A slow smile curved those very sinful lips as though he could see right through her. He leaned in, his next words low. “And fanning at such a speed means you are head over heels in love.”
Both fingers and fan froze in midair, and then she snapped it shut.
“And snapping one’s fan shut, dearest, means you’re jealous.” Rhystan grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The playful look transformed his face, leaving her breathless at the glimpse of the boy she’d known. So he wasn’t quite lost.
“No, it doesn’t,” she said and then frowned uncertainly. “Does it?”
“How should I know? I’m a man. We tend to say what we think.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Unlike your sex, women have to communicate their desires in codes or be deemed indelicate and scandalous. It’s all rather absurd, isn’t it? That a woman should be afraid to speak her mind for fear of being shunned or ostracized and outraging high society.”
“Absurd how?”
Gracious, he had a knack for riling her up. “That a female’s opinion could create such world-destroying chaos.”
“Women have been causing chaos since Eden.”
Sarani snorted. “Good gracious, are you referring to the Bible? How positively low you have sunk, Your Grace. At least base your arguments on something that wasn’t written by a horde of ancient male historians.”
“What of Darwin?” he asked.
“Well, we are discussing absurdity.” She shook her head with disdain, warming to her subject and oblivious to their now avid audience in the ballroom, straining to hear their low but impassioned conversation. “The complexity of the human brain cannot possibly be determined by sex. My brain is no less effective than yours, and my parents proved that beyond the shade of a doubt with my unconventional education. Give us women a few decades, and chaos will be the least of what we can accomplish.”
“I don’t doubt that in the slightest, my lady.”
Sarani searched his quiet reply for sarcasm, but there was none. She tapped her fan with a small grin. “We did invent an entire language around fans, after all.”
A new voice cut between them.
“Tell me, my lady, regarding the language of fans, which I find mildly fascinating, what is the movement to say that one is engaged?”
Sarani turned, despite Rhystan’s immediate glower and the impropriety of a strange gentleman interrupting their conversation, and felt the blood drain from her limbs. This particular gentleman did not require an introduction, because she knew him well, even with a half mask. She would never forget how her skin crawled whenever he looked at her, the way it did now.
An icy-cold sweat formed between her shoulder blades, dark spots threatening her vision as her legs shook beneath her dress. No, no, no… This could not be happening. But her memory was not playing tricks on her. The regent of Joor stood in this very ballroom, his familiar watery blue eyes swimming with anger and lust.
“Lord Talbot?” she whispered.
He bowed. “In the flesh. I’ve only recently discovered that my fiancée, whom I thought dead, is alive and has betrothed herself to another.”
The weight of a thousand knives crashed down upon her. The depth of her predicament suddenly became clear. It wasn’t Lord Talbot’s return that struck fear into her heart. It was the fact that he knew who she was and who she was pretending to be.
He was judge, jury, and executioner.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’ve been promised.” His leer made her blood chill. “My bride.”
* * *
Rhystan had not immediately recognized the masked man. Until Sarani had whispered his name, he’d been at a loss. He fought the urge to slam his fist into the earl’s face. The fury coursing through him was impossible to control, the man’s lecherous stare and the idea that he had any prior claim on her making him see red. Around them, people had stopped dancing and were colliding with one another in an effort to eavesdrop.
“The lady is spoken for,” he gritted out.
“Why, Commander Huntley, no longer a boy, eh?” Talbot sneered. “And still chasing after these skirts, I see.”
Rhystan’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that no sane person would mistake for friendly. “You will address me with the proper respect, Talbot. I am the Duke of Embry.”
“Apologies, Duke. I’ve only just returned to England.”
Rhystan knew without a doubt that the earl would have been aware of his altered circumstances after his father’s death. The tragedy had been the news of London for months. The false ignorance was a deliberate slight, that Talbot still saw him as that weak, green lad of an officer. Well, he wasn’t that boy anymore, nor was he the normal kind of duke.
He let his rage show in his eyes. “Walk. Away.”
The earl’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Do you really wish for me to elucidate?” His voice lowered to a snarl. “Walk the hell away, Talbot.”
“Please, Your Grace,” Sarani whispered, touching his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene, for Ravenna’s sake, if not mine. It’s what he wants.”
“Always so clever,” Talbot said, his eyes pinning her. “We looked for you, you know, after your father’s body was discovered. Such a pity.” His sly tone indicated it was anything but, and Rhystan felt Sarani stiffen beside him. “It was speculated that you’d been taken, but the new maharaja insisted you were dead.”
“The new maharaja,” Sarani echoed.
“Your cousin Vikram.” He rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “Though who knows with you natives and your falsifying of heirs willy-nilly to keep it in the family.” His voice lowered. “Then again, he isn’t precisely the actual heir, is he, Princess Sarani?”
Sarani gasped, her eyes darting to the ballroom where people were craning their necks without shame, and she took a step closer to Rhystan without realizing it. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her that they could not hear, but he did not move a muscle, his stare narrowing on Talbot. He opened his mouth but Sarani spoke first.
“Why are you here, Lord Talbot?”
“Vice Admiral Markham… You remember your superior officer, don’t you, Your Grace?” Talbot said. “Shall we say that I received the most interesting piece of correspondence requiring my immediate presence in London.”
Rhystan’s fists clenched at the mention of both Markham and a letter. The story of his life was apparently repeating itself. This time, he knew that the culprit had to be his own meddlesome mother. Who else would make those connections between the present and his past? He would wring her interfering neck. Right after he dealt with this conniving piece of shit.