To Sarani’s surprise, there’d been no more discussion of her origins or the scandal her parents had caused. She had expected Ravenna to treat her differently because she was not fully English, but it simply did not signify. Each day, Sarani kept waiting for the ax to fall, and every day, it didn’t.
“Are you not concerned?” Sarani had blurted out once during breakfast, her voice guarded. “Given who I am?”
“A princess?” Ravenna had returned.
Sarani had grimaced. “A fraud.”
“You are no more a fraud than Penelope, who pretends she is the most eligible heiress of all when the truth is she looks nothing like her father but rather one of her mother’s old lovers. Evelyn Darkle’s father was a cobbler’s son who became a spice merchant worth a fortune. Or even Lord Beckforth, who I’ve discovered was rumored to be a pig farmer before he became earl.” Sarani had digested that knowledge with surprise, her gaze darting to Ravenna, who had paused with a sad smile to bite into a piece of buttered toast. “Or even me. A duke’s daughter without a dowry trying to decide her own fate. We’re both misfits trying to find a place.”
Sarani blinked. “You have a dowry.”
“I did, once.” Ravenna’s lip curled. “You didn’t think the gossip couldn’t touch us, did you? Scandal is the one thing that unites every man, highborn or lowborn. Gossip doesn’t care for rank, fortune, or beauty. If someone falls, the world will know. Mama could not keep our ruin from the creditors, and she was too proud to write to Rhystan. That was all part of her scheme, you see. Find an enormously rich, perfect heiress and all would be solved. Son would be rightfully settled as duke. Daughter would be married to a peer. Mother would live happily ever after. Never mind she had to sacrifice her last remaining son’s happiness to do so.”
Ravenna had broken off, a tear dripping down her cheek, and then she’d excused herself from breakfast. Until Asha had offered to play the instrument for a bit of cheer later that afternoon and Sarani had sought her out, Ravenna hadn’t said a word. Sarani supposed that she’d kept those raw feelings inside for a very long time.
She clapped as Ravenna played a few notes, her smile stretching from ear to ear. They were so caught up in the accomplishment that none of them heard the door open until the warm voice echoed through the room, making the hair on Sarani’s nape stand on end.
“What’s this?” the duke asked.
Ravenna leaped to her feet, the shehnai tumbling from her lap, only to be caught by Asha at the last moment. “Nothing, Your Grace.”
Rhystan flinched at his sister’s cool address, though Sarani saw remorse blanket his expression. Likely, he knew how much he’d hurt her with his high-handedness. Ravenna understood what was expected of her…but like most intelligent, independent-thinking girls, she wanted to have some say in her own future, no matter how small.
“It did not sound like nothing,” he said. “It sounds wonderful. Will you play it again for me, Ravenna?”
His sister brightened, relieved that she wasn’t going to get a scolding or perhaps even understanding that he was extending an olive branch. “Do you truly wish me to? It’s only the first measure of the song, but I’m certain that I can manage it now.”
The duke nodded and moved to sit on the sofa beside Sarani. She held her breath, his very presence stealing the air from her shrinking lungs, every inch of her body acutely aware of every inch of his. Heavens, he smelled divine. Like salt and storm and pure male, as though he’d just stalked from the quarterdeck of his ship.
Sarani fought the urge to breathe him in and commanded her body to be still. It was a losing battle. She could hear each inhale, feel every rustle of his clothing. If she listened hard enough, she was certain she could hear his pounding heartbeat. Or was that hers?
Winding her fingers into her skirts, she’d just decided to make her excuses and flee the room—and his presence—when he spoke.
“I’m sorry for what happened in the carriage. This, being both brother and duke, is new to me.”
Sarani peered up at him. “Ravenna only wants to be heard.”
“I know.”
The sultry notes of the shehnai wound between them like silken drapes, teasing her already frail senses. She had to depart before she did something truly untoward…like climbing into his lap and sealing her lips to his.
“I cannot stop thinking about you,” he whispered.
She froze in place. “I beg your pardon.”
“Since the ball, my nights have been torture.”
Hers had, too, if she was being honest. Sleepless, restless…waking with the sheets bunched around her waist and her body drenched in sweat, she was plagued by dreams that bordered on indecency. She didn’t dare think of any of them, or her face would give her scandalous thoughts away.
“Is that so?” she murmured, staring at Asha and Ravenna, who were lost in their own musical world and would not notice if the roof caved in over their heads.
As if determining the same, Rhystan leaned toward her ever so slightly, the side of his muscular arm brushing the sleeve of her dress, and Sarani swore that sparks arced between them. Her cheeks flamed. Ducking her head, she attempted to compose herself. Goodness, she wished she didn’t blush so easily. Or that her body wasn’t so…weak where he was concerned.
His ungloved hand came to rest beside her on the seat, and she lowered hers to rest beside his. Slowly, slowly, their small fingers touched, hot, bare skin sliding together. Sarani bit back a gasp as the barest graze of his finger ignited the ember of memory in her core that was impossible to ignore. Impossible to forget.
“I want you, Sarani,” he rasped. “Will you come with me?”
The pure need in his words preceded the storm, now brewing inside of her.
A cyclone of desire and unfulfilled dreams.
And heaven help her, she wanted to steer the bow of her doomed ship right into it. She wanted to give herself over to it, to let it take her to destruction or completion. She did not care which. Sarani needed to keep just one part of him when everything shattered around them. Because it would…eventually.
Lies weren’t meant to hold up forever.
For now, she wanted to embrace the fantasy. Even if it meant lying to herself.
She gave the only answer she could. “Yes.”
Nineteen
She isn’t bloody coming.
It wasn’t his first thought. His first thoughts had been gilded in elation. In bliss. In brilliant, fiery-edged desire. But the possibility of her not showing up gutted him. She’d seemed so willing in the music room. She’d said yes. But it’d been nearly an hour of him having a bracingly cold bath and then pacing a hole in the Aubusson carpets of the drawing room, checking his pocket watch every time the long hand moved.