“No, you’re not.” He grinned, clicking at his horse to speed up to match her increased gait as she angled her horse away from him. Her cheeks were blazing now, making an indistinct rush of pleasure gather in his chest. God, she was lovely. “Are you blushing, my lady? My word, the boatswains would argue that London Town has made you soft, cabin boy.”
She shot him an arch look. “We are not on your ship now, Duke.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he said. “Would that we were, however.”
In truth, he’d give anything to feel the salty sea spray on his face, to stand in the path of a hurricane, or even outrace brigands in the Caribbean Sea. Anything was preferable to the tedium of the city. Balls, assemblies, dinners, and hours and hours of incessant discussion on etiquette and suitability. He was sick of it. Sick of pretending to be someone he was not. This duke whom everyone revered…that was not him. Even the women his mother insisted on foisting upon him were wearing him ragged. If he heard one more simpering giggle, he was going to strangle someone.
Rhystan glanced over at his riding companion. She most certainly was not like those women. Sarani did not simper or giggle. She laughed with everything in her, full and raw and so sultry it made his bones melt. And she did not trifle. She always had something intelligent to say.
He recalled his mother’s intervention in the study earlier and fought a wave of disgust. Her thoughtless words galled him, but he knew she wasn’t alone in her sentiments. If the ton got wind of who Sarani really was, they wouldn’t hesitate to treat her with veiled disdain or ridicule her behind closed doors in their drawing rooms as they had her mother after she’d left England. If there was one thing the aristocracy loved more than celebrating their own importance, it was slander.
And by association, his family would be smeared by the scandal.
The gossip in the wake of the Duke of Embry taking such a bride would ruin the dowager’s standing in the eyes of the ton. They would never insult her directly, but invitations would dwindle, as would her influence. She would become the subject of gossip, something he knew she loathed. Ravenna, too. The Huntley name would lose its eternal luster.
Who gives a tinker’s curse about the title?
He didn’t, but others would, namely his peers. Not that he gave a shit about the ton… It was Ravenna he worried for. She needed to secure an excellent match and a husband who would look after her. He worried for his mother as well. For all her endless faults, she loved her children dearly and was steadfastly loyal to her family.
Rhystan shoved down his worries, determined to enjoy the few moments of peace and quiet. They were nearing the corner of Hyde Park. He rolled the knotted tension from his neck muscles. “Shall we have a race on Rotten Row? Last I heard it’s been significantly widened and new railings installed.”
“You wish to race?” Sarani asked, but her eyes glittered with excitement. “Are ladies allowed?”
He glanced down at his pocket watch. “It’s early. Most of the toffs won’t be out for the afternoon promenade for hours yet. And besides, a future duchess can do as she likes.”
“I am not a future duchess,” she said.
“A princess, then.”
She laughed, the sound hollow. “Trust me, no one here sees me as that. They see me as a strange creature, likely raised by wolves in some remote, vulgar corner of the world, whom the gallant and brave Duke of Embry doubtless rescued from a ghastly life.”
“Well, at least they got the ‘gallant and brave’ part right,” he teased. “You did forget handsome though. The gallant, brave, and dashingly handsome Duke of Embry.”
“One day, your head will explode with all that vanity, and that will be the end of you.”
“Will you mourn me?”
She grinned. “I’ll dance on your remains like the Goddess Kali did with her lover, Lord Shiva.”
“I expect no less from you, my bloodthirsty princess.” He reached over and grabbed her reins, enjoying the snap of temper in those brilliant eyes. “Though we are not lovers. Yet.”
Her gorgeous skin bloomed. “Never, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Never is a long time,” he said, tracing a gloved finger over her delicate wrist. “You might change your mind.”
Sarani snatched her hand away. “The sun will rise in the west before I come to your bed, Your Grace.”
“Not even if I beg you for hours on my knees?”
He let the erotic slant of his thoughts show, his gaze sweeping her body with scorching intent. She gaped at him, chest rising and falling beneath the hunter-green bodice that brought out the emerald fleck in her eyes. “We are in public. You are unspeakable!”
“In public or in bed.” His smile was wicked. “I am the robber of all speech.”
“You’re obsessed with the bedchamber,” she shot back, her voice husky and her expression wild. Damn but he loved teasing her. He wanted to watch that becoming blush spill down into her décolletage, then distill even lower, and he wanted to trace its path with his tongue. His groin ached with pure, self-inflicted torment.
“Aren’t all men?”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched as she fought to keep her natural inclination to spar battened. “Only the clearly deprived ones.”
His smile was slow. “Are you offering to rescue me?”
“No!” She steered the mare away in a huff toward the start of Rotten Row. “Are we racing or is it only your tongue you intend to put to use?” She froze, her face as bright as a summer strawberry. “Don’t you dare answer that!”
Rhystan had to laugh at her chagrined look as the sounds of a few choice foul oaths reached him. God, he’d missed their banter and her fire. Even on the ship, he’d look forward to the wordplay. She made him think, she made him laugh, and she made him forget that he was anything but a man. It was grounding.
“We need to decide on a prize for the winner,” he said. “Something of value, otherwise neither of us will make any effort.”
“I win simply for the thrill and to put you in your place, Your Grace.”
He wound his hands into the reins of his stallion and patted the horse’s sorrel-colored neck. “Alas, I require more of an incentive.” He put his fingers to his chin and squinted into the distance as though deep in thought. “I claim a kiss when I win.”
“When you win?” she asked.
“You are riding sidesaddle, you’ve admitted that you’ve lost your edge, and the part of you that desperately wants me to kiss you again will sabotage your competitive instincts quite thoroughly.”