Something Sinful

by Suzanne Enoch

  Her husband sighed. “Yes, I can manage it. If he’s attending tonight.”

  “Lady Allendale knows the duke’s aunt, Lady Tremaine, and she thinks the whole family may attend. They’re old friends of the Franfields.”

  A shiver ran through Sarala—not at the idea of being introduced to someone who wouldn’t marry her, but at the thought she might see Lord Shay for the second time that day.

  When they arrived at Franfield House the ballroom was full of chairs, all of them facing a pretty pianoforte and a harp. Thank goodness her mother had declared her playing too poor to show well, and she didn’t have to perform tonight. She knew all the notes, but she always became so concerned with precision and the right rhythm that her tutors said she played without feeling. Ha. She had a good deal of feeling. It just so happened that most of that feeling centered around terror.

  “Dash it, we’re early,” her mother said. “I’d hoped we could make a grander entrance.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that now,” Lord Hanover commented. “We can’t very well leave again and then return later. Shall we find seats?”

  “No, we should mingle. Do you see any sign of the Griffins?”

  “Not yet, my love. Apparently they are better at making entrances than we are.”

  “None of your sarcasm now, Howard.”

  Considering that the only person there at the moment with whom Sarala was acquainted happened to be Mr. Francis Henning, mingling seemed a terribly dull and useless idea. After taking one look at her mother’s determinedly happy countenance, however, she reconsidered.

  “Good evening, Mr. Henning,” she said, accepting a glass of punch from a footman.

  “Oh, I say, Lady Sarala.” He bobbed his head, jowls shaking. “Or did I hear you was Sarah, now? You ain’t having a laugh at all us young bucks, are you?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Certainly not, Mr. Henning. I…go by both names. Call me what you will.”

  “That’s—” He stiffened as he glanced beyond her shoulder. “Drat. My grandmama’s here. Excuse me. I have to go fetch her some punch.” He sprinted off.

  Sarala turned around to see a stout woman with a shock of snow white hair scowling as she jabbed a walking stick in Mr. Henning’s chest. As she watched, the cane swung in her direction and back again.

  Hm. It probably meant nothing. She was, after all, something of a curiosity—no matter how conservative her dress, she couldn’t hide her tanned skin, and most people seemed to think she had an accent. On the other hand, she also remembered what Lady Gerard had said about the Griffin family’s standards of marriage. Perhaps Melbourne and his kin weren’t the only ones to prefer England-born English.

  “You’re not mingling, dear,” Lady Hanover said from behind her.

  “I’m trying to. All of the participants playing in the recital must be elsewhere.”

  “You know, several of the Society ladies host luncheons. Normally I wouldn’t attend because most of them seem to be havens for gossip and rumor spreading, but I see now that you and I will simply have to grin and bear it. It’s the best way for you to meet other young ladies of your station.”

  “I would like that.” She would also like for any new friends she met to know her as Sarala, but even Mr. Henning had now heard of her name change. And since tradition and custom made it impossible for her to join her father for a business luncheon at one of his clubs, she supposed tea and gossip would have to do.

  Lady Hanover kissed her cheek. “That’s the spirit.” The marchioness looked up as more guests appeared in the doorway. “Ah, look, Mrs. Wendon and Lady Allendale have come to show their support.”

  More likely they’d come to see whom they could send swooping after Sarala first: Lord John Tundle or Lord Epping. She had no idea whether either gentleman would be in attendance, but she had enough to think about with Charlemagne keeping her on her toes and her mother setting her on Melbourne.

  Twenty minutes later at the sound of a familiar male laugh she spun around—and knocked into the arm of a man standing behind her. “Excuse me,” she said, rising on her toes to make out Shay Griffin standing with his brother and sister-in-law. He’d come. A thrill of anticipation ran down her spine.

  The man she’d bumped into put a hand on her wrist. “No, please excuse me,” he returned in a low, cultured drawl. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Melbourne.”

  The breath froze in Sarala’s throat as her gaze jolted to his face. She belatedly dipped a curtsy. “Your Grace. I am—”

  “You’re Lady Sarah Carlisle,” he finished.

  His dark gray eyes weren’t on her face. For a single, disconcerting moment she thought he was gazing at her bosom—until she remembered the necklace. Shay had said no one would know where it came from. It had best not be a Griffin family heirloom, or someone was going to get their eye blackened. “I am, Your Grace. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Oh, heavens. Out of all possible outcomes, she hadn’t expected the duke to be the one to notice the ruby. After all her trepidation, her mother hadn’t even asked her about the jewel. In India she had had several ardent suitors, so perhaps her parents thought it had been a gift from one of them. Good.

  She needed only one person to react to the necklace, and that was Shay Griffin. She couldn’t imagine what he would say when he realized she’d accepted his “gift” and still meant to demand six thousand pounds for the silks. He was the one who’d said one had nothing to do with the other, after all. But if his brother knew something about it, that changed everything.

  “You and your parents are newly arrived from India, I believe,” Melbourne continued.

  He hadn’t mentioned anything about the necklace. Perhaps he only admired fine jewelry, for the ruby definitely qualified as that. His gray gaze, a shade or two darker than that of his younger brother, met hers squarely.

  “Yes, we are. We arrived in London just a fortnight ago.”

  He stirred just a trace. “Then your acquaintance with your fellows must be limited. You and your parents must come sit with my family.”

  What? “I—That’s very generous of you, Your Grace, but I can’t speak for my parents.”

  The duke nodded. “Where is your father?”

  Thankful that her hand remained steady, she pointed. With another half nod the Duke of Melbourne turned on his heel and left her standing there. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she breathed.

  A pair of hands clutched her shoulders. Sarala jumped, squeaking.

  “What did he say?” her mother whispered. “And stop that silly squawking at once.”

  “You startled me,” Sarala returned, trying to settle her heartbeat as she faced the marchioness. “He only asked when we’d arrived in London. And—”

  “My dears,” her father broke in, joining them, “this will rattle your nerves a bit, I’m afraid. The Duke of Melbourne just approached me and asked if we’d care to sit with him tonight.”

  This time it was her mother who squeaked. “Heaven be praised,” she said vehemently. “You must have made an impression on him, Sarah. This is wonderful news.”

  Sarala wasn’t quite so certain about that, but she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps Charlemagne had asked his brother to intervene and bargain for the silks. The duke, of course, wouldn’t want to deal with her, so he’d requested that her father join them. That made sense, though if Melbourne thought he could use his name and high station to force down the price, she would have to step in. Her family couldn’t afford to take a loss simply to assuage some man’s overlarge share of pride.

  How cowardly of Charlemagne to arrange for reinforcements, though as their hostess appeared and urged everyone to take their seats, she had to admit that it didn’t seem quite his style to hand over control of his business dealings to anyone else—even a brother.

  “Fix your sleeve, Sarah,” Lady Hanover whispered.

  “My sleeve is fine, Mama. You need to stop worrying.”

  “I’m not wor
rying. I only want to be certain that you’ll make a good impression. This is your best chance, my darling. How many people do you think are ever invited to join the Griffin family?”

  They hadn’t been asked to join the Griffin family; they’d been asked to sit with them, which was an entirely different box of cats. Disputing semantics at the moment, though, wouldn’t do anything but spoil her mother’s buoyant mood.

  Sarala took the moments as they made their way through the settling crowd to revise the approach she’d planned. With his family about, she couldn’t be as direct with Charlemagne as she wanted, nor as she’d intended. In fact, she should probably remove the necklace and save it for his silly picnic luncheon tomorrow.

  Before she could do so, her father stopped just in front of her to shake the duke’s hand. “Your Grace, may I present my wife, Lady Hanover? And I believe you’ve met our daughter, Lady Sarah.”

  Lady Hanover curtsied deeply, nearly pulling Sarala to the floor beside her. “Your Grace. Thank you for the great honor you do us.”

  “My pleasure. Have you met my family?”

  Sarala smiled as Melbourne introduced each member of the Griffin clan. When her gaze found Charlemagne, he was already looking at her and ignoring her parents. Her mouth went dry. Slowly his gaze trailed down her face to her throat, and almost imperceptibly his eyes widened. Abruptly she was glad she hadn’t had the chance to remove the ruby.

  Aha. With a wily smile, the white queen moved onto the chessboard. Check.

  There was no mistaking the faint smile on Sarala’s face as the two families seated themselves. She’d worn the necklace, and she knew she’d surprised him. Blast it all. Had Melbourne seen it? For God’s sake, Charlemagne hoped not. This negotiation was complicated enough without him having to explain his strategy to his brother.

  Did this mean she would accept his offer of seven hundred and fifty guineas for the shipment? Hm. He needed to find out. “I’ll fetch everyone a punch,” he said. “Lady Sarala, might I impose on you to lend a hand?”

  Zachary started to say something, probably gentlemanly, about offering his assistance, and Shay trod on his toe. As he gazed at Sarala pointedly, she nodded. “With pleasure.”

  “I’ll save you a seat right here, Sarah,” the girl’s mother said, patting a seat between herself and Melbourne. “Do hurry back.”

  “We won’t be a moment,” Charlemagne put in, taking Sarala’s hand and putting it across his arm.

  “You seem to have dried off,” Sarala whispered as they pushed to the edge of the settling crowd and Lady Franfield appeared to announce the evening’s players and their selections.

  Her quiet voice sent a warm tremor down his spine. “As did you,” he returned in the same tone, coming to a halt beside the refreshment table at the back of the room. “And you found my gift.”

  “Yes. Since you ignored my wishes and my warnings and pressed it on me, I thought to at least make some use of it.”

  The first player, the Franfields’ daughter Hattie, took her place at the pianoforte. Using the cover of the polite applause and then the Haydn concerto, Charlemagne moved closer to Sarala, handing her a pair of glasses as he did so. “I’m glad you did. It looks splendid on you.”

  “I hope you still think so when I tell you that the price of the silks remains at six thousand pounds, Lord Charlemagne.”

  His mouth quirked. If she’d been a man, he would have been complimenting the size of her balls. “Call me Shay,” he said instead. “We are friendly adversaries, are we not?” The wording didn’t seem adequate, but he didn’t think words existed that could accurately describe their odd relationship.

  “Shay, then,” she said softly.

  Abruptly he wanted to kiss her again. Some sort of physical contact became absolutely necessary. He glanced about, to see that everyone but the footman in charge of the refreshments table had their backs turned to watch the Haydn performance. With a shallow breath he reached out to cup her cheek, brushing the strands of hair at her ear with the tips of his fingers. For the briefest of moments her eyes closed.

  Just as swiftly they flew open again. “Desist as once,” she hissed, taking a step back.

  “You had an eyelash. On your cheek.”

  “Oh. Thank you, then.”

  The queen she’d put into play earlier seemed distracted, and so he moved his knight in. “And I have no intention of paying six thousand pounds for anything. Give me back the necklace if you’re going to punish me for making it a gift.”

  “I will not.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well, then. I’ll lower my price to five thousand pounds.”

  “Don’t expect me to be grateful.” God, he wanted her. “Why don’t you accompany me into the morning room, and I’ll check for eyelashes again?”

  “You mean you’ll kiss me again,” she whispered. “You really must cease doing that. It’s very bad business.”

  “But I enjoy kissing you.” Eleanor took that moment to glance over her shoulder at them, and he made a show of handing Sarala another glass—which had the added benefit of filling both her hands. “Do you know what I think?”

  “I think you are never going to make me a reasonable counter offer,” she said even more quietly, through slightly parted lips.

  “I didn’t ask what you thought,” he countered, the grin touching his mouth again. “What I think is that you are as sensual as you are brilliant.”

  “I’m not brilliant. I’m merely smarter than you.”

  “And you’re blushing,” he returned, ignoring her sarcasm and using every ounce of willpower to keep from caressing her soft skin again.

  “I am not. I am flushed with the frustration of waiting for you to say something meaningful. Now if we don’t rejoin our party, people will begin to talk.”

  “But has it occurred to you, Sarala, that if I make you a reasonable offer, you won’t have an excuse to insult me any longer?”

  She took a breath, her green gaze meeting his. “If that has occurred to you, I wonder that you haven’t taken steps to stop me from insulting you.”

  Why hadn’t he taken steps? Because she’d never attended a London recital before in her life, never been presented at court, obviously never learned that while tanned skin might be exotic, it was also very improper in an English-bred chit. Because while they both might be English nobility, he was a Griffin, and she was the foreign-born daughter of a second son promoted to the peerage only by an accidental death. “I like being insulted by you,” he said instead. “I like bantering with you. And if you can tell me truthfully that you don’t enjoy it as well, then we’ll reconvene in your father’s office, which is where this negotiation should have begun in the first place.”

  Sarala took a step closer, lifting her chin. “Don’t you dare threaten with pulling this affair away from me. If you do so, I will call you a coward and a cheat.”

  Cinnamon crept softly across his senses. Charlemagne swallowed. “Then we’re in agreement, and we can resume our business tomorrow during our picnic—which you have to agree is the only place we can continue to meet under any circumstances.”

  For a moment she stayed silent, while he concentrated on accounts that didn’t balance, tariffs that prevented fair trade, anything that kept his body from reacting to her as it badly wanted to.

  “Very well,” she finally conceded. “Business will wait until tomorrow.” She maneuvered a fourth glass into her nimble fingers and started to turn around.

  She had better control of herself than he did. As that dawned on him, he put a hand on her shoulder, turning her back to face him again. “Since business is put aside, we will have to be social. Tell me of a typical day for you in India.”

  That seemed to surprise her. “We have to get back to the others.”

  “They haven’t even noticed that we’re gone,” he decided. “Tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m interested.”

  She took a slow breath, her bosom rising and falling delic
iously. Shay hadn’t been lying about his interest, nor was he trying to cajole her into liking or trusting him. Her life, what had made her who she had become, did genuinely fascinate him. Hm. If his younger brother had overheard, he would be laughing; Charlemagne couldn’t count the number of times Zach had teased him about his disdain for small talk and his lack of interest in what most women had to say.

  “During the summer,” she began, her exquisite accent deepening as she spoke, “the only time to go walking was early in the morning. My friend Nahi and I would stroll along the street between the Red Fort palace and the Jama Masjid mosque—two of the most beautiful buildings in the world—on our way into old Delhi to visit the street markets.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “We usually had carrying boys with us to help manage our purchases, and when Colonel White saw us he would send along a pair of soldiers to keep us company.”

  “I should hope so.”

  She smiled softly. “They weren’t necessary. I wasn’t afraid. Nahi is Indian, and I speak Hindi as well as anyone. Papa’s position with the East India Company was negotiating with the local growers, and I grew up as his assistant.” Her smile faded, replaced by that lonely look he’d seen when he first caught sight of her.

  “Tell me about the market.”

  “It was wondrous, half pirate romance and half fairy tale.” She shifted, moving a breath closer to him. “Vendors selling chickens or goats, pottery or hashish right next to stalls offering vegetables and rainbows of saris and beads. I can still smell the dust and spice in the air, and feel the warm breeze on my face.”

  Charlemagne swallowed again as she tilted her face up to the imaginary breeze. Say something before you kiss her again, you idiot. “The chickens and goats surprise me. I thought Hindus didn’t eat meat.”

  “Most of them don’t. Some eat eggs and drink goats’ milk, and a great many of the shoppers were English or worked for English families.”

  “Did you ever wear a sari?”

  She chuckled, covering her mouth as her mother turned around and gestured fiercely at her to return. “Once, that my mother knows about,” she whispered, starting back along the row of chairs. “She was furious, but it was for Nahi’s wedding and I was in the ceremony. When she saw my bare feet she nearly fainted.”