The bastard wouldn’t be far off, and God knew that he’d been persistent in his efforts to gain another audience. He hadn’t heard from Gideon about Finn Driscoll, but it was only a matter of time. And Markham was desperate enough not to risk the bird he thought he had well in hand.
Rhystan’s gaze flicked to Sarani, but if she noticed her former betrothed with her archenemy on his arm, she did not show it. Her expression was unruffled, eyes displaying none of the sparkling humor from earlier. One wouldn’t guess that she’d been in a knife fight with an assassin just a handful of days before. Princess on the surface, warrior beneath.
He hoped she would consider maintaining a friendship, but he knew it wasn’t likely. She deserved better than a half-life with a duke who could not marry her. She deserved a chance at a loving husband, children, and a home full of laughter.
Not a man who didn’t even know who he was.
“Embry,” someone said, interrupting his thoughts.
Rhystan inclined his head to an old acquaintance, a Frenchman, who had approached with another gentleman. “Lord Marchand. Fishing for prospects on this side of the channel?”
The marquis grinned. “I cast my nets where I can, Your Grace.”
Introductions were made, including the young buck who’d been angling to meet the Huntley heiress. He watched as Ravenna and Sarani were led off by Marchand and the hopeful suitor for the start of the next dance and suppressed his groan when his mother arrived at his side where he’d walked to stand in a quieter corner of the ballroom.
“Ravenna is in good spirits tonight,” she said. “The gentleman she is dancing with is the son of an earl, and the one dancing with…”—she broke off, lip curling—“and the other is a French marquis.”
It wasn’t the time or the place, but Rhystan did not care. His blood boiled, but for civility’s sake, he kept his voice low. “What is your problem with Sarani?”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked startled for a moment at the brusque question, but her mouth firmed at his expression, eyes going wintry. “She’s…not a suitable match, Embry.”
“Why?” He resisted the urge to rake his hands through his hair. “Tell me, Duchess, what in your judicious opinion makes her unsuitable?”
“She is not fit for a duke. Everyone here knows that but you.”
Rhystan had had enough. “Everyone here? That woman has more nobility and integrity in her little finger than half the purported blue-bloods in this room, and if you think I give a fig for what any of these intolerant fops think, you’re wrong.”
“Embry!” His mother’s eyes widened and darted around the room. “Control yourself. This is what I mean… Look at you, this behavior is not befitting a duke.”
He let out a grim laugh. “Believe me, that has nothing to do with her. Roland and Richard were ducal material, not me.”
She flattened her lips. “Your gallivanting all over the world and consorting with these colonials has made you forget who you are.”
“On the contrary, Mother, they’ve made me see the duke I wish to become.”
Their furious exchange was drawing notice, though no one dared approach. One word from the Dragon Duchess and they would no longer be welcomed in the haute ton’s illustrious circles. Rhystan frowned. Was that what she was afraid of? That she would lose all the precious influence she’d built?
Rhystan settled a cold glare on the duchess. “Did you wish it had been me to die instead? Then you would have been content with your perfect sons and their approved wives, though at the rate Roland was going, the ducal coffers would have been empty.”
Pain broke in her eyes, and he felt the smallest slash of guilt. “No, I don’t wish that. I want only the best for you, Rhystan. I always have. Your father, too.”
“Don’t you dare bring him into this.”
He expected her to walk away. This was much too public for her tastes, but to his surprise, his mother turned to face him, her back to the crowd. “You were much too alike, the both of you. Headstrong, smart, rebellious. Until he died, he insisted on updates of your accomplishments. He was proud of you.”
Stunned, Rhystan faltered. “He had a strange way of showing it.”
“The duke was not a demonstrative man, but he loved you.” She inhaled a deep breath, looking unsure of herself for the first time he could think of. “He did not send for you five years ago. I did. I sent the message with the ducal seal to the vice admiral after we received his letter.”
He blinked. “Why would you do that?”
“To prevent you from making the same mistake as you are now with a woman who will tarnish the Huntley name. Then, you were only the son of a duke. Now, by fate’s decree, you are a duke. Consider what this will do to your reputation, our standing in society. You need to marry a woman of consequence, one who matters.”
“Like Lady Penelope?” he shot back. “Whose parentage is disputable?”
“That is gossip. In the eyes of the ton, she is the catch of the season.”
He shook his head at the double standard. “Then the ton is bloody obtuse.” His mother’s mouth curled with displeasure at his crudeness, but Rhystan had had enough. “I will see the estates sorted out, and I will see Ravenna married. And when that is done, I will leave for good.”
“And your fiancée?”
“You will have your wish, Mother,” he said wearily. “Our agreement will be ended. Family bloodlines will be unsullied, and your precious reign will continue.”
* * *
Sarani watched from the ballroom floor, barely taking in the conversation of her partner. He had a delightful French accent, but beyond that, she hadn’t heard a word. She’d been much too interested, like most everyone else, in the discussion taking place between the dowager duchess and her son. While their faces were composed and their voices remained low, Sarani was so attuned to Rhystan that she could feel the tension rolling off him. It didn’t surprise her when he gave his mother a curt bow and strode off in the direction of the terraced gardens.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Marchand,” she told the marquis when the polka ended and he escorted her toward the refreshments room.
“It was my pleasure…Princess Sarani,” he replied softly. Sarani’s feet rooted to the spot, her eyes darting to his. The marquis smiled. “I had the pleasure of visiting your father’s court some time ago. We were introduced, though I’m certain you do not remember me. I was sorry to hear of his death. He was a good man.”
“He was, thank you,” she stammered, at a loss. A stranger had recognized her, a member of French nobility no less, and he did not regard her any differently or look at her as though she were an interloper. Even knowing exactly who she was, he’d asked her to dance. Sarani cleared her throat. “I apologize for the deception of my name. It was necessary for my safety.”