But in England, it would matter very much. Serena was illegitimate and she was half-Indian, and worst of all, she was not the daughter who had died. She was entitled to none of the kindness that had been shown to her, none of the love that Grandpapa and Aunt Morley had given, none of the regard showered on her by Society, none of the jewels or silk gowns or the rich furnishings in this room. Even the name she was called wasn’t her own, but her dead sister’s. She was only Savitri, the nautch girl’s bastard, and if the benevolent English ladies who’d nursed her in the hospital in Calcutta had realized the mistake they had made, they would have instantly cast her off into the streets and the oblivion of poverty that should have been her lot.
The authorities here in London would not be any more understanding. She would not be forgiven for the error of the kind people in Calcutta; she would instead be punished for not telling the truth. She knew the courts were not merciful. Grandpapa had a fierce devotion to English law, and with relish he would often read aloud from the papers of cases that pleased him in their awful justice. In mute terror, she would listen, and recognize the crimes she shared—fraud, theft, criminal deception, and false impersonation—and imagine the sentence that could be read over her own bowed head if she was ever discovered for what she was.
That was the truth, and she carried the inescapable burden of it within her always, day and night, through waking and through dreams and nightmares, too. As the years had slipped by, she’d realized that the danger of being discovered had lessened. She tried to tell herself that the possibility was slight, especially since the English ladies in Calcutta had told her that the doctor who’d rescued her had also sickened from the same fever and died, as had the soldiers with him. They’d sacrificed their lives to save hers. Any records of her birth would have burned with their house, and the truest source—her father—had perished as well.
Yet no matter how she strived to believe she was safe, her conscience refused to accept it. Somewhere there could still be someone who knew the truth, or some damning paper or record that could reveal who she truly was. Her greatest fear, however, was that she would somehow unwittingly betray herself. That was her fate, her punishment, and in it there was no place at all for moonlight and English lords with charming smiles.
And so she must be strong, and see no more of Lord Geoffrey. She must be as brave as her father had been, and as resilient as her mother, and pray for the courage to withstand whatever other twists and turns her life’s path might take.
She buried her face in her hands in too-familiar despair, and thought again of how much better and more fair everything would have been had she died from the fever instead of her sister.
CHAPTER
3
The afternoon was warm and bright with sunshine, and Hyde Park was crowded. To Geoffrey it seemed that all of fashionable London must have decided to take a turn around the park, and a good deal of unfashionable London with it. The ways were packed with carriages of ladies displaying overwrought new bonnets, middle-aged gentlemen pretending to be country squires, and officers in red coats on prancing, high-strung mounts. Every kind of street-hawker selling oranges and gingerbread and primroses was boldly darting between the horses and carriages in search of customers, and mixed in among them beneath the trees were fiddlers with their hats on the grass before them and showmen with their puppets and trained squirrels.
It was all just one massive, cacophonous distraction to Geoffrey, whose single concern was finding Serena Carew. How in blazes he was supposed to accomplish this was a challenge he hadn’t expected. He never came to the park at this hour, and he was irritated and frustrated by how slow his progress was now, forced to ride at the trudging pace of a stately snail.
He’d been picturing Miss Carew as a daring rider, one of those rare ladies who feared nothing as she raced over the open lawns, and looked quite fetching whilst doing it. In fact from the moment she’d slipped back into the ballroom and from his sight, he hadn’t been able to stop imagining her doing a great many things, most of which had been wickedly entertaining to him, if not very respectful of Miss Carew’s heretofore impeccable reputation.
But now he not only despaired of witnessing any daring or entertainment this afternoon, he despaired of seeing the lady herself. As he came to the end of Rotten Row yet again, nodding at one more of his father’s friends, he heard the half-hour chime of a nearby church bell, and his despair deepened to pure misery. She’d said she rode in the park at two-thirty, and now it was halfpast three. He was generally good-natured about women and time, understanding that they required more of that commodity than men to prepare themselves to face the world.
But an hour was his limit for waiting, and Miss Carew had now exceeded that. Far worse, however, was the nagging suspicion that she wasn’t delayed by vanity or accident, but had instead simply chosen not to join him, and regarded their appointment of so little significance that she hadn’t bothered to send word that she’d changed her mind. All that feverish talk of kismet and fate from her in the moonlight might have evaporated with the common sense of dawn. For that matter, he could well have been doing a bit of imagining himself, remembering more of an attraction between them than had actually existed.
It would serve him right, he thought with gloomy resignation, lusting after a genteel, romantic virgin like that. He was much better off with actresses and bored married women who wouldn’t turn skittish and not keep assignations. As intriguing as Miss Carew had been, he wasn’t going to let her play him for a fool, and with a muttered oath of frustration he turned his horse toward home.
And there, of course, she was.
She was riding toward him on a neat black mare, riding with exactly the same grace that he’d imagined. She sat tall yet easy, with her back making a long, sinuous curve over the sidesaddle. Her habit was nearly the same brilliant blue as her gown had been last night, with silver lace that glittered in the sun, and on her head was a stylish black silk hat inspired by a jockey’s cap, and crowned by a curling black plume. Tied diagonally over her breast was a patterned, scarlet sash knotted at the shoulder, with gold silk fringes that danced and rippled against her hip in the breeze.
In short she looked quite, quite perfect, and instantly made him forget all the bustling crowds and racket and his impatience as well. He lifted his hat and rode forward to join her.
“Good day, Miss Carew,” he said, smiling warmly as he guided his horse to fall into step beside hers. “A beautiful afternoon is made all the better because you are now in it.”
The compliment didn’t make her smile, and seemingly neither did his presence. But then she’d been like this when they’d first met last night as well; he must remember that, and do his best to thaw her.
“Good day to you, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, her voice solemn. “I must beg your forgiveness for being so much later than I had originally said.”
“I took no notice,” he lied, beaming. It was always a good thing to have a lady indebted to him, even over something as foolish as this. “All that matters is that you are here now.”
“It was due to my aunt, you see,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “She wished me to sit in the carriage, while I preferred to ride. Our, ah, conversation took longer than I anticipated.”
Pointedly she glanced over her shoulder, and he followed her gaze. A pair of burly grooms in her grandfather’s pale gray livery were riding directly behind her, and behind them was an open carriage with Lady Morley, sitting in the center of the seat in an extravagantly beribboned hat and a parasol on her shoulder.
How in blazes had he forgotten? Miss Carew was a young, unmarried lady, and young, unmarried ladies were never permitted to go anywhere unattended, from fear that men like him would swoop down and snatch away their virtue.
Which, given how beguiling Miss Carew appeared today, was a very genuine possibility. Or at least it had been, until he’d realized she was being guarded as closely as the crown jewels in the Tower. The odds aga
inst him having her to himself alone again as he had last night were slim, very slim. He would simply have to be more inventive. Kisses and caresses were the easiest path toward seduction, yet from experience he’d found the right words could be effective as well. More challenging, yes, but this lady was well worth the extra effort.
“I must go to Lady Morley and pay my respects,” he said gallantly, knowing how important it was to keep in her aunt’s good graces. “The older ladies merit that, you know.”
“No,” Miss Carew said swiftly, reaching out to place her small gloved hand on his arm to hold him back. “That is not necessary. She will already be pleased beyond measure to have you join us. Besides, I wish to speak to you. At once, if I may.”
Happily he complied, and reined his horse back beside hers. “I am glad of it, Miss Carew, because I have things I wish to say to you as well.”
Her eyes widened beneath the curving black brim of her hat. “You do, Lord Geoffrey?”
“I do,” he said. “You needn’t look so wary, either. I promise you I’ll say nothing that merits that kind of look from you.”
“Hah.” She ducked her chin for a moment, visibly composing herself before she raised her gaze once again to meet his. She’d done this last night, too, shifting her emotions as easily as other women took off their gloves, and he found it intriguing. Now her unusual amber-colored eyes only showed curiosity. “I can only begin to guess what you’d say to me.”
“Then I suppose I must tell you at once,” he said easily, “and end your suffering.”
She gave a disdainful little flick to her hand. “I assure you, Lord Geoffrey, that you flatter yourself very much if you believe that I would suffer on your account.”
He laughed. “So whilst I am determined to spare you, you in turn refuse to be in sufficient peril to be rescued. A fine conundrum, that.”
“Only because you have made it so,” she said. “It’s no wonder that you turned to Hindi last night, Lord Geoffrey, since you appear so incapable of plain-speaking in your own tongue.”
He laughed again, delighting in her banter. Not once did she smile, let alone laugh, but her expressive eyes were filled with teasing amusement, made all the more beguiling by her outward solemnity. Last night he’d assumed that she wore paint and powder and rouge on her face, the way all women did, but now in the sunlight he realized the sooty darkness of her lashes and the ivory of her skin were truly hers, and owed nothing to artifice.
“I thought I was never to breathe a word of that language to you again,” he said. “I recall being quite strictly forbidden.”
“And so you were,” she said promptly, adding a quick nod for emphasis, enough to send the plume on her hat fluttering over her head. “I commend you for being so obliging.”
“I will always oblige you in everything, Miss Carew,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to make his words more confidential. “Whatever you wish, and it shall be yours.”
“In everything, Lord Geoffrey?” she asked, without even a hint of coyness. “That’s a very bold promise for you to make, considering how little you know of me.”
“In everything,” he repeated, and at that moment, with her watching him with a slanting, sidelong glance, he meant it. “Try me. Test me. Ask a favor of me, and see how swiftly I will agree.”
“Oh, I could not,” she said, and if she weren’t the famously cold Miss Carew, he’d swear she was flirting with him. “It would not be right.”
“Of course it would be.” He’d been expecting her to make the usual requests that ladies did, a nosegay from a flower-seller or some such, but clearly she’d something more in mind, something that wasn’t entirely proper, and he couldn’t wait to learn what it might be. “Ask me your favor. Anything your heart might wish.”
“To ask what I wish most—ah, Lord Geoffrey, what I long for is a champion,” she said fiercely, her words tumbling out in a rush. “A champion, yes, and not one of these pitiful modern English gentlemen, either. Instead I’d summon the ancient warriors of Greece and of Rome and of Persia for my choosing, men who were honorable and fearless in their loyalties.”
He smiled, intrigued. He remembered this intensity of hers from last night; it had been much of what had drawn him back in the hope of seeing her again today. Passion in a woman was a fine thing, no matter what inspired it.
“You have so little use for us poor Englishmen?” he asked. “We are of so little worth in your estimation?”
Her gaze swept over him in a swift, efficient appraisal. “Not you, Lord Geoffrey,” she said. “I did not mean all Englishmen.”
He laughed, wondering if she realized how brazen her accounting of his physical attributes would be considered by her aunt. Or perhaps not; he did recall Lady Morley also conducting a brisk accounting of him last night. “How relieved I am to learn that I suffice, and that my humble self will meet your measure.”
“You know you do, Lord Geoffrey,” she said with charming indignation, “and no lady would say otherwise. But a good many of your fellows are sad creatures indeed, macaronis and dandies and other idle jacks lolling in their coffeehouses and clubs. They are pitiful, Lord Geoffrey, quite, quite pitiful, and I’ll have none of them.”
It was clear she was taking this conversation quite seriously, while he—well, what he was doing was enjoying the fire in those golden eyes as she declaimed against the sad Englishmen, and how rosy her cheeks had become.
“For a husband?” he asked.
“For a champion, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, and her cheeks flushed a fraction more deeply. “I explained to you last night that I have no intention of marrying.”
He remembered, but he still didn’t believe it.
“Not even if some ancient Greek or Persian warrior were to come thundering around Hyde Park Corner with his sword drawn, intent on plunder and carrying you off as his wife?” he asked. “You wouldn’t take him?”
“No, Lord Geoffrey, I would not.” She raised her chin a fraction higher. “But if such a man also displayed bravery and loyalty and intelligence, then I’d consider him as my champion.”
“A champion.” He wondered if, in her mind, this was the same thing as a lover. Obviously, he rather hoped it was. “So those are the sole requirements for being your champion? Bravery, loyalty, and intelligence?”
“I would not encourage the plundering,” she said. “That is not acceptable in London. But you were wise to suggest the swords. Father always said you could judge the innate worth of a man by the strength of his sword-arm.”
He raised his brows at that. “In India possessing a good sword-arm means one can lop off an enemy’s head with a single blow.”
She nodded. “I believe that was what Father meant, too. It would be a most useful talent for a champion. The hills where we lived were home to many bandits and outlaws, and all the men at Sundara Manōra were skilled swordsmen. Father wouldn’t have had it otherwise.”
“I fear, Miss Carew, that you may have to adjust your requirements, this being London.” He’d never engaged in a more unusual flirtation, nor one that was more exciting. If they weren’t on horseback, they’d be tearing at each other’s clothes by now. “But I do know of a possible candidate for your champion. Will you consider him?”
She smiled, with the exact degree of assurance to show that she knew what he was really asking.
“Oh, Lord Geoffrey, I wouldn’t dare do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Proper?” he repeated, incredulous. “You won’t dare tell me because of propriety?”
She didn’t reply, letting her smile be her only answer.
But as far as he was concerned, it was too late for that. It was the dancing all over again. She could swear up and down that she was a proper English lady, but she wasn’t. Not in the least. No matter how carefully she’d been educated and groomed and refined the way her bloodlines demanded, part of her had clearly resisted becoming one more proper but excruciatingly dull young lady.
&n
bsp; He understood forced propriety, for his own family and tutors had attempted to instill much the same with him, with an equal degree of success. Rebellion was always bubbling within him, and a natural contrariness to authority and expectations. No wonder he was so drawn to her. Propriety simply wasn’t in her soul any more than it was in his, and he liked her all the more for it.
She gave another defiant, determined toss to her head, her gaze never leaving his. Surely this must be a challenge; he could think of no other way to interpret it.
He’d no intention of disappointing her, either.
As if avoiding another rider, he nudged his horse a fraction closer to hers so that his knee above the top of his boot brushed lightly against the skirts of her habit.
Her skirts, and her thigh beneath. His instincts were infallible that way. Even if his knee hadn’t bumped against her, he would have known by the way her eyes widened and her lips parted with a startled little gasp.
Yet she made no attempt to draw back, or to show any kind of maidenly fluster or indignation. Instead she looked directly at him, her chin slightly ducked so that her gaze was shadowed by her lashes. Even so there was no mistaking the longing he saw in her eyes, so keen that now he was the one startled.
“You should dare in everything you do, Miss Carew,” he said, coaxing. “Daring is much like courage, and both trump propriety in my book.”
Her eyes flashed with determination. “You cannot know how much I’ve already dared in my life, Lord Geoffrey.”
“Then dare again,” he said. “Dare to tell me what I must do to prove myself your champion.”
“My champion.” She caught her breath. “Do not tempt me like that, Lord Geoffrey, I beg you.”
“What about kismet, Miss Carew?” he said, his voice rough with urgency. “That fate that’s brought us together? You believed in kismet last night, and I believe it still.”
A Sinful Deception Page 4
