“Displeasure doesn’t even begin to describe it, Shay.”
Charlemagne sat forward. He would have preferred a good night’s rest before he confronted an opponent as formidable as his brother, but if the fight was to be now, so be it. “Is your displeasure over Sarala and her family, or is it because I’m marrying at all?”
“You were trapped, Shay. Tricked. Compromised by someone who realized the integrity of this family and figured out how to use it against us.”
“I would have asked her to marry me anyway, Seb,” Charlemagne returned, doing his damnedest to keep a rein on his temper. He sensed that Melbourne would let loose, and one of them needed to maintain control. “Not quite as soon, but I think I would have asked her. She’s remarkable.”
“Her mother’s an ambitious title hunter.”
“Yes, she is. I think they were actually hoping you would fall for Sarala. If it makes a difference, she spent yesterday and this morning asking me to speak with you about calling everything off. As far as she was concerned, we were negotiating for the silks. Period. The kissing was my idea, but she thought I was doing it to ‘befuddle her’ I believe she said. She begged me to convince you to find a way out of this.”
Finally Sebastian sat back to look at him. “I don’t understand. You…haven’t been unhappy. I know that.”
“I’ve been perfectly happy. And I’m happier, now.” He drew a breath. “If the problem is…If for business reasons you’d prefer me to remain at Griffin House, there’s no shortage of space even with the addition of Sarala.” Unless the duke’s opinion of Sarala changed that would be impossible, because Charlemagne simply wouldn’t subject her to that, but his brother needed to realize his own part in this equation, as well—and that he wouldn’t be abandoned.
“I didn’t think to keep the lot of you trapped there forever,” Sebastian said flatly. “Don’t misinterpret my objections as being because of my personal situation. My first concern is for the Griffin family.”
“She’s English, and she’s a marquis’s daughter.”
“She’s an oddity. I don’t know what the devil her father was thinking, to name her Sarala, to let her absorb Indian culture to the point that she finds her own kind strange, but his decisions didn’t do her any favors.”
“She learned how to charm cobras.”
“Shay, you’re not helping anyth—”
“My point being, I am perfectly aware of everything you just said. And all of that is part of what makes her so remarkable to me, including her accent and the tan of her skin. So before you begin handing down proclamations of your dissatisfaction with her upbringing, perhaps you should have a conversation with her. She enjoys Roman history and reads Greek. You might even like her, Sebastian. And the snake charming might come in useful for someone in your position with the government.”
“Damnation, Shay, you’ve done this the way you do everything. You assess all the points, make your decision, and then charge in regardless of barricades or common sense.”
“It’s not l—”
“It concerns me that you never mentioned her,” Melbourne interrupted, “much less how you apparently feel about her, before I forced you into it. That doesn’t sound like a love match to me.”
“Honestly,” Shay said, pretending that the word “love” hadn’t shaken him a little, “she attracts me, but I am occasionally an idiot.”
“Do tell.”
“I wanted to keep her for myself,” he said abruptly, scowling. “It doesn’t make sense, I know, but I think in the back of my mind I knew I didn’t want to have this conversation with you, and that if you realized what was going on, I wouldn’t be able to avoid it.” Charlemagne shrugged, trying to hide his reluctance to let a skeptic into his private thoughts when he hadn’t entirely sorted them out yet. “Besides, how often am I wrong?”
“It only takes once, brother.”
“This isn’t that once.”
Several emotions passed across his brother’s usually impassive face. “If I could find a way for you to end the betrothal without scandalizing anyone, would you take it?”
“No.”
“Would she?”
Cold speared through his chest. He’d made definite progress this morning, but Sarala’s damned sense of honor and her reluctance at being manipulated could still raise its proud head at any moment. “You know she would,” he said slowly, “but I would appreciate if you wouldn’t ask her that yet.”
“That’s not precisely fair to her now, is it?”
Charlemagne narrowed his eyes. “Don’t pretend for a second that you’re looking out for her best interests. If when I’ve done my best and she still isn’t happy with the idea of marrying me, then…” The thought of it left him so heartsick he couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I see.” Sebastian flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Should I plan an engagement ball then, or would you prefer that I wait?”
“Waiting would seem suspicious. But from what I’ve overheard, her mother’s already got us married and living at Windsor Castle or some such thing, so if you’d prefer it, I’ll take care of that negotiating.”
“God, yes. Please do.” Melbourne returned to the window, then sat back once more. “I’ll talk with Sarala.”
It wasn’t much, but at the same time coming from Melbourne, it was a great deal. Charlemagne knew just how far he was pushing things—after all, the Griffin family wasn’t just them. It was the Grifanus line dating back to before the time of Hadrian, and all the generations since then. And his brother felt that burden every day, because it was his direct heritage. He was a duke because of those ancestors, and he would never betray them or their memories. “Thank you, Sebastian.”
“Yes, well, the Chinese government still might lop your head off, and then I won’t have to bother with any of this.”
“We’ll try to remain optimistic, then.”
“Did you see this?” Lady Hanover asked, waving a note in Sarala’s direction. “I told you that knowing the right people makes all the difference. Oh, I’m so glad you never married in India.”
“That’s not what you said at the time,” Sarala noted, setting aside her Roman history. She’d had the chance, and despite the present mess, she’d never been more thankful to have avoided it.
“I never did. But don’t change the subject.”
Considering the griffin on the wax seal that hung from the bottom of the missive, she had a fair idea both who’d sent the note and what it contained. Her mother loved her surprises though, so she set aside her book. “What in the world is it?”
“It is a note from the Duke of Melbourne, inviting us to dine with them tonight, and inquiring whether we would care to join them at the Wexton masked ball afterward! And to think the invitations for that ball went out weeks ago, before we ever arrived in London!”
“That’s good, then.” A shiver of nervousness went through her. She’d encountered all of the Griffins en masse before, but that had been when they were at the recital. Having their undivided attention focused on her, and knowing now that Shay intended for her to join their ranks—oh, dear.
“Good? It’s wonderful! I must find your father and tell him. I think he’s playing billiards with Lord DeLayne.”
“De—John is here?”
“He arrived a few minutes ago.”
Her mother hurried from the morning room and made her way to the stairs. Hurriedly Sarala rose and followed her. “Mama,” she hissed.
Her mother stopped on the first landing. “What is it, darling?”
“Are you certain you should tell Papa about the ball while Lord DeLayne is standing there? He probably wasn’t invited, either, since he’s only just come to London.”
“Oh, yes, you’re right. I’ll hand the note to your father, and let him read it.”
Blowing out her breath, Sarala watched her mother vanish up the stairs toward the billiards room. She had been half convinced that Melbourne wouldn’t do it.
After all, everyone knew that the Wexton party was bound to be the event of the Season. He could just as easily have had them over for dinner any other night. A low buzz of excitement joined the nervous fluttering of her stomach. A masked ball. She knew what she wanted to wear—heavens, she’d known from the moment Shay had mentioned the party to her—but she had two problems: her nerves, and her mother. If either one got the better of her, she’d never be able to go through with it. She shouldn’t go through with it.
She heard a knock at the front door. A moment later the butler, armed with a salver and calling cards, appeared in the morning room doorway.
“My lady, Lady Deverill and Lady Caroline Griffin wish to know if you are in.”
Sarala stood, another bolt of nerves diving into her stomach. At this rate she might not survive to marry Charlemagne. “Of course I’m in. And bring some tea, if you please.”
Both ladies had been very kind to her two days ago when the disaster had occurred, but she’d been so frazzled that she hadn’t had any idea what they might actually have thought about everything. If it had been her watching a brother or brother-in-law caught and forced to announce marriage with someone practically a foreigner, she wasn’t certain how kind she would be.
“Good morning,” Lady Deverill said as she strolled into the room, Lady Caroline behind her.
“Good morning.” Sarala went forward to take each lady’s hand.
To her surprise, though, Caroline kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?” she asked.
“A bit disconcerted,” Sarala admitted. “What may I do for you?”
“We have a favor to ask of you,” Eleanor said, sitting in the chair Sarala indicated.
They probably wanted to ask her to return to India. Sarala pushed that thought aside with a forced smile. “Anything.”
“Well, as you know, tonight is the Wexton masked ball. Sebastian has invited you to join us, hasn’t he?”
She nodded. “We received his note this morning.”
“Good.” Caroline cleared her throat. “Shall I, Nell, or do you want to?”
“Heavens, what is it?” Sarala broke in, a genuine smile breaking through her nervousness at the realization that she wasn’t the only one who felt on uncertain ground. For the sake of their family they would have to be friendly to her, she realized. Whether they meant that friendship or not—that was what she wished to determine. “You don’t want me to kill someone, do you?”
“Not yet. We wanted to ask your help with costumes for tonight, actually.”
“My help?”
“We thought,” Eleanor took up, “Caro and I, that is, that it would be fun if the three of us dressed as Indian—Hindu—ladies. But please, if you don’t feel comfortable about that, we won’t do anything of the sort.”
“You know, I honestly thought of dressing that way, myself,” Sarala admitted. “But if I may say, I have no intention of doing anything which might…further damage your or anyone else’s opinion of me.”
“Because you’re betrothed to Shay?” Eleanor asked. “I know my brother well enough to state that he’s never gotten involved in anything he didn’t want to. Charlemagne has a remarkable capacity to get things accomplished. So if anything, I would be angry at him for ambushing you, rather than the other way around.”
It sounded sincere. She wanted them to be sincere. Assuming, however, wouldn’t get her anywhere. “He didn’t ambush me. Please don’t think that.”
“I don’t.” The marchioness accepted a cup of tea from a footman. “I saw the way you two looked at one another.” Slowly she smiled. “And I invited you to luncheon before I knew either of your…feelings for one another.”
“I’m not certain I know what those are.”
Caroline took her hand. “You will, eventually.”
“Indeed,” Lady Deverill put in. “So what do you think? Should we all dress like princesses from India?”
Shay had said she looked like one. It would be fun to dress that way, especially if it was to be for last time. “I did bring several traditional salwar kadeez and saris and veils with me. Shall we take a look?”
Caroline clapped again. “I think Zachary may faint,” she said, chuckling.
The Marquis of Hanover stepped into the room. “Ladies,” he intoned, sketching a shallow bow. “My butler said you were here. I was wondering, would it be possible to bring one more with us tonight? I have a friend also recently arrived from India, and I think he would—”
“Of course,” Eleanor broke in. “The more the merrier. I’ll let Melbourne know our party will include one more.”
“Splendid. I shall leave you to your fun, then.” With another nod, Sarala’s father left the room again.
Sarala hid her sudden disappointment as she summoned Jenny and led the way to her bedchamber. It made sense that her father would want to include John DeLayne in their party, but she had several reasons to wish otherwise—the largest being that she didn’t want Charlemagne Griffin and Lord DeLayne ever to meet. No, it wasn’t disappointment she felt. It was dread.
The three women decided to wait until after dinner to don their costumes. For Sarala that was something of a relief; not only had her mother’s probable reaction worried her, but this way she would at least have some time to become better acquainted with the Griffin clan in “normal” garb before they experienced her in the clothes of an Indian native.
At just before seven in the evening she and her parents arrived at Griffin House for the second time in her life. A festive feeling filled the air this time, a tremendous improvement over the tense, solicitor-choked atmosphere of the day before. Her mother’s complaints over the lack of a settlement continued, but at least they had slowed after the arrival of the duke’s invitation.
Viscount DeLayne had returned home to change for the evening, and she imagined he would appear at Griffin House shortly. Invitations to such an auspicious place for something as intimate as a family dinner were far more rare even than tickets to an event as sought after as the Wexton soiree.
She stepped down from the coach with the assistance of a liveried footman and made her way up the shallow marble steps, through the wide double doors, and into the large foyer.
“Hello.”
She turned to see Charlemagne standing in a neighboring doorway and gazing at her. “Hello. You look very handsome tonight.”
“My sister says I clean up well.”
He did, indeed. His long-tailed black coat set off a black and gold waistcoat and black trousers that hugged his muscular thighs. His snow-white cravat was austere and elegant, pierced by a ruby pin—the only ornamentation he wore. An Indian ruby, no doubt. She tried not to read anything into his choice of decoration, but just by noticing it, she supposed that she already had.
“I thought I might take you into the billiards room to show you that bust of Caesar,” he continued.
“Am I not supposed to greet the Duke of Melbourne before I begin wandering about his house?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I live here, too, and you’ve greeted me. There’ll be time enough for Melbourne tonight.” He took her fingers, tugging her forward. “Come and see Caesar.”
“As long as you’re not attempting to get me into more trouble, yes, I would like that.” Then at least she wouldn’t have to witness the duke greeting her mother.
Shay freed her hand and offered his arm, and she wrapped her fingers around the fine black cloth of his sleeve. She’d been so preoccupied the last time that she couldn’t remember much about Griffin House except that it was huge. Tonight she took in the line of fine portraits along the short gallery of the upstairs hallway, the exquisite pieces of china and porcelain and Italian blown glass on the hall tables, and the gold gilding on the upper cornices of the walls.
“How long has your family owned this house?” she asked.
“It actually came to the Griffins from my great-great-great-grandmother, a daughter of the Duke of Cornwall. It became Griffin House in 1648. The rear hal
f of the house burned during the Great Fire, but it was rebuilt in 1667. Various Griffins have modified, modernized, and expanded it since then, of course.”
“It seems as though your family has been here since the time of the Romans.” She’d heard that from Augusta, Lady Gerard, but if she was to marry into this family, she wanted to know all she could about their ancestry. And even if she wasn’t going to marry Charlemagne, she still couldn’t help wanting to know about him. Just hearing his voice gave her shivers.
“We have been. There was a Maximus Grifanus, a general under Emperor Trajan. The story is that he fell in love with a local tribal chief’s daughter. As a wedding gift the emperor gave him land, and he remained here as a landowner after he retired from the Roman army. His descendants decided they were British more than they were Roman, and after the legions left, they stayed as part of the original aristocracy.”
He came to a stop inside the billiards room and indicated a white marble bust between the tall windows opposite. “Zach calls him Uncle Julius, though the chances that we’re actually related are rather abysmal.”
She went closer to examine the bust. “Even abysmal is somewhat intimidating, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “All families come from somewhere. We simply happen to have kept records.”
“I would guess you’re actually a bit less cavalier than that about your ancestry,” she countered, half her attention still on the statue. She could see why he’d been interested in acquiring it; the quality was extraordinary. It had come from a Roman palace somewhere, and probably one occupied by Caesar, himself. The stone felt cool beneath her fingertips.
A young throat cleared itself in the doorway, and Sarala turned around, surprised. A very petite girl who looked a great deal like Eleanor stood there eyeing her. Hands clasped behind her and rocking back on her heels, in stance she looked more like Melbourne. The duke’s daughter, no doubt.
“Uncle Shay, would you be kind enough to introduce me to our guest?” the girl asked.
“Certainly.” Charlemagne hid a quick grin. “Peep, Lady Sarala Carlisle. Sarala, my niece, Lady Penelope Griffin.”
Something Sinful Page 21
