Carlisle, the better. At least until he’d reacquired his silks.

  “Do you believe Valentine about Morgan?” Zach continued, thankfully changing the subject without having to be prompted to do so.

  “He has a tendency to know odd things about people. It’s rather like having a professional spy in the family.”

  “As long as he’s not gathering information about us.”

  And amen to that. It would be bad enough if Melbourne was to discover how he’d managed to bungle what he’d boasted to be an easy deal; if London at large found out he’d been bested by a chit, he’d never live it down. And in the business circles he frequented, that could be fatal—to his reputation, anyway. The situation, therefore, needed to be corrected, and as quickly as possible.

  “Couldn’t you smile at him?” Lady Hanover murmured from behind her fan.

  “Which one?” Sarala returned, her gaze on the doorway rather than on the crowd already filling the Mantz-Dilling ballroom. Lord Charlemagne had clearly sent her a challenge with his parting words, though the more she thought about them, the more they’d sounded…personal rather than professional. She’d stayed in last night, but hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse to do so for two nights in a row. Had he looked for her? Low heat ran through her belly.

  “Him, over there. Lord Purdey.”

  Reluctantly Sarala looked in the direction her mother indicated. “The one in the scarlet vest? Oh, Mama, he’s hideous and ridiculous.”

  “Hush, before he hears you. Mrs. Westerley says he has four thousand a year, and a grand estate in Suffolk.”

  “His eyes are crossed, and he’s drooling on his own boots. Besides, I daresay you know nothing about him but the state of his finances.”

  “What else is there to know? He’s unmarried, and wealthy.”

  “Does he read? Does he like the theater? Is he able to carry on an intelligent conversation? Between bouts of drooling, of course.”

  Lady Hanover eyed her. “You certainly have an odd idea of courting.”

  “You can’t even settle on one name for me—how am I supposed to be able to settle on a potential husband?”

  “Enough of that nonsense. Go over to the dessert table and smile, or you’ll end up with no one on your dance card again.”

  Swallowing a sudden surge of nerves, Sarala smiled and attempted to stroll nonchalantly to the crowded food tables. Wearing the perfectly tasteful peach and gold gown her mother had recommended, her hair in a stylish upswept bun and a trace of rouge on her cheeks, she suited her new perfectly ordinary, perfectly English name. The rich, deep palette of colors she’d grown up around made everything she saw now seem pale and flat and plain in comparison. Apparently that was the way in which the proper young ladies of Society wished to be seen.

  And apparently now she’d become one of the dull multitudes. No one but she had even batted an eye when the Mantz-Dilling butler had announced her as Lady Sarah Carlisle. Her mother seemed assured that not standing out would gain her the interest of every single gentleman in the room, but she had her doubts.

  “I’ve brought you something,” a low, masculine voice said.

  Her heart jumped as she turned around. “Five thousand pounds?” she suggested, looking up into the gray eyes of Charlemagne Griffin.

  “Hardly.” For a moment he gazed at her. Then, taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. As he released her, he slipped a small velvet bag into her fingers. “Put it in your reticule,” he instructed in a low voice, “and look at it later.”

  She closed her fingers around it. “I won’t be bribed, you know.”

  The twinkle in his eyes matched the glitter of the onyx pin stuck through his starched white cravat. “How do you know it’s a bribe? Perhaps it’s a threat. A dead toad, or a piece of coal or something.”

  Her lips curved upward despite her best efforts. “So many wondrous possibilities.”

  “I suppose I could tell you what it is. The curiosity of females is rather notorious.”

  “Don’t you mean the curiosity of felines? I believe it was a cat that curiosity killed. I’m of a different persuasion, and if it suits your strategy for me to look, then I won’t do so.”

  She couldn’t read the quick expression that passed behind his eyes, but she thought it might have been appreciation. “Are you certain you’re not curious?” he pursued, handing her a glass of Madeira and taking one for himself.

  “Let’s say I’m equal parts curious and cautious.” Setting down the glass for a moment, she slipped the small bundle into her reticule. Very well, so she was curious—excessively so—but she had no intention of letting him know he’d surprised her. In business it was always very bad form to show surprise.

  “Shay!”

  With a slight start he turned his head to view a small cluster of gentlemen at the far
end of the table. “Damned Willits,” he muttered, and faced her again. “I need to speak with him. Will you forgive me?”

  “Unless he’s terribly evil or a spy, I don’t believe you have anything to apologize for. I—”

  “Give me your dance card,” he interrupted, holding out his hand.

  “You might ask me, rather than demanding.”

  He smiled, the expression doing remarkably handsome things to his face and some more complicated ones to her insides. “If I asked, you might refuse. Your dance card, my lady.”

  With what she hoped looked like an exasperated frown, Sarala handed the thing over. “There. I thought we were business rivals. Not dancing partners.”

  “Perhaps we’re both.” His brows lowered. “This says ‘Sarah.’”

  She flushed. “My parents’ idea. It doesn’t signify.”

  “They altered your name?”

  Sarala gave an irritated sigh. “Not that it’s any of your affair, but they thought I would have an easier time being accepted into English Society if I had a more English name.”

  He gazed at her speculatively. “Now that you mention it, tonight you do look almost…English.”

  It probably wasn’t meant to be an insult, but it almost felt like one. “I am English,” she stated, because her mother would expect her to, “whatever my name is. Why should I not appear to be so?”

  “Shay!”

  “In a moment,” he barked back, then took a step closer to her. “So between you and me, do I call you Sarah, or Sarala?”

  “Sarala,” she answered, refusing to be moved by his intimate tone. Gifts, a kiss, private conversations—whatever he might claim, every move he made was designed to take him closer to his goal of getting the silks.

  He found a pencil and wrote his name on her card. “Very good then, Sarala,” he murmured, handing it back to her. “And try the raspberry tarts here. I think they’ll suit you.”