“And you,” he said, moving to kiss her outstretched hands. “You look rested.”
She smiled. “I’m much recovered, and better now that you are here.” Her gaze shifted to where Ravenna stood with Sarani, and he could see the widening of her pupils and the suspicion that instantly filled them. “I thought I heard voices in the hall. Who, pray tell, is your guest?”
“Mother, may I present Lady Sara Lockhart.” He reached back, pulling Sarani to his side and leaving his mother in little doubt of their familiarity. “Lady Sara, my mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Embry.”
Her eyes panned between them, incisive, cold, and ever assessing, falling for an instant on the place where his hand gripped Sarani’s elbow with possessive ease. A sharp intelligence glimmered in her gaze, followed by an imperceptible tightening of her lips.
“Who, exactly, is she to you?”
“Why, the future Duchess of Embry, of course.” Rhystan couldn’t quite curb the smug note in his voice. “Do be the first to offer us your blessing.”
He should have been prepared, because honestly, it was to no one’s surprise when the duchess fell back to her cushions in a dead faint.
Fifteen
A week later, an anxious, jittery stomach had become the bane of Sarani’s existence. For every pristinely appointed London home she’d set foot in—one assembly, one musicale, and two soirees—the roiling sea of nerves never seemed to get any easier. In fact, the bloody fretfulness had worsened to sickening proportions. Unease was her constant companion.
At first, she’d thought that maybe it was a premonition or an instinct for danger. Had her cousin’s assassin found her? But Rhystan had insisted that Gideon and a few of his men were watching the harbor for a ship resembling the one that had been tracking them, and nothing out of the ordinary had been reported. That ship had to have been coincidence.
But Sarani couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Perhaps she was sensitive to the foggy airs and false humors of England. It was a distinct probability.
Because, goddess alive, she missed Joor more than she’d thought possible.
She missed the vibrant splashes of color, the singsong chattering of people in the market, the smells of simmering spices. The hot breezes dancing over her skin. The river and secret waterfall. She missed swimming and staring up at the clouds. Even though she didn’t have many friends or extended family, Asha and her other handmaidens had kept her company. She missed their jokes and their palace intrigues with the guards. But most of all, she missed being herself and not having to observe some breath-strangling English drawing room rule every sodding second.
Sit this way. Stand that way. Don’t have an opinion.
Simper. Flutter your eyelashes. Sip overwarm punch.
Be the rose.
She hated the dratted rose—it symbolized everything she could never be. And that had been made evidently clear by the most perfect of roses herself: the Dowager Duchess of Embry.
After reviving from her faint upon hearing of their betrothal, the dowager duchess’s disposition had not improved. She’d looked upon Sarani as one would a bothersome flea when they’d first been introduced, and now Sarani had the distinct impression that the dowager duchess suspected far more than she was letting on. She was much too clever to be tricked.
And that terrified Sarani to no end.
She had been prepared for an explosion after the duchess recovered, but the woman had handled it with remarkable poise, a cool if dignified felicitation falling from her thinned lips. The call for champagne had surprised Sarani, given her swoon, though the coldly appraising look Rhystan’s mother had leveled across the rim of her flute had not.
A keen judge of character, Sarani guessed that the dowager would be a formidable enemy, and already after only eight days—having been swiftly ensconced at Huntley House for decorum’s sake—she felt the knife edge of disapproval. A huff here, a curl of a lip there. The keen glances at Asha, who had accompanied Sarani while Tej had stayed on with Rhystan under the kindly eye of Harlowe.
None of it was ever in view of her precious son, of course. No, her smile was practically painted on for her dear duke of a boy. With him, her subterfuges were much more practical.
Embry, dear, don’t you want to wait to make an official announcement? You’ve only just arrived.
Or Sarani’s favorite: At least allow me the dignity to save face before you’re taken off the marriage mart. Surely you don’t wish to embarrass me, given the soirees I’ve held on your behalf?
And by soirees, she meant interviews for her son’s future wife.
Of course, Rhystan had diplomatically agreed. The farce of their engagement had been only for his mother’s benefit, after all. Though his acquiescence didn’t seem to have deterred her efforts in the least. No, the competition was still fierce. Ravenna had been delighted to show Sarani the popular London newssheets, which were calling the contest for Rhystan’s hand the Duchess Duels.
The Duchess sodding Duels.
Like that arrogant devil was some spectacular prize to be won. On paper, he was, considering his title and fortune, but if his head were to grow any bigger with self-importance, he’d float away to the moon.
“It’s ridiculously brilliant,” Ravenna had giggled one evening after she’d snuck into Sarani’s chamber, a regular occurrence that Sarani didn’t mind. Unlike the duchess, Ravenna had been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise suffocating space. The girl’s dry sense of humor, unfailing honesty, and clever mind were things that Sarani appreciated. Admittedly, at times not so much the unfailing honesty. Especially with respect to her brother.
Ravenna spread out the Times and pointed to a ridiculous caricature of galloping women on a racecourse. “They’ve likened it to the Gold Cup during Ascot week. See here. Lady Penny is two leagues ahead of Lady Margaret. They’re the two favorites and have the best odds.” She’d jabbed at the drawing, nearly poking a hole in the paper. “And here’s Lady Clara. Sadly, she’s at the very back of the pack with no hope unless a miracle happens. She’s my friend and not interested in the Duke of Disbelonging in the least, but her mother is making her. She’s on her second season with no prospects.”
“Duke of Disbelonging?” Sarani had snorted. “That’s not a word.”
Her grin had turned impish. “Do you prefer Duke of Dashing Desire?”
“Hardly,” Sarani had protested.
Ravenna had giggled and waggled her eyebrows. “When Rhystan isn’t looking, you stare at him like he’s a juicy plum pudding you can’t wait to dig your spoon into and get to the warm fruity, gooey center.”
Sarani’s face had heated to boiling, though she’d be a liar to deny it. Seeing the man sweep through ballrooms like a disguised predator made her faithless heart kick up a notch. Something about him polished to perfection and dressed in formal wear made him seem more dangerous, as though he were a wild, savage beast in a crowd of house-trained pets waiting to pounce. Sarani couldn’t deny that she stared her fill of him…whenever he was not aware, of course. The fact that Ravenna had noticed her staring, however, filled her with alarm.