“Not a one, no.” Ravenna let out an aggrieved sigh. “They’re all boring, full of their own importance, and lacking in ambition. They were all commendable dancers, though, and creditable punch fetchers. I was not thirsty for one second the entire evening.”
Rhystan flattened his lips. “Courtship is not a joking matter, Ravenna. You need to secure a husband.”
“Why?” his sister shot back. “So you can leave again? Go back to your exciting, shipboard life?”
He stared at her. That was exactly why. But hearing it stated so baldly and seeing the fleeting flash of hurt on her face made something tighten inside him.
“Ravenna—”
“I don’t wish to marry anyone.” She drew a deep breath. “Well, not right now. I want to travel and see the world as you have. Visit India, maybe where Sara grew up. I’ve talked to Asha—”
“You talked to Asha?” Sarani blurted out, her panicked gaze meeting Rhystan’s.
Ravenna reached for her hand. “Please do not be cross with her, Sara dear. I practically forced her to tell me stories of you when you were younger, about where you grew up and some of your adventures. She misses her home, too.” Oblivious to Sarani’s brewing panic, Ravenna went on. “She told me that you grew up in a palace. How delightful! And your jaunts to the river and all the trophies you took for horse racing.” She sighed. “It sounds much better than dreary, stuffy old London.”
“It wasn’t all roses,” Sarani began haltingly. “Every place has its trials and thorns.”
“I don’t care. I want a bit of adventure before I become some man’s property.”
“And risk scandalizing the Huntley name?” Rhystan firmed his jaw. “No, I forbid it. You will secure an appropriate match and marry to your station as is your duty.”
Two incredulous stares—one a wounded copper and the other a furious hazel—crashed into him. The bitter thought that he sounded exactly like his father slid through him before he quashed it. He also dimly recognized that he was the pot challenging the kettle, given that he was avoiding his own mother’s trap as well as his obedience to duty with a fake betrothal to a lady whom most of the ton would deem unsuitable.
His thoughts were reflected in Sarani’s eyes. There was injury there, too, along with a flicker of ferocity. Why would she be angry? Their engagement wasn’t even real. She had no say in who Ravenna married or whether the match was sound. He leveled her with a cool expression. “Do you have something you wish to say?”
“Sometimes fathers or brothers don’t know what’s best.”
He gaped in incredulous surprise. “You’ve certainly changed your tune from five years ago. Your father spoke, and you jumped.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.” Her gaze flicked to Ravenna, but she was too caught up in her own anger to have noticed his slip. “You know very well what was required of me. I had no choice.”
Rhystan shook his head and ground his jaw, well aware of what a hypocrite the situation made him. He’d expected Sarani to defy the wishes of her father while expecting Ravenna to keel over and do what she was told. The irony of the double standard did not escape him.
“This is the way things are done.”
Her eyes flashed. “That doesn’t make it right. Sometimes, things have to change.”
“As you’ve changed, Lady Sara?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
“This isn’t about me, Your Grace. This is about your sister and you being here for her instead of out on the sea somewhere.” Her voice hushed. “At least you have a family.”
Narrowing his gaze, he pinned his lips in anger. How dare she judge him for his choices? “Ravenna will marry.”
“So that’s it?” his sister burst out. “You forbid me from living my life, and you’ll hand me over to the first man who offers, like a purse of coin over a card table.”
Rhystan hardened his heart at the break in her voice. “If he suits, yes.”
“I wish to hell you’d stayed away,” Ravenna whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.
“That makes two of us, then.”
Eighteen
It’d been over a week since the news of their engagement had broken, and the scandal sheets had yet to stop writing about the standoffish duke and his mysterious fiancée who, rumor had it, he’d imported from a palace in India. Sarani snorted. As though she were a case of wine from Italy or France.
An imported burgundy…an imported bride.
The name Lockhart was now synonymous with intrigue, since the Earl of Beckforth hadn’t claimed any connection. Apparently, when asked outright if she was a relation, he had refused to answer. Had he changed his mind about his invitation for her to call? Or was he respecting her privacy? In truth, Sarani didn’t know what to believe. Deep down, it wouldn’t surprise her if he regretted approaching her. Scandal wasn’t for the fainthearted.
As a result, the wagers on who she was were now as high as the ones that had been placed on the now-defunct Duchess Duels. Since Sarani had not been one of the debutantes in the running, the entire pot had been lost. The caricaturists had had a field day with that as well—showing her wearing a dress made of banknotes while gentlemen shook their fists at her.
One of the more brazen caricatures depicted her at the feet of the duke. The artist had over-emphasized her features and dressed her in Eastern clothing, which had caused a swarm of hornets to erupt in her belly. It had been so close to the truth that she’d nearly brought up her breakfast, but Rhystan had assured her they were trying to sell gossip rags rather than anyone knowing the truth.
Her identity was still safe. For now.
Her thoughts drifted back to the scene in the carriage after the Windmere ball.
Ravenna had been inconsolable for days, spending her evenings with trays of French chocolates for company. Sarani had joined her while she’d berated her high-handed, intractable brute of a brother who—in her words—had a stick lodged so firmly up his arse that it was a wonder he could walk. Sarani had bitten her lip to keep from laughing. The description matched several she’d come up with in the last months of knowing the man.
Despite Ravenna not leaving her chamber in days, Sarani had finally managed to bribe her with a silk scarf she’d brought from Joor to get her to take a bath. So now Sarani sat with a book in hand on the armchair in Ravenna’s chamber, waiting for her to finish.
“Why would he forbid me from seeing the world?” Ravenna groused, stalking from the bathroom, her hapless lady’s maid following. “He’s done it!”