Sarala shifted slightly away from her maid, as if that would prevent the girl from hearing every word of the conversation. “As I was saying, we are business rivals. Would you give a male rival a…whatever this is?” She produced the velvet bag from her reticule.
Charlemagne hesitated, honesty warring with the instinct to maintain a position of strength. “Probably not that particular item, but a token of respect wouldn’t be out of the question, no.”
Her gaze lowered to the bag, then returned to him again. “A token of respect? Is that what it is?”
If it would induce her to keep it, she could call it whatever she liked. “Yes. I merely thought you might appreciate it.”
“So it has nothing to do with our negotiations, then.”
“Not a thing.”
“I see.” She lifted her hand and held the pouch out over the road. “Then I could discard it, and nothing would change.”
“Dis—” He cleared his throat, setting aside the thought that he’d spent two bloody hours picking it out. “Yes, I suppose so. It would be a shame to see it trampled by horses, though, if I may point that out.”
Abruptly she lowered the pouch to her lap and sat forward to glare at him. “How can you give me a gift that’s worth more than the entire shipment of silks, tell me it has nothing to do with our negotiations, and when I threaten to drop it, merely point out that horses might trample it? It’s ridiculous!” She threw it at his chest. “And it’s a bribe of some sort. I won’t accept it.”
His momentary satisfaction over the fact that she had opened the pouch twisted into consternation as he reflexively caught the bundle. “Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I like it. But I can’t wear it without someone wondering who gave it to me, and I won’t wear it if you think it obligates me to sell you the silks. Especially not if you think it constitutes payment for them.”
“I actually didn’t think much beyond the fact that it would look well on you,” he answered, inwardly swearing at himself. He’d wanted to know how she would view the gift, if it would flatter her and soften her resistance to his maneuverings, business and personal. He had his answer; she’d looked at it from every angle, just as he had, and obviously she hadn’t been so much as tempted to keep it, whether it was worth twice what the silks were, or not. Damnation. He’d underestimated her. Again. “You said you like it, so keep it.”
“No. Not even if you swear to me that my keeping it won’t alter our business rivalry, or the fact that you, being wealthy enough to purchase a ruby on a whim, must pay me six thousand pounds if you want those silks.”
“What? Six thousand pounds? I told you that it wasn’t a bribe.”
“So your intentions are matrimonial?”
He actually had to work not to blush. “And why the devil do you assume that?”
“Because when I tell my parents where it came from, that is exactly what they’ll assume. And so will everyone else.”
“No one will know where it came from. I purchased it from a small shop in Greenwich, told the fellow it was for my niece.” He hadn’t completely lost his mind, after all.
“I will know where it came from, Lord Charlemagne. I had hoped that we could conduct this negotiation in a professional manner, but obviously you have a different idea. For your information, I have sent out several inquiries regarding the silks, and expect to hear offers as soon as this afternoon.”
“Sarala, I—”
“You may let us out here, my lord.”
For a heartbeat he glared at her. “Tollins, here.”
“Yes, my lord.” The barouche rolled smoothly to a stop.
Charlemagne stood to open the door, then stepped down to help Sarala and her maid to the ground. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended your sensibilities,” he said stiffly, “and I hope my offer of a gift hasn’t removed me from the competition.”
He hoped he sounded contrite; he meant to. In his defense, he was unused to both apologies and to making excuses. Hell, on the rare occasions he gave women gifts, they generally just said thank you and then fell on him with their clothes off. Obviously Sarala Carlisle wasn’t a typical female.
“Business is business, my lord,” she returned succinctly. “I will still consider a reasonable—and I stress reasonable—offer from you. Good day.”
She was not going to dismiss him from two private conversations in a row. “Tollins, drive home,” Charlemagne instructed, and strode after her.
“What are you doing?” she blurted as he caught up. “Go away. You’re obviously devious, and we should only meet in very public, very crowded locations.”
“Certainly, if you feel you’re not a match for me otherwise,” he drawled, taking her hand and placing it over his sleeve. “But I’d hardly abandon a female in the middle of London.”
“We are five streets from Carlisle House, my lord. Perhaps we should negotiate by letter, if my being a female distresses you.”
They angled toward the more secluded walking path as a light drizzle began. She seemed to be ignoring it, so he did the same. “Your being a female does not distress me,” he stated. “I’d negotiate with a three-legged goat, if it had my silks.”
“But you wouldn’t buy it a ruby.”
“A goat would only eat it.”
She snorted, then coughed, obviously trying to cover her amusement. “You are now one of several interested parties, my lord. You will have to offer me something that I want. And what I want is a fair price, not rubies.”
“Is it?” he returned. Charlemagne tugged her around to face him, leaned down, and kissed her.
Chapter 5
Charlemagne’s mouth molded against Sarala’s. He felt her surprise and then her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Soft, warm lips met his with even more heat than before, and lightning swept down his spine.
Something smacked him hard across the back of the head. Startled, he released Sarala and whipped around. “What the—”
Sarala’s maid swung the parasol at him again, wielding it like a club. “You take your hands off her!” the girl sputtered, dancing just out of his reach.
“My hands are off her. Desist.”
“Jenny, it’s all right,” Sarala broke in, moving past him as though to shelter him from the petite servant’s onslaught.
“It’s not all right, my lady. I’m here to chaperone you, and I can’t have any tomcat who wanders by accosting your virtue.”
Charlemagne frowned. “‘Tomcat’?” he repeated carefully. As if he would go about rutting with every female in the park. Not bloody likely. Hell, he hadn’t had time for a mistress in nearly three months. He didn’t want one now. He wanted Sarala. Shay blinked, trying to focus again and blaming his confusion on being bashed on the head.
Sarala continued forward and took the parasol from her maid’s hand. “Lord Charlemagne isn’t a tomcat, and he wasn’t attempting to assault my virtue, Jenny. He’s losing the negotiation, so he’s attempting either to startle me into making a mistake, or to seduce the silk shipment away from me.” Calmly she faced him, one eyebrow lifted and only the twinkle in her eyes giving away her glee at his being beaten with a parasol. “So which was it, my lord? Startlement or seduction?”
Charlemagne backed away a step. All he needed was for her to begin clobbering him, too. He hadn’t meant to kiss her at all, either time. Her wit, her intelligence, her confidence, the way she had a logical counter for his every approach—she simply drew him. But if she knew or realized how spider-webbed his brain had become, he would never get those silks. “If you were a man,” he improvised, using every ounce of skill to keep his tone light and edged with humor, “I would play cards or billiards with you to test your mettle.”
“Would that be ‘test,’ or ‘taste’?” she queried.
That was when he heard the tremor in her voice. She’d felt it, too—the pull between them. As he realized he hadn’t lost ground, Charlemagne smiled. “I’ll let you come to your own conclusions, Sarala.”
He turned on his heel, heading for the closer southern border of the park. “And I shall call on you at noon tomorrow. I’ll bring a picnic luncheon.”
“I’m not available,” she called after him.
Charlemagne didn’t slow. “Yes, you are,” he returned, his smile deepening now that she couldn’t see his face. Being something of an expert, he could say with a fair amount of assurance that that had been one hell of a kiss. And this negotiation was far from over.
“My lady,” Jenny said, “we need to get you out of the rain.”
Sarala shook herself, finally realizing that they were indeed being rained upon. “Yes, I suppose so.” She handed the parasol back to the maid. The flimsy thing could barely fend off a light morning dew, and now the handle was broken, but it might serve to keep her dress from complete ruin. “Let’s go home.”
Jenny opened the parasol and held it up over Sarala’s head as they walked. “I hope I didn’t do wrong, my lady, but for him—a lord—to kiss you like that in public, well, I couldn’t—”
“Jenny, you didn’t do anything wrong. Thank you very much for looking after me.” Slowing, Sarala faced the maid. “I would appreciate, however, if you kept it between us.”
“Of course, my lady.” She hesitated. “You’re all right, then?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Just a little startled.”
The kiss had startled her, but not because of the act itself. She’d been anticipating another one for what felt like weeks. And it proved that she hadn’t imagined it the first time—the kiss had felt exactly as she’d remembered—warm, and confident, and intimate. Surreptitiously she ran one finger along her lips.
In the course of various business dealings she’d managed on her father’s behalf, men had attempted seduction before. Apparently if they couldn’t overwhelm her mind, their next and only remaining strategy was to attempt to bed her—as if that would miraculously turn her witless. They had been the idiots.
Charlemagne’s kisses, though, then and now, hadn’t felt like those of a man trying to exert his dominance or authority. He’d said he admired her. Nothing in his embrace contradicted his words. And that troubled her a little, because he kissed very well. Very well, indeed.
Once they reached the outer boundary of Hyde Park, she took control of the damaged parasol while Jenny hailed a hack. The drizzle continued soft and gray, and with the sun gone and the light east breeze, Sarala longed to sit in front of a warm fire. The blankets and warm coals of Lord Shay’s barouche had been heavenly.
She imagined that Shay would be soaked to the bone by the time he reached Griffin House, for he’d had no parasol or hooded coat, but it served him right. Perhaps she was enjoying this very unusual negotiation, but a straightforward exchange of numbers and a handshake would have been much easier on her nerves. Well, not her nerves, precisely, though she did feel…jittery whenever she caught sight of Charlemagne Griffin. And she certainly hadn’t been the least bit bored over the past few days, thanks to those silks—and to her opponent.
“Lady Sarah,” the butler said, as he accepted her wet cloak, “your mother is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
Blast it, she was going to freeze to death before she ever made it back to her bedchamber to find dry clothes. “Thank you, Blankman.”
“I’ll bring you some hot tea, my lady,” Jenny put in, helping to remove her bonnet and gloves.
“Thank you, Jenny.”
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind of warm kisses and other things at which Lord Charlemagne was undoubtedly equally skilled, Sarala climbed the stairs to the drawing room. She rapped softly on the closed door, then pushed it open. “Mama, you wanted to…see me?”
Half a dozen matrons turned to face her. Blast it all. No wonder Blankman had given her such a sympathetic look. Mama had undoubtedly forbidden him to warn her that visitors were present.
“Sarah. Come here, darling.”
Pasting a smile on her face, Sarala crossed the room. Belatedly she tucked a strand of wet hair away behind her left ear, and then with a jolt realized she still wore the peacock ear bobs. Damn, damn, damn.
The marchioness, seated on the couch beside Lady Allendale, took Sarala’s hands and pulled her forward so they could kiss cheeks. “Take those things off at once,” her mother whispered.
Sarala hurriedly removed the ear bobs and tucked them into her pelisse pocket. Inside, her fingers felt another shape—the ruby pendant. That devious devil.
“I believe you know everyone, don’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, Mama.” Sarala made a curtsy to the room in general. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go change.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Mrs. Wendon said, brandishing a gingerbread biscuit. “You look charming. Doesn’t she, Mary?”
Lady Mary Doorley nodded. “Indeed. Just the thing, I’m certain.”
Sarala hid a frown. “Just the thing for what?”
“Oh, yes, and her accent is charming, as well.”
“Just the thing for what?” Sarala repeated. It had taken her only a day to figure out her mother’s old gaggle of friends. They were all matchmakers to the core. And if she was charming, then they were thinking of setting her after some man. She began to feel as if she’d been surrounded by a pack of hungry, laughing hyenas. “Excuse me, but what are you talking about?”
The marchioness reached out to take her daughter’s hand again. “We’ve all been speculating, Sarah,” she said expansively, her voice shaking with barely suppressed excitement, “about which gentleman might be the best match for you. I personally favor the Duke of Melbourne, but Lady A—”
“The Duke of—Lord Charlemagne’s brother?”
Just inside the doorway a tea tray crashed to the floor. Sarala jumped.
“Apologies, my lady,” Jenny squeaked, sending Sarala a miserable look as she knelt to pick up the scattered teapot and accessories and replace them on the silver tray.
“It’s no matter, Jenny,” Sarala put in before her mother could criticize the maid. “We have tea already. I only hope you haven’t caught a cold with me keeping you out in the rain like that.”
“Oh, thank you, Lady Sarah,” the maid whispered, curtsying and backing the jumbled tea set out of the room.
Sarala was actually the grateful one. The accident at least gave her a moment to compose herself. Her mother actually thought she would suit the Duke of Melbourne? Ridiculous, and even more so in light of the fact that she was practically at war with the man’s brother—despite the kisses.
“I still think she would better suit Lord John Tundle,” Lady Allendale said, rubbing her hands together with obvious relish. “He served in India several years ago.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Allendale,” Sarala said carefully, trying to pull her thoughts together, “but do you not have a granddaughter just making her debut this Season? Why would you promote my interest over hers?”
Mrs. Wendon burst out laughing. “Because she already tried to set Millicent on half the gentlemen of the ton, and the poor girl has succumbed to the vapors each and every time. One of them told Lady A that her granddaughter seemed in need of a curative.”
“The girl’s too delicate for her own good,” Lady Allendale said unsympathetically.
“You can’t ignore that she and Lord Epping would look very well together, with his fair features and her dark ones.” Mrs. Wendon sipped at her tea.
The ladies began a long, loud debate over whether Melbourne should be the target and who would attend the Franfield recital that evening, and whether Sarala would show better on the stage or in the audience. Considering her barely adequate skill with the pianoforte, Sarala knew where she would prefer to be, but obviously none of this was her decision.
“You mustn’t mind them, you know,” a quiet voice came from behind her.
She looked up to see Augusta, Lady Gerard, standing at the back of the couch. As she reviewed the conversation, Lady Gerard did seem to be the only one who hadn’t
offered a suggestion to alter her marital status. “They seem very enthusiastic,” Sarala offered diplomatically.
The elderly woman gestured for her to shift over, and then sat down on the sofa beside her. “They’ve all mostly married off their own children, and everyone knows grandchildren can’t be managed, so they’ve decided to loan you all of their matchmaking expertise.”
“So I see.”
Pale blue eyes met hers. “You may speak your mind with me, Sarala. Or should I call you Sarah?”
Sarala took a deep breath. It would be so nice to be able to speak frankly with another woman. She’d missed that more than anything else in the weeks since she’d left India and her friends behind. That to her was far more important than being tossed into matrimony. At the same time, she had no intention of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.
“My mother wishes me to go by Sarah,” she answered, meeting the baroness’s cool gaze.
“Mujhe ap pareshan lage,” Lady Gerard murmured. “You seem worried to me.”
“You speak Hindi?”
“Not as well as I used to. My husband was stationed in Delhi for fifteen years, though well before your time, I’m afraid. India is a lovely country, and very different from England.”
“Very different,” Sarala agreed vehemently. “Were you sorry to leave?”
“I was sorry to leave friends, and happy to reacquaint myself with others back in England. I don’t imagine you have anyone with whom to renew old friendships here though, do you? You were born in India.”
“You know a great deal about me, my lady.”
“I know a great deal about a great many people. That’s why I’m always invited to parties. For instance, I know that the Duke of Melbourne would never offer for you.”
Sarala lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
Lady Gerard chuckled. “Don’t be offended, my dear. It has little to do with you. Melbourne is a singularly uncooperative sort of single gentleman: a widower who loved his wife. And aside from that, Melbourne…is England. The Griffins have been landowners and nobles here since they came from Rome eighteen hundred years ago. And no Griffin has ever married outside of England since then.” She chuckled again. “He’s literally more English than Prinny and the rest of the royal family.”
Something Sinful Page 7
