“We don’t suit,” she whispered, something like desolation flickering in her gaze. “You said it yourself. No one will believe that we are to be wed.”
Pushing off from the rail, he shuttled the distance between them, noting the wild pulse in her throat and the immediate widening of her eyes. His brow lifted. “I counter that we suit rather well.”
“That’s lust.”
“Lust is as good a basis for an aristocratic marriage as any,” he said.
“But you said you wanted love.”
Rhystan reached out a hand to tuck a loosened strand of hair behind one ear. Her lush mouth parted on a soundless sigh that she couldn’t quite hide. “No, you misunderstand me. I require the pretense of love. Easy enough when one puts one’s mind to the task. A glance here, a touch there. Whispered nothings and sentimental looks. Love is but a show, you see. You have to admit that Byron had the right of it—the man was a swindler of women’s soft hearts.”
He could see the argument push to her lips, then see her swallow it down with force. Oh, the rub that she still chose to believe in love nearly made him laugh out loud. Despite her strong opinions and unconventional views, his fierce princess remained quixotic at heart. Some things hadn’t changed. He tucked that bit of information away to use later.
Worrying that temptingly plump lip of hers, she heaved out a breath. After the barest moment of indecision, her shoulders straightened and she met his stare. “If I agree to your terms and I’m followed to England by my pursuer, will you agree to help me identify who wants me dead and why?”
Rhystan squashed the burst of triumph. “Yes.”
“And Tej and Asha will both accompany me?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“And I can walk away once your business has concluded in town, ending the engagement?” She paused, lashing him with a guarded glance. “Without recrimination.”
“Once our mutual goals have been achieved, yes.”
Sarani closed her eyes, her proud frame hunching slightly. “Then I agree.”
Twelve
This betrothal is a means to an end.
The Duke of Embry is a means to an end.
Sarani repeated the mantras almost every hour of every day for the next few weeks. The fact that it was wedlock to the only man she’d ever wanted to marry meant nothing. The fact that she had broken his trust and lost his heart also meant nothing. It would not be too much of a stretch to pretend to love him. She had once, after all.
This was a mutually agreed upon decision that would benefit them both.
They were both adults; they could do this.
It was only when the Belonging had turned toward the English Channel that her nerves started to coil and knot with trepidation. Blast it, could she do this? London wasn’t Joor. She wasn’t a princess in her own palace…in her own space.
Not that that had earned her any favors with the British nationals there, especially over the last handful of years. Rhystan had been right. Less than a year after he’d been discharged by Markham, discontent had risen to the point of rebellion, and as Markham’s and Talbot’s influence had grown, her father’s had diminished. His court, and his power as maharaja, had become little more than a mockery. As had her station in the palace. One English viscountess had had the gall to order her about like a servant and then complained to Talbot when Sarani hadn’t obeyed her.
Her father had asked her to be reasonable.
She’d nodded dutifully and promptly sold off her bridal jewels, donating a significant fortune to the sepoy army.
It had taken Sarani months to armor herself, walking with her head held high. She’d let their cruelty bounce off like raindrops on a window and plotted in secret with those who wished to see their oppressors gone from her lands. Her father’s hands might have been tied because of the crown’s power, but hers weren’t. And even in the aftermath of the rebellion, she’d made it her purpose to help those who had lost husbands and wives and children. She had lost loved ones, too.
One of her oldest friends, Manu, who had become queen of the princely state of Jhansi, had been a vocal supporter of the resistance. Her state had been reclaimed by the British under the doctrine of lapse and her adopted son rejected as ruler. Her death, after fighting for the freedom of Jhansi and then being cut down in Gwalior, had hit Sarani hard. Manu had died defending their people and what she believed in.
Unsurprisingly, most of the northern princes had remained loyal to the British. Earl Canning, the first Viceroy of India, had commended them on being breakwaters in a storm. In the end, despite heavy losses, the rebellion had led to the dissolution of the East India Company, and Queen Victoria’s proclamation about obligations of duty had ushered in a new era. The queen’s sentiments hadn’t stopped power-hungry peers like Talbot from exerting his influence over her father and the vassal state of Joor, however, and life had changed.
There was every indication that life in London would be worse, and each nautical mile that shortened the distance to England’s shores thickened the lump building in Sarani’s throat. To fit in to the ton, she had to be unquestionably perfect. And so Sarani spent the remaining weeks of the journey brushing up on social customs and etiquette, acting the part of a proper English lady, and learning about the family tree of the Duke of Embry from the stack of books in Rhystan’s cabin, including a copy of Debrett’s Illustrated Peerage.
“How do you have this?” she’d asked him, sifting through the red and gold-embossed volume and wrinkling her nose. “Or better yet, why?”
Rhystan’s stare had been measured, impossible to read. “When I became duke, my mother insisted that I refresh myself on my peers, meaning those worthy of a duke’s attention, of course. It was a gift. She still hopes that I could aspire to be the sort of duke my father was.” His tone had left little doubt of what he thought of the gift as well as walking in the shoes of the former duke.
“Things did not improve with the duke?” she’d asked, recalling the little he’d told her of him. She’d never even known he had siblings.
“No.” The reply had been terse.
“And your mother?”
His face had tightened. “She has always wanted what was best for her children.”
Even with such a vague answer, Sarani hoped to make a good first impression on the Dowager Duchess of Embry. It did not sound like it would be easy—who gave their son a copy of Debrett’s as light reading?—but maybe she was overthinking it.
At Asha’s insistence, Sarani was now careful to wear proper gowns and avail herself of an annoying parasol while on deck since her skin was wont to tan in the sun without too much effort. Though she loved when her skin deepened with color, in England, she knew from her mother and French governess that western ladies valued their porcelain complexions. And looking like a sunburned, freckled hoyden would not earn her any favors, not with a haughty duchess thwarted in her plan to marry off her son to a pretty English rose of her choosing.