Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India)

by Lane, Nina

  “I see,” she said stiffly. “I hadn’t realized you were capable of that. I’ve thought you were cold, but I also thought that you had integrity.”

  “If you want to know if I’m using you for revenge, the answer is no,” Rohan said.

  “But you just said—”

  “I said I have reason to use a British woman,” Rohan replied. “That is not, however, what I am doing.”

  Devora stood slowly. She looked at him for a moment, thinking she had come here in the hopes of clarifying things. And now she was leaving more confused than ever.

  “Well, I suppose that’s good to know,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “I assume that your own motivations are also less than crystal clear,” Rohan said. “Is it for your own revenge? Or the desire to rebel against convention and conformity?”

  His words slammed into her like a physical blow. “None of those things,” she answered, her voice icy. “But you’d like it if I had those kinds of motivations, wouldn’t you? It would confirm all the negative things you think about British memsahibs.”

  “I have told you that you are different.”

  “You’re not exactly doing a wonderful job convincing me of that,” Devora snapped. “If I’m so different, why do you still say we can’t be friends because it’s not acceptable? Acceptable according to what standards? Some ridiculous convention that allowed an entire community to turn against you on a false charge? Is that the convention you want to live by?”

  “These things only serve to remind me that British and Indian relations cannot be successful ones,” Rohan said. “There are too many differences of perception.”

  “God, you are so inflexible!” Devora retorted angrily. “And you’re a hypocrite. You hate the fact that all the British turned on you because you were Indian, and yet you can make a sweeping statement like that and expect me to sympathize with you?”

  His eyes hardened. “I did not ask for your sympathy or even for your understanding, memsahib. If I recall, it was you who came here.”

  “I came here because I wanted to know the truth behind a rumor!” Devora said. “Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend? I’m not going to accuse you of rape, if that’s what you’re thinking. Simply because one British woman falsely accused you does not mean you can’t be friends with a different British woman.”

  Rohan stood, leveling a gaze on her. “I would not have told you what I just did if I did not believe that.”

  His words silenced her. She should have known that. His unyielding nature would prevent him from revealing such a personal matter if he did not, at the very least, trust her. She nodded.

  “Yes. I realize that. I apologize.” Devora approached him almost hesitantly, afraid that he had had too much time to think about what they had done. She paused in front of him and reached up to trace her fingers over his sensual mouth.

  “You know, even if you think friendships are difficult between British and Indians,” she said, “lust can obviously be quite easy.”

  Amusement flashed in Rohan’s eyes. “Yes. That I have discovered.”

  He cupped her chin in his hand and bent to brush his lips against hers. Warmth bloomed in Devora’s soul like a fresh rose, spilling over with color and luscious scents. She slipped her arms around his waist and allowed herself to sink against his chest. The urgency of their first time together was replaced by a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to break through so many weeks of restraint.

  Devora smoothed her hands over Rohan’s back and wondered how anyone could possibly be so narrow-minded as to categorize all Indian men together under the same prejudices. Rohan was not only unlike any Indian man she had known, but simply unlike any man.

  She parted her lips under his as his hand slid behind her neck. Their tongues danced together, breath mingling in hot rushes. Arousal swept over Devora’s skin like a thousand delicious feathers, so soft and sensual that she felt as if she were entering a place she didn’t want to leave.

  Rohan whispered something in her ear, Hindi words whose meaning escaped her but whose lyricism invaded her blood. She stroked her palm over Rohan’s strong jaw, tracing her fingertips over the coarseness of his whiskers. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples already tenting the thin material of her dress as Rohan clutched her hips in his hands pulled the skirt to her waist.

  Then he gently insinuated his knee between her thighs. Devora drew in a sharp breath at the sensation of his hard thigh pressing against her sex. She pushed her body downwards, her pulse throbbing as she rubbed against his leg. The heat of Rohan’s skin burned clear through his trousers and the cotton of her panties.

  Her body seemed to move of its own volition, her hips rotating with increasing frenzy. Sensations spread like fingers from her sex upwards through her pelvis, inflaming her need beyond reason. Rohan supported her lower back, bending to kiss the hollow of her throat. His tongue flickered out to taste her damp skin.

  “Wait,” Devora gasped, tightening her fingers around the front of his jacket. “I want—”

  She didn’t have to finish her sentence. Rohan pulled her dress and slip over her head, exposing her to his heated gaze. Devora stretched out on the bed and let him remove her panties, her excitement intensified merely by the way that he was looking at her naked body. She had never seen eyes like his, eyes that could smolder with such desire and yet also had the ability to shut him off from the world.

  Watching her, Rohan removed his jacket and trousers, then leaned over her and pressed his palm against the apex of her thighs. The tip of his finger slipped into her tight passage, eliciting a rush of moisture in readiness for his complete penetration.

  With a moan, Devora spread her legs apart and gripped his arms to urge him towards her. She splayed her hands over the muscles of his chest, twining her fingers through his thick mat of hair. She loved the way his skin and muscles felt underneath her palms, and the way the heat emanated from him to slide directly into her. His erection nudged against the fissure of her sex, pressing forward with slow strokes.

  Devora opened up to him fully, wrapping her arms around him to pull him closer as his body began to intensify their sweet, hot union. As they merged together, all thought dissolved into sensations and a quiet desperation that neither of them could identify.

  Devora woke with slow ease, lifting her arms above her head for a satisfying stretch. She took a deep breath of the clean, fresh air drifting in from the garden and opened her eyes.

  Rohan stood in front of the cracked mirror, fastening his sash around his waist. Devora rolled onto her side and smoothed her hand over his pillow. She watched him for a moment, appreciating the masculine grace of his movements.

  “Have you told anyone about us?” she murmured.

  Rohan glanced at her in the mirror. “You think I would?”

  Devora shrugged. “I don’t know. I was only curious.”

  “No. I have told no one.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Haven’t you? Not even Mrs. Thompson and the gossiping memsahibs of the club?”

  “Heavens no. Why on earth would I tell them?” Devora propped herself up on one elbow as she watched him finish dressing. He really was a beautiful man. And so noble-looking, as if he had been raised among the regality of court. “Are you going into town now?”

  “Yes. You require something?”

  “Pick up some desserts, if you would. Perhaps gulab jamun. I enjoy that. But please make certain that it’s fresh.”

  “Yes, memsahib.”

  Devora wondered if it was customary among Indian men to continue to refer to women by formal titles even after they had been sexually intimate. She reached for her discarded dress and slipped it over her head, then patted her hair back into place. She thought about going with him into town, but decided she would much rather work on her painting of him.

  “I will return in an hour,” Rohan said.

  “Fine.” Devora put on her shoes and followe
d him outside. She went towards the veranda, while he went around to the front of the house. Devora’s heart jumped slightly as she saw Kalindi standing on the veranda, watching both her and Rohan return from the direction of his quarters.

  “Do you want something, Kalindi?” Devora asked, putting an authoritative tone in her voice.

  “Yes, memsahib. I was wondering what you would like me to prepare for lunch.” Kalindi glanced at Rohan as he disappeared around the side of the house.

  “Is it lunch time already?” Devora hadn’t realized just how long she had been with Rohan. Nor did she like the curious look on Kalindi’s face. “Just some fruit and perhaps a chicken pie.”

  “Very well.” Kalindi turned to go back into the kitchen, but then glanced at Devora again. “Did you discover what you wanted to know about Rohan?”

  Devora frowned. “Yes, thank you.”

  “He is not dismissed, is he?”

  “No, of course not. Why on earth would he be dismissed?” Devora moved past Kalindi to go into the house. She hoped the young woman didn’t know that she had been with Rohan for at least four hours. The last thing she needed was Kalindi gossiping. “Kalindi, do get back to work. I dislike idleness.”

  “Yes, memsahib.” Kalindi hurried back into the kitchen.

  Devora returned to her painting, realizing she had left her drawings of Rohan in plain view for the servants to see. She sighed, but figured that drawings were not exactly incriminating evidence. All one had to do was look at Rohan to realize he was a perfect subject for artistic endeavors. Not to mention sexual endeavors.

  Devora smiled. A shiver of delight skittered over her skin. No man had ever satisfied her so thoroughly, both on mental and physical levels, not even her own husband. And then there was the sheer illicitness of their relationship, which gave it a heady kind of beauty.

  She picked up her pencil and gazed at the sketch on the canvas. After a moment, she erased the drawing and started over. Within half an hour, she had redrawn Rohan’s likeness. As she stepped back to critically examine the result, satisfaction filled her. She hadn’t consciously intended this, but she had captured his expression as it was in the moment just before he bent his head to kiss her.

  ***

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I thought you liked visiting him.” Gerald looked at Devora as he fastened his waistcoat and slipped on his jacket. “Especially with all those lunches you attended.”

  Devora didn’t miss the sarcastic note in his voice, and she gave him a mild glare.

  “I did enjoy visiting him,” she replied. “However, I just don’t feel up to socializing tonight.”

  “Well, darling, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to,” Gerald said. “It’s just not good form to turn down an invitation from the maharaja.”

  “Yes, I know.” Devora fastened on her pearl earrings and picked up her pocketbook. “Please, though, let’s come home early.”

  “We’ll come home as soon as it’s proper.”

  Proper. Good form. Devora thought she had never met a group of people who were so rigidly confined by a set of rules as the British “empire-builders” were. She followed Gerald outside to the car they had borrowed to take them to the maharaja’s palace again.

  Rohan stood by the car, his hand on the handle of the open door. “Good evening to both of you,” he said.

  “Good evening, Rohan.” Gerald stepped aside and helped Devora into the car. She glanced quickly at Rohan as she climbed in, unsurprised by the fact that he didn’t exhibit a flicker of emotion towards her.

  Once she and Gerald were settled in the backseat, Rohan got behind the wheel and headed for the palace. Devora looked out the side window at the reddish bronze landscape, wondering how anyone could live here for as long as many of the British did and yet still be so ignorant about the country and its people.

  The entrance of the palace was lined with lights, making it stand out like a beacon through the late-afternoon air. Rohan left them at the entrance before he went to park the car alongside the other vehicles.

  Devora took a deep breath as she and Gerald went into the palace. She hadn’t seen the maharaja since the day he had both frightened and angered her with his disregard for her feelings. She slipped her arm through Gerald’s as they stepped into the reception room that bustled with movement, silk, and voices. Devora’s fingers tightened around Gerald’s arm when she saw the maharaja approaching them.

  Weeks had passed since their final encounter, but he looked much the same, a plump man elaborately decked out in satin and embroidery. An exotic, colorful feather bloomed from his turban.

  Devora watched him approach, realizing he had lost the mystique that had so enraptured her in the beginning. He may have been a prince, but ultimately, he was a manipulative, aging man who did nothing but conspire against the British and exercise control over his court officials and harem. It made perfect sense that he would also attempt to exercise the same control over a British woman.

  “Sir, you honor us by inviting us to your home once again.” Gerald shook the maharaja’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome at any time,” the maharaja replied smoothly. His gaze went to Devora, his full lips curling into a semblance of a smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I am sorry you have been unable to come for lunch again.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Devora replied.

  “Yes, that is a pity. I did so enjoy our visits.”

  “Will you gentlemen excuse me?” Devora asked. “I see Louise over there, and there is something I want to ask her.”

  The men nodded. Devora gratefully escaped the maharaja’s presence and went to join the group of women in the corner.

  “Devora, isn’t it wonderful to be here again?” Louise kissed Devora’s cheek in greeting. “I just love being able to visit a palace!”

  “Yes, wonderful,” Devora murmured.

  Adele eyed Devora with suspicion. “You don’t seem very excited. Perhaps that’s because you’ve been here much more often than we have.”

  “Perhaps,” Devora replied absently.

  “Now, Adele, don’t be rude,” Louise said. “I think it’s a great honor that the maharaja invited Devora to lunch with him.”

  “Provided that’s all she did,” Adele muttered.

  Devora chuckled. “You mean anything more would not be a great honor?”

  Louise gasped and giggled. “Devora, really!”

  “I’m going to find the powder room,” Devora said, realizing that being with the memsahibs was no less bearable than being with the maharaja. “Please excuse me.”

  She went into the courtyard, hoping she could remember which direction to turn. The palace had such a number of rooms and corridors that her chances of getting lost were sufficiently high. She headed towards the erotic art room and found a powder room several doors down.

  After using the room and fixing her cosmetics, Devora went back out onto the mezzanine. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the maharaja leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette.

  His eyes, overly bright already from an excess of alcohol, traveled with slow insolence over her body. Devora bristled with anger.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cold.

  “I thought I would find you here,” he replied. “I knew you would seek out my erotic room once again.”

  “I was doing no such thing,” Devora said. “I wanted to use the powder room.”

  “Of course you did.” The maharaja flicked the cigarette over the railing and approached her. “But you cannot tell me you did not remember what we did in that room.”

  Devora backed up a step, only to encounter the wall. She disliked the look in his eyes.

  “What we did was a mistake,” she snapped. “It might have been exciting at first, but I no longer want anything to do with you. Please leave me alone.”

  “Ah, my dear Mrs. Hawthorne.” The maharaja reached up and traced the scooped neckline of her dress with his finger. “You
have a sensual nature unlike that of any British woman I have known.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve known plenty of them.” Devora swatted his hand away. “I’m going back to the reception.”

  “You mean, you don’t want to stay here with me?” Something wicked glinted in the maharaja’s expression as he pressed his large body against hers, pinning her to the wall. His stale breath rasped against her cheek.

  Fear lit in Devora like a struck match. She suspected people did not often refuse the maharaja anything. She pressed her hands against his chest and tried to push him away. “Get away from me.”

  “You know you enjoyed what I did to you,” he whispered, skimming his hand up her abdomen to her breast. “Wouldn’t you like to do it again?”

  “No!” Devora snapped. “Get the hell away from me! If you don’t, I swear I will charge you with assault! How do you think the British officers will react to that?”

  “Considering you have willingly given yourself to me at least twice, I suspect that they will consider you to be quite a little whore.” The maharaja grasped her breast in his hand and tried to press a kiss against her lips.

  Nausea rose in Devora’s stomach like a wave. Without thinking, she slammed her knee upward and hit him squarely in the groin. He grunted in pain and released her, doubling over to clutch at himself.

  “Keep treating me like this and what little you have down there will be so damaged that it’ll no longer work,” Devora snapped. While he was down, she slapped him across the face for good measure and then turned and fled.

  Devora couldn’t return to the reception room in her current state, and so she pushed open the closed door of a room along the mezzanine and ducked inside. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath and collect her senses.

  After she had calmed down a bit, she focused on her surroundings. Her eyes widened at the sight of three, beautifully made-up women draped in silk saris and an abundance of gold jewelry. They lounged on velvet couches, and one of them was smoking from a hookah pipe. All three of them were staring at her.