“Your Grace,” someone said to his right, where he stood in the shadows of a pillar. “Lord Beckforth, at your service.” Rhystan tensed, but the man’s expression was not hostile. “Princess Sarani’s cousin,” he added helpfully when Rhystan kept frowning.
“You know who she is?”
The earl nodded. “I was informed of the gossip from the previous assembly with Talbot, and of course, took it upon myself to research my relative Lisbeth, who we were told had died shortly after leaving England. I did not know that she had married. Nor that it was to an Indian prince. I was only ten when she was removed from the family annals by my granduncle, the then earl. We were only told never to speak of her and that she had disgraced the family name by running off with a colonial laborer.”
“Not a laborer,” Rhystan said. “A prince who worshipped the ground she walked on and showered her with every affection. And then gave her a daughter they both adored. Until her death a decade ago, your aunt was loved.”
“Thank you for that. I’m glad she had a happy life, at least.”
Rhystan cleared his throat, not adding that it was likely Lady Lisbeth had been poisoned because of deeply ingrained prejudices, much like those Sarani faced. “And your cousin?”
“Whenever she is ready, I wish to get to know her,” he said. “And I wish for my wife and children to know her as well. We are family, after all.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to the newssheets when asked about being possible relations?”
The earl inclined his head. “It was not my place, and I wanted to respect her privacy.”
An unfamiliar emotion expanded and thickened in Rhystan’s chest. It was gratitude mixed with a growing esteem. “And now, do you not care what everyone will think?”
Beckforth smiled. “The thing about scandal, Your Grace, is that it only hurts you if you choose to let it, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s just noise, fleeting and irrelevant. My family has been touched by more than its fair share. I am the grandson of a pig farmer on my mother’s side. We were poor as dirt, but we were loved, and when I became earl, others shunned us because of that. I vowed never to let anything get in the way of family. Or love.”
Rhystan was silent for a moment, suspecting that last part was meant for him, but then he nodded. “I will pass on the message. Thank you, Beckforth.”
After the earl took his leave, Rhystan considered what he’d said. As much as his peers pretended they were better than everyone else, they weren’t. They had the same flaws and the same fears. All that separated them from their common-born brothers were chance and circumstance of birth.
He was a duke, but he’d made his own fortune, carved his own path. Sarani was a princess, but she’d defied all odds of her sex to educate and arm herself. She was no wilting flower, no tame English rose. And the truth was, he didn’t want her to be. He wanted her exactly as she was: vibrant, singular, and so sublimely beautiful she made his heart hurt. Rhystan kept glancing to the staircase, waiting for her to walk down the steps.
“Hiding, Rhyssie?” Ravenna asked, poking him in the side.
“Trying to,” he replied. He glanced at her, struck by how splendid she looked in an aquamarine gown. Her auburn hair was piled into high coils, and her coppery eyes glowed. “Are you partial to a rich French marquis by the name of Marchand?”
She scowled. “I’m not partial to anyone. I told you, I don’t want to marry yet.”
“Ravenna—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She tossed her head, but not before he saw a flash of misery in her eyes. “I’m wrecking your plans because you want to run away again. I am aware.”
He drew in a breath. “That’s just it, Ravenna, I’ve just now decided I’m not leaving. At least not for a while. Gideon can manage the fleet for now.”
“You’re not going?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve responsibilities here, and you and Mother are here. I want to have Elodie visit with the girls and get to know my nieces.” He paused, drinking in her radiant smile. “But we’re still finding you a husband.”
The smile disappeared behind thunderclouds. “I’ve told you that…”
But Rhystan wasn’t listening. At the tingling sensation along his spine, his eyes lifted and connected with a pair of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Even in the thronged ballroom, she’d found him instantly, and then the breath lodged in his throat, his heart beating so fast he could scarcely countenance it.
“Oh, my,” Ravenna whispered, her gaze following his. “She’s a vision.”
That was the least of what she was.
Sarani Rao was a goddess in the flesh, and now everyone would know it.
Twenty-Six
This was it. No turning back.
“Her Highness, Princess Sarani Rao,” the majordomo for the evening said, giving Sarani a conspiratorial wink. She’d come to know and was quite fond of Her Grace’s staff. Fullerton, in his role of butler, was one of her particular favorites.
But as hundreds of eyes fastened to where she stood at the top of the staircase, Sarani’s already jumbled nerves weaved into knots. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t! It was a bad idea to make a statement. Any statement at all. These people would eat her alive. Heaven knew friends of Talbot and Markham would be here, ready to draw blood with their eyes and their words.
They hated based on an ideal, and that was the most ignorant kind of hate.
She reminded herself of Asha’s advice. “Sticks and stones,” she murmured and took the first step down. At the bottom, the Duke of Embry stood waiting, and she almost stumbled as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Gorgeous in his tailored evening wear, his brilliant ocean-blue gaze glittered with pride and smoldering desire.
His voice was low, only for her ears. “Woman, you’re killing me.” And then louder, “Princess, your beauty casts everyone in the shade.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said with an elegant curtsy, though she felt her body respond as he devoured her with his eyes. Only Rhystan had ever looked at her that way, as though he could hardly keep his hands off her. She would miss that.
“May I escort you to my mother?” he asked.
Basking in his admiration, Sarani accepted and took his arm. She kept her head high, but she could feel the contempt and wariness from many of the guests, scrutinizing her distinctive gown and studying her face, looking for signs of her other half—the lesser half.
Her dual heritage would be evident in her choice of gown and in the gold bangles on her wrist, the extravagantly embroidered veil falling from her crown, and the heavy kohl lining her eyes. But her skin was as beautiful as theirs, the blood beneath her skin just as red.