Asha nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
After donning a bottle-green gown from her portmanteau, Sarani gave herself one last look. A tepid English rose stared back at her. Perfectly coiffed hair, freshly scrubbed skin, and elegant clothing combined to groom her into the future Duchess of Embry.
All except for her eyes, which blazed. They burned with fire, defiance, and pure, unadulterated ferocity. As if to say: How dare you give in? How dare you become this parody? How dare you?
Sarani gulped, her throat tightening, and lowered her lids. Now was not the time for her inner tigress to come out fighting, claws first. It was a matter of necessity if she was to survive. There were rules that had to be heeded, modesty that needed to be minded. She had to be perfect.
“Ask His Grace’s valet about an available modiste,” she said to Asha. “I will require a full wardrobe befitting a future duchess. Money is no object.” It would not be, with a raja’s fortune in gems in her carpetbag. “And ask Gideon to look into how I can sell some of my jewels.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Sarani inhaled and exhaled, risking a final peek at her eyes. The fierce gleam there had calmed, thank heavens. Eyes could reveal so much about a person if one knew how to read them. She’d learned that as a girl in her father’s court. They often gave away when a man was lying or revealed what he truly desired. Smiles, expressions, and words could be easily faked, but the eyes rarely lied.
Markham’s disdain beneath his official bearing had been obvious. Talbot’s lust had shone through his gentlemanly reserve. The ladies of the court had envied her while they derided her. Back then, even Rhystan had been transparent, his affection shimmering in those blue-gray eyes. Now, not so much. These days, he was near impossible to read between the irregular bursts of anger and desire, which meant that she had to tread carefully.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young maid said at the door, “but His Grace is inquiring whether you are ready to depart for Huntley House.”
Canting her head, she stood and smiled graciously at the maid. “Thank you. You may inform His Grace that I’ll be down shortly.”
Sarani pasted a demure smile on her lips and clasped gloved hands together at her waist, channeling the many lessons her mother and her stalwart governess had imparted about English high society. Such lessons of comportment were also part and parcel of being a princess, but what was needed of her now as Rhystan’s future bride would require a strategic touch. She elongated her spine, angled her chin a smidgen downward, and held herself with impeccable poise.
A line from Rumi’s poetry struck her: “Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am,” and she let a serene smile touch her lips.
Time to be the rose.
Fourteen
Huntley House wasn’t more than a few streets away, but the duke had insisted on taking the carriage. Restlessly, Sarani twined her fingers into her fine skirts, her nerves on edge. She would have preferred to walk—at least to get rid of some of the tension coiling in her limbs.
But apparently, walking was out of the question, at least for the distinguished Duke of Embry and his betrothed. It’d been on the tip of her tongue to quip that London made a man weak in the knees. But delicate, well-bred ladies did not mention parts of men’s bodies. Nor did they tease gentlemen, nor poke at their masculinity. They sat and simpered, smiled when they were spoken to, and pretended to be objects of voiceless decoration.
Sarani had never been any good at sitting still or staying quiet. Words were powerful, and she had no intention of being cheated of hers. Not by anyone, not even the man pretending to be her future husband.
Despite being born in Joor and honoring the traditions of her people, Sarani had also been raised by a strong half-Scottish mother whose opinions did not match those of her peers, which was why she’d eloped with the love of her life in the first place. She’d taught her daughter to think for herself and to be resilient and relentless in her goals. That unusual approach had given Sarani an outlook unlike any other woman of her acquaintance.
Unlike proper English ladies.
Then again, most proper girls probably would not have leaped like a freedom fighter into the trenches…spied for a militia, lied through their teeth to avoid an arranged marriage to a jackal, and sent all their pin money to fund their best friend Manu’s efforts against the British.
Maybe that was why Vikram was coming for her.
Treason was punishable by death, wasn’t it?
Sucking in a breath, she lifted her surreptitious gaze to the somber man sitting opposite, wondering for the dozenth time whether she was out of her mind for putting her faith in him. Rhystan wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t even an acquaintance. He was just someone she’d known once, perhaps loved in the most innocent of ways. Someone she might have married under different circumstances.
Had she made the right choice?
It was a loaded question. Before, she’d chosen duty over love, but a part of her always wondered what would have happened if she’d run with him. If she’d said no to her father and asked Sanjay from the Flying Elephant to help her get to him. What would their life have been like? Would they have been happy? Would he have become the same hard, guarded, intimidating man he was now?
The duke’s formidable presence fairly crowded the spacious coach. A pair of gloves along with a satin-trimmed top hat rested on the sliver of bench beside him. His attention remained on the signet ring on his small finger, though she could tell that he was quite distracted by whatever held his thoughts. Judging by the downturned curve of his mouth, it wasn’t good.
Sarani took the rare opportunity to study him.
Inasmuch as the windblown guise of the sea captain suited him, this look of the London gentleman suited him even more. His finely milled, charcoal frock coat fit his broad shoulders to perfection, and contrasting dove-gray trousers hugged the length of his long, muscled legs. Polished Hessian boots peeped out at the hems. He was every inch a duke, and she could not deny that Rhystan wore wealth and elegance well.
Even when he was fastidiously clothed, no one could question the duke’s raw virility, nor the power that lay coiled beneath all those pressed yards of fabric. Danger curled from him in a way that made her blood heat. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a hardened pirate disguised in gentleman’s trappings. Her eyes trailed back up, her mouth going unreasonably dry as her stare collided with his.
A smirk tugged at a corner of his full lips.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked.
Swallowing her mortification at being caught, she lifted her chin on a small huff of air and let a bit of her captive tigress loose. “Shouldn’t I? After all, this isn’t a look I’ve seen before.”
“Look?”
She gestured to his person. “The Duke of Embry, in the flesh.”