She’d been on the verge of falling for a fantasy.
Because it was a fantasy, wasn’t it?
Oh, she would not cry. Not for that poisonous woman. Not for Rhystan, not for anyone. She’d shed enough tears mourning circumstances she could not change. Like many others, she had not picked the life she’d been born into. Yes, she had privilege, but that privilege came with many other traps. Traps of belonging and erasure. Traps of never feeling like she was enough.
You are the product of love, my little bee. Never doubt how much you are loved. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.
It’d been after some of the children at court had excluded her from their games, calling her Paste Princess. They’d tripped her in the courtyard, muddying her new dress and mocking her with other ugly names until she’d run away weeping. Her mother had cleaned her face, wiped her tears, and told her that she should hold her head high, rise above small-minded people, and never allow herself to be reduced by others.
It was a struggle, but she’d learned to tuck those feelings of inadequacy away. She could not control others; she could only control herself. But some days, like today, her courage and those lessons failed her. Some days, she wanted to disappear.
Sarani had never doubted she’d been cherished by her parents. They had defied expectation, propriety, and everything and everyone for love. But where had love gotten them? Spurned, criticized, and eventually murdered…with their daughter left to pick up the pieces in a world that had no place for people like her.
A tear of self-pity slipped free, marking a hot path to her chin.
“Princess, are you well?”
Hastily, Sarani swiped at her damp cheek and turned to see Asha approaching, a concerned look on her face.
“Yes, Asha,” she said tiredly, unable…or unwilling to correct her on the address. Sarani shook her head, the truth spilling out of her. “Though I admit, it’s not what I expected.”
“What isn’t?”
She waved an arm. “England. Here. Being Lady Lockhart. I am not my mother.”
“We had no choice, did we?” Asha said softly. “We left to save our lives.”
That was true. She glanced at the maid. “Are you happy here?”
“My feelings do not matter, Princess. I am here to serve you.” She took a breath. “But if you are asking whether I am content, I have a roof over my head, food to fill my belly, and a safe, warm place to lay my head. Everything else is hullabaloo.”
Sarani frowned. “Hullabaloo?”
“My nanijan used to say, ‘Sticks and stones can crack your bones, but words are as light as air.’”
“They can still hurt.”
“Sometimes,” Asha said with a shrug. “The other servants may view themselves as my betters and gossip when I walk past, but my only duty is to you, Princess. I remind myself that there are others in much worse situations. Survival isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It takes great courage to lift one’s feet and step forward.”
The maid’s quiet words were exactly what Sarani needed to hear. Not caring who might be observing from the many windows of Huntley House, she gathered Asha into an embrace. “Thank you, my dear friend. Your counsel is invaluable.”
“You are welcome, Princess Sarani.” Asha smiled, dark eyes crinkling with affection. “Tej and I are off to the market. His Grace has requested you join him for a ride in Hyde Park this afternoon. I’ve pressed your green riding habit.”
Sarani felt the constriction in her chest ease and loosen.
Perhaps a ride was exactly what she needed.
* * *
Rhystan watched as Sarani commanded the mare with a light, firm touch on the reins. Even sitting in a lady’s sidesaddle, which she’d never much liked, she rode with such grace. She’d always been an excellent horsewoman, and that had not changed in the last five years. A vision of them racing across the plains beyond the palace in Joor darted into his brain. Even then, he’d rarely been able to beat her. And he’d tried. She’d been fearless and skilled—a winning combination.
“Do you still race?” he asked, steering his stallion to trot abreast with her.
Sarani glanced at him, her eyes glittering with pleasure. That was better than how solemn she’d seemed earlier when she’d met him at the mews. “On occasion. The races have grown in popularity with the princes. However, they particularly did not like losing to a woman, and my father forbade me from entering.”
He arched a brow. “You let that stop you?”
“Hardly,” she teased, her lips curving into a wicked smirk that shot straight to his groin. “I dressed like a man and took their money that way.”
Rhystan couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Minx.”
“I prefer ‘impresario,’” she tossed back. “I rode until I took a bad fall a few years ago that weakened my spine. The doctors said I would never ride again, and yet here I am. Though I confess, I’m not as hell-for-leather as I used to be.”
Rhystan wasn’t surprised in the least. She’d always been dauntless. The girl he knew would never let something as life-altering as an injured spine slow her down, nor would she let anyone tell her she couldn’t do anything. His mouth bowed into a reluctant smile.
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I’m physically capable of it,” she said. “But the mind, you see, once it has known pain and associated that pain with an event or action, it doesn’t forget. If I go too fast, my instinct is to slow to a safer speed, which makes me lose the competitive edge. Fear is a rather powerful thing to conquer.”
Rhystan had the sudden thought that she was no longer speaking of racing. Though her face remained composed, he could feel the thoughtful weight of her sidelong glance. “So you’re afraid of taking another fall?”
“Aren’t we all a bit fearful of pain, Your Grace? Falling or otherwise?”
“You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life.”
He did not attempt to hide the depth of his esteem. Why would he? He’d always valued her mettle…her spirit. Sarani’s gaze swung to his as she faltered, her horse veering sharply as her hands jerked on the reins.
Deviltry tugged at him. “Besides, you seem to be falling for me quite happily. Most women do, you know. It’s inevitable.”
The horse jolted to an ungraceful stop.
“Good gracious, your arrogance is astounding.” Splotches of color skimmed her cheeks, but she kept her expression calm when she started moving again and regarded him haughtily over one shoulder. “I’m not ‘most women,’ Your Grace.”