Page 53 of The Princess Stakes
Sarani held her head high, catching the eye of the dowager duchess, who stood surrounded by fawning admirers. The ice in the woman’s glare did not dissipate, and Sarani felt the scrape of it like a blade. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes and leave, she approached and bowed her head in greeting, curtsying elegantly.
“My lady,” she murmured.
Haughty brows vaulted to the dowager duchess’s hairline. “The proper address is Your Grace, but I suppose you should be forgiven considering where you’re from. The wilds, truly.”
Sarani felt her cheeks heat with shame as the entire entourage twittered behind their fans. Of course, sheknewhow to address a duchess, but nerves had twisted her tongue. The dowager’s venom was hidden behind a patronizing, sugary smile, but Sarani would not fall prey to such an obvious trap. The woman clearly wanted to establish how unsuitable Sarani was as a match for her son in her eyes, royal or not.
“As you say, Your Grace, my apologies,” she replied sweetly. “Though some of the Indian princes would beg to differ with that assessment.”
“Oh, have you met many Indian princes, my lady?” a young blond-haired woman blurted out. “I’ve heard that their clothes are studded with rubies and emeralds.”
Sarani held the dowager duchess’s eyes for an extended beat before smiling gently at the girl who had spoken and then gone pink as though she’d crossed some unforgivable line. Perhaps she had from the looks of the other ladies. Sarani gave a wide smile. “Yes, and they do. They’re quite ostentatious, truly, some of the displays of wealth. Rubies as big as one’s fist and emeralds the size of plums.”
“I cannot even imagine!” the girl exclaimed.
“They are uncivilized,” another lady scoffed with a look of affront. “Truly, I do not know how my father expects me to mingle with heathens from the colonies. It is insufferable.”
Sarani detected the scorn in the woman’s tone and the tangible derision in her pale eyes. Undeniably pretty, she was dressed in a gorgeous gown, her heart-shaped face twisted into a sneer. Sarani would put money on this being one of her so-called rivals.
Lifting one shoulder in an elegant shrug, she straightened her spine, her brow lifting in an arch that would rival the Dowager Duchess of Embry’s. “I am certain we have not been introduced. Do remind me, since I have been in theinsufferablecolonies, what is the proper etiquette again?”
The lady went red, opening her mouth to spew some scathing retort, but closed it as her eyes flicked—along with everyone else’s—to the ballroom entrance.
Sarani did not have to turn. Shefelthis presence like a palpable force. A wash of goose pimples spread across her skin, the fine hairs of her neck lifting in instant response.
“The Duke of Embry,” the majordomo intoned.
All at once, the chatter died as every lady with a pulse, even the married ones, smoothed her dress and patted her coiffure. Sarani forced herself to remain still, even when she felt the duchess’s gaze flick coldly toward her. Sensing Rhystan’s approach, she turned slowly, her blood thickening to molasses in her veins at the breathtaking sight of him dressed in raven black from head to toe.
Sweet merciful heavens, he was sin on a stick. Her hitherto dry mouth watered indelicately.
“Duchess.” He greeted his mother with a quick nod of his head and then turned to her. “Lady Sara,” he said, his deep voice washing over her as he lifted her gloved hand and kissed it. “How lovely you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she mumbled with a curtsy, the whole of him assaulting her shaky senses on every level. Sight, smell, hearing, touch. The only thing missing was taste. Her traitorous tongue darted out to wet her lips.
His gaze slid there, a smirk forming as if he knew exactly the effect he had on her.
Could he sense that she wanted to do unspeakable things to him? That she wanted to claim that sinful mouth without a care for decorum like the heathen she was accused of being? Releasing a ragged breath, she pinned her tingling lips between her teeth, and his smirk widened. And now, her cheeks were positively on fire.
She cleared her throat. “You are, too. Lovely. Er, handsome. Drat, you know what I mean. You look well.”
Gracious, she was a lackwit. Queen of the Lackwits.
He smiled as the musical strains of a new set began and offered her his right arm. “Will you dance?”
Sarani hoped her knees would not fail her. “I am yours to command, Your Grace.”
* * *
Rhystan was well aware he was causing a scene by ignoring everyone else, given the glowers coming from the thin-lipped visage of his mother. Yet even she wasn’t aware of just how close he’d come to throwing propriety to the wind, flinging Sarani over his shoulder, and hauling her from the room like a Neanderthal at her husky, provocative reply.
I am yours to command.
Did the minx know what she was doing to him? The flash of unguarded pleasure and then the unhidden hunger in her gaze as he’d greeted her had nearly brought him to his knees. And then, the likely innocent response that had lewd fantasies of him commanding her elsewhere—in bed and without clothing—had sent his brain into a frenzy of lust.
Rhystan knew he was practically dragging her to the ballroom floor, but he did not care. He needed her in his arms. From the moment he’d set his eyes on her, his body had leaped to attention, but something within him had also settled.
It was a kind of calm a ship would see in the middle of a hurricane.
