Page 54 of The Princess Stakes
He’d been drawn to her the moment he’d entered the crowded ballroom—gleaming like a vibrant lotus flower in a garden of lackluster blooms. His eyes had narrowed when he’d seen her in the company of his mother, but she had not been intimidated, not his tigress. Her spine had been ramrod straight, her shoulders back as she took a simpering debutante to task. He didn’t have to hear the exchange. From the look on the other girl’s face, Sarani hadn’t been cowed in the least.
He knew he had been absenting himself from her too much. The situation with the ducal estates was grimmer than he’d expected, and according to Longacre’s projections, it would take a ludicrous amount of money to make them financially stable. Money, which he had, thanks to his many investments, but it wasn’t a quick or easy fix, which meant he would have to be in London much longer than he had anticipated.
But now, he didn’t want to think about the estate or its solvency.
He wanted to think about the woman in his arms and the strange sense of well-being that had slid through the marrow of his bones, tethering him to her. Everything else had fallen away—his mother, her schemes, Longacre, his financial burdens…all of it.
There was only Sarani.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he guided her into place for the waltz.
A blush stained her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Her gown—it had to be new—was a bold topaz color that made her changeling eyes lean toward brownish-gold and her cheeks glow. It was fashioned in the current style with an embroidered bodice that left the tops of her elegant shoulders tantalizingly bare, hugged the length of her torso to her waist, and then flared out in a bell shape to the floor. Long ivory gloves, matching the blond lace accents on the dress, covered her from fingertips to upper arms.
She looked magnificent, outshining every other female in attendance.
A princess among peasants.
Rhystan wanted to trace his mouth along those elegant collarbones, scrape his teeth along that beautiful expanse of honey-rich skin, and mark her in the most carnal of ways so that everyone there would know she belonged to him.
She’s not yours.
The thought was a harsh reminder of the game he was playing—that they were both playing. They weren’t true intendeds. They weren’t even friends. They were temporary allies, and she was a means to an end. But that reasoning didn’t negate the fact that it felt like the first time he’d been able to breathe in days as though she were his very air.
He tensed, waiting for the familiar resentment to rise, but it wasn’t there.
His gloved palm tightened against her trim waist as they twirled into the first rotation. His swift pivot brought her upper body within inches of his, the crinoline beneath her skirts crashing into his hips. She gasped, her fingers clutching for purchase on his shoulder, and he grinned at her vexed expression.
“Stop that,” she hissed. “Everyone’s watching, and your mother’s glare might set fire to the entire ballroom. I’m already objectionable in her eyes. She’ll think I can’t dance.”
“If anyone can’t dance, it’s me,” he joked. “I’ve practically forgotten how.”
She huffed a small laugh. “I seem to recall you acquitting yourself quite well in the palace several years ago. What you lacked in confidence, you certainly had in skill.”
Her eyes widened as though she hadn’t meant to bring up the past, but for the first time in years, the thought of them in Joor did not gut him. He remembered his scattered thoughts and the challenge in her stare when she’d reprimanded him for not asking her to dance.
“I was too busy trying to count the measure in my head so as not to brutalize your royal toes,” he said easily. “I wanted so terribly to impress you.”
Her eyes dipped for a moment and then raised back to his, her reply so soft he almost missed it. “You succeeded.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she hadn’t fought harder for him, but he swallowed the bitter question. Rehashingthatwas only a recipe for misery. Falling into silence, he distracted himself with their avid audience. His gaze caught on Ravenna as she stood to the side. Guilt slashed through him. She’d practically turned into a woman overnight, and a beauty by all accounts. It would also be up to him to see her properly settled before he left.
His guilt doubled as an unpleasant thought cut through him that he was doing exactly as his mother was—finding and selecting a spouse for Ravenna—when he was so violently opposed to her doing the same for him. Rhystan shoved aside his discomfort; the rules were different for men and women. Women of quality were bred to marry well.
That doesn’t mean they relish being traded like heads of cattle.
The voice in his head sounded like Sarani.
He blew out a breath…better for him to choose a match for Ravenna than his mother. Unlike him, she couldn’t gallivant on a ship, nor could she be husbandless, and Lord knew what kind of man the duchess would approve for her—some old goat with an even older title who would only quash her bright spirit. Rhystan frowned. She was eighteen. Did she have any suitors? Was she sweet on anyone? It was curious that no gentlemen had sought her out where she stood, nearly invisible in white chiffon against the marble pillar.
“She’s charming, your sister,” Sarani said, following his stare. “I’ve enjoyed her company. At least she doesn’t want to shove me on the first ship back to India.”
He smiled. “I’ve missed the ship, you know,” he said as they executed yet another libido-torturing turn, his voice low. “And you tending to my needs.”
A smile lit her face, despite the underlying innuendo. “You mean you miss me sewing your sleeves shut and setting barnacles in your sheets?”
“I thought you emphatically declared that second one was Red’s doing.”
