“Rhyssie!” The high-pitched screech was the only warning he got before a whirling devil in skirts crashed headlong into him. He braced as a pair of wiry arms wound around him with no regard for propriety, squeezed, and then released. Despite being a good foot shorter than he was, his baby sister scrutinized him down the length of her pert nose. “Good Lord but you’ve turned into a mountain! And your arms are like slabs of granite.”
“Ravenna,” he said with a fond grin. “You’ve grown, too.”
And she had. The last time he’d seen her for the funeral, she hadn’t been so tall. Or so pretty. It’d only been two years, and she’d gone from girl to woman in a blink. Coiled loops of auburn hair framed a narrow, heart-shaped face, and there was a distinct look of coquettishness in her eyes.
Rhystan frowned. Wasn’t she still twelve or some such? Eighteen, a voice in his head reminded him. He scowled at the revealing bodice on her gown but was saved from growling his displeasure when his sister turned an appraising gaze to Sarani, who was standing quietly at his side.
“Who’s this, then?”
He touched Sarani’s elbow, keeping the fond smile on his lips firmly in place. “Allow me to present Lady Sara Lockhart,” he said. “My fiancée.”
“Your what?” Her shriek could probably be heard all the way to Piccadilly.
“You heard me,” he said with an exasperated look. “Lady Sara, this is my apparent hellion of a sister, Lady Ravenna, who evidently has forgotten her manners and not to scream like a banshee indoors.”
Sarani’s brow rose infinitesimally as she shot him a look that said: Demure, sweet, dutiful? He felt heat crawl up his neck. Perhaps he had exaggerated slightly in his description of Ravenna. Then again, the last time he’d seen the little minx, she’d been barely out of the schoolroom…and maybe a bit intimidated by the drifter-turned-duke brother she hadn’t seen since childhood.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Sarani said, her rich, mellifluous tone curling over his senses. “I, myself, can be a hellion on occasion. It’s rather liberating.” She inclined her head and offered a conspiratorial smile to the incorrigible chit. “It’s a pleasure to make a fellow hellion’s acquaintance, my lady.”
His sister’s grin lit up her entire face. “If we are to be sisters, I insist you call me Ravenna.”
Sarani smiled back. “Ravenna, then. And I’m Sara.”
Remembering her forgotten manners, Ravenna ducked into a hasty curtsy, eyes gleaming with sudden mischief as her bright copper-colored gaze returned to Rhystan. “Now this is a surprise. We expected you, but not two of you and certainly not a fiancée. Does Mama know?”
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Is she at home?”
Ravenna grinned. “She’s been at home ever since word arrived that you’d put into port. You are in so much trouble, you naughty boy.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m a grown man, Ravenna.”
“As you say, Your Disgrace.” She stuck out her tongue and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She’s in the drawing room. Come along before she sends reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?”
She gave an unrepentant grin. “Your harem of female suitors.”
Rhystan felt his jaw drop. “I beg your pardon, did you just say ‘suitors’?”
“Oh yes, she’s been interviewing them by the handfuls—who wants to be the next Duchess of Embry? It’s been the rage for weeks all season.” She leaned in and lowered her voice in a stage whisper. “I’ve heard from the servants’ grapevine that the wagers at White’s are through the roof. Lady Penelope is the favorite so far, though I find her a tad…conceited for my liking.”
Her gleeful gaze slid to Sarani, who, to her credit, hadn’t said a word despite her rapidly twitching lips…which indicated she was either going to scream or burst into laughter. Rhystan grimly suspected the latter.
“She’s the daughter of the Duke of Windmere and quite an heiress,” Ravenna went on, quite oblivious to her brother’s brewing frustration. “A splendid catch, the papers are all saying. Well, bully for them. Because Lady Sara from”—she paused and frowned at Sarani, wrinkling her nose—“wait, where are you from?”
“India.”
Ravenna’s eyes went wide, her scrutiny sharpening on Sarani’s face and clothing with newfound appreciation. “Truly?”
“By way of England and Scotland,” Sarani added hastily. “A relation to the Earl of Beckforth.”
“Oh, lovely. I don’t believe I’m acquainted with him.”
Rhystan nearly swore under his breath. He saw the same aggravated look cross Sarani’s face as if realizing what she’d just admitted out loud. It wasn’t a calamity per se, especially if Ravenna didn’t share it with the duchess or any other nosy members of the ton. But it could not be taken back, not without drawing more attention. And Ravenna, as devoted a sister as she was, was still a girl at heart. Juicy secrets had a way of getting out…and Sarani’s truths were hers to share.
“Come along,” Ravenna said, striding along the corridor. “I wasn’t jesting about the reinforcements, though it will likely be Fullerton. He’s our exceedingly proper butler. He’s new. Don’t worry, Brother dear, none of your prospective brides are here. I was teasing.”
“Thank God for that,” Rhystan muttered, his brain muddled by her incessant prattling. He spared Sarani a glance. Despite the earlier glimpse of humor at his predicament—which seemed to grow darker by the second—she hadn’t said a word. His hand grazed the small of her back, his voice lowering. “Are you well, my lady?”
“Very well.” She peered up at him, eyes glittering with a glee to rival his sister’s. “Honestly, I’m quite excited to meet your harem. Assess the competition, if you will.”
Ravenna’s laugh trilled back toward them. “Oh, Rhyssie, I do like her immensely. Please do marry her.”
Rhystan bit back a sigh. The two of them together spelled trouble, but it was too soon to dwell upon it as he caught sight of his mother, ensconced in a divan in the drawing room, her back resting upon a mound of cushions. He narrowed his eyes at her complexion, checking for signs of illness and finding none. She was as hale as anyone; he’d bet his fortune on it.
Not that he expected her to be ill—not if she was busy interviewing a harem of prospective future duchesses.
“Mother,” he said in greeting.
“Embry, darling,” she said softly as if it pained her to speak, and Rhystan almost rolled his eyes. “How wonderful to see you.”