“See that the cargo is unloaded,” he shouted to Gideon once the Belonging was docked beside a massive steamship on the wharf.
The sale of the tea, spices, lace, and silks they carried would fetch a pretty penny. Fair trade was an important part of his shipping business, and though most of it was aboveboard with the Crown, Rhystan didn’t wear his trousers down around his ankles either. The taxes levied on merchant goods was astronomical.
“See you at the tavern?” his quartermaster asked.
Rhystan scrubbed at the several weeks’ growth of beard he’d acquired, knowing that he would have to break from their usual tradition. “Not today. I have to find my valet to make myself presentable and be off to Huntley House to make sure my mother isn’t on her last breaths as implied by her letter.”
“Is she?”
“You’ve met the lady,” Rhystan said. “What do you think?”
Gideon’s succinct opinion of the duchess, who had glared at him at the funeral as though she were facing him down at dawn, had hit the nail on the head—she was clever and manipulative to a fault, though her loyalty to her family was unquestionable.
“I think that she’s as fine as a farthing fiddle,” he said. “But I’m wagering she wants you to marry, settle down, and be duke.”
Rhystan’s mood darkened. “Precisely.”
“I’ll drink a pint to your sanity, then.”
“It will take more than a pint.” Rhystan sighed. “Put a round on the lads from me.”
With that, he donned his coat. He’d sent word of his impending arrival to his own private residence a carriage ride away in Mayfair, but if anything, they’d put into London early. His coachman might not yet be there.
And then there was the matter of his…fiancée.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, Sarani—blast, he had to stop thinking of her by that name now that they were in town—Lady Sara Lockhart strolled from belowdecks, her two servants in tow. Rhystan blinked. Unlike him with his unkempt appearance, she was the picture of perfect aristocratic elegance, dressed in a modest but stylish mauve gown trimmed in lace, with her rich, dark hair coiled into a low bun and loose ringlets framing her exquisite face. A fetching, feathered bonnet completed the picture.
Lord but she stole his breath.
Rhystan sucked in a sudden gulp of air. He was not the only one so affected. Several of his crew gaped openly, and even stoic Gideon wore a slightly bemused expression. Rhystan didn’t know which version of Sarani he preferred more—but whether she wore boy’s clothing or a fashionable dress, she captivated.
“Your Grace,” she said, approaching him and dipping into an effortless curtsy.
Inclining his head, he cleared his tight throat. “My lady, you look well.”
“I’ve a part to play, don’t I,” she said, the words soft and only for his ears. “And if London is anything like my court in Joor, we can be sure that curious eyes and inquisitive minds are already reporting on the prodigal Duke of Embry’s arrival, as well as the unexpected female passenger on his ship. Believe me, gossip will fly faster than a winter squall.”
He almost smiled at the choice of words. She was right, of course.
In retrospect, Rhystan would not put it past his mother to have made some grand announcement in the newssheets about her son’s anticipated return. Though she would not have known about Sarani or the fact that he would be arriving with a fiancée. The gratifying thought almost made him smile. A gleeful part of him could not wait to see his mother’s face.
Speaking of, he’d better make haste before she found her way to him before he was properly groomed and attired…before the Duke of Embry’s own costume was securely in place. His gaze scanned the clogged docks packed with dockworkers, wagons, coaches, and then traveled in reverse to stop on a handsome coach emblazoned with his ducal crest that was waiting a short distance away. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Even with an early arrival, his very efficient servants would have had someone watching for his appearance.
With a deep breath, he offered his arm to his future bride. “Shall we, then?”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she replied, slipping a gloved hand onto his forearm.
Though he could sense her trepidation, there was no hint of it on her face. Her expression was serene, her chin held high. She carried herself with the easy elegance of a born aristocrat. Which she was. Hell, she was of royal blood, even though he knew some of the British nobility might not view it that way. Especially his mother.
Once more, he was struck by the similarities between the lives they led—both straddling two worlds in which neither of them wholly belonged. Both running from something. And they were about to pull off the coup of the season.
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize she was speaking as they approached the waiting ducal carriage, where his coachman and tiger stood, dressed smartly in their crimson and silver livery.
“Thank you for doing this, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “I shall endeavor to hold up my end of our bargain.”
“As will I.”
And he meant it. He would protect her if someone from Joor had followed her, though once they’d left St. Helena, neither he nor Gideon had seen any more of the ship that had been on their tail. There was the chance that it could have been pure coincidence. Either way, he would see Sarani safe and settled once they parted ways.
He had considered the fact that she could make the perfect wife for him. They could live separate lives—he on the sea, and she wherever she wanted. However, that solution would only be temporary, because eventually, there would be the matter of children.
His, to be specific. Despite his views on his father and the dukedom, he had a responsibility to continue the ducal line. And as much as he’d been at loggerheads with the former duke, Rhystan was deeply aware of his duty. He would need an heir.
And even though the idea of a tigress-hearted daughter with jet-black hair and fierce hazel eyes made his pulse leap, it was out of the question. Though a fake engagement and even a fake marriage were easy prospects, there was no way he would have a child with a woman he could never trust.
And Sarani Rao had broken his heart once.
He would never open himself to the possibility again.
Thirteen
It was astounding what a full bath, a shave and trim by a devoted valet, and a wardrobe full of expensive, fashionable clothing could do. Despite the prevailing preference for facial whiskers—and the ton’s laughable notion of masculinity and vigor—Rhystan chose to be clean-shaven, though he did keep his hair on the longer side. The only way the thick curls could be tamed out of sea-blown wildness was with some length to them.