Page 63 of The Princess Stakes
Narrowing his gaze, he pinned his lips in anger. How dare she judge him for his choices? “Ravenna will marry.”
“So that’s it?” his sister burst out. “You forbid me from living my life, and you’ll hand me over to the first man who offers, like a purse of coin over a card table.”
Rhystan hardened his heart at the break in her voice. “If he suits, yes.”
“I wish to hell you’d stayed away,” Ravenna whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.
“That makes two of us, then.”
Eighteen
It’d been over a week since the news of their engagement had broken, and the scandal sheets had yet to stop writing about the standoffish duke and his mysterious fiancée who, rumor had it, he’d imported from a palace in India. Sarani snorted. As though she were a case of wine from Italy or France.
An imported burgundy…an imported bride.
The name Lockhart was now synonymous with intrigue, since the Earl of Beckforth hadn’t claimed any connection. Apparently, when asked outright if she was a relation, he had refused to answer. Had he changed his mind about his invitation for her to call? Or was he respecting her privacy? In truth, Sarani didn’t know what to believe. Deep down, it wouldn’t surprise her if he regretted approaching her. Scandal wasn’t for the fainthearted.
As a result, the wagers on who she was were now as high as the ones that had been placed on the now-defunct Duchess Duels. Since Sarani had not been one of the debutantes in the running, the entire pot had been lost. The caricaturists had had a field day with that as well—showing her wearing a dress made of banknotes while gentlemen shook their fists at her.
One of the more brazen caricatures depicted her at the feet of the duke. The artist had over-emphasized her features and dressed her in Eastern clothing, which had caused a swarm of hornets to erupt in her belly. It had been so close to the truth that she’d nearly brought up her breakfast, but Rhystan had assured her they were trying to sell gossip rags rather than anyone knowing the truth.
Her identity was still safe. For now.
Her thoughts drifted back to the scene in the carriage after the Windmere ball.
Ravenna had been inconsolable for days, spending her evenings with trays of French chocolates for company. Sarani had joined her while she’d berated her high-handed, intractable brute of a brother who—in her words—had a stick lodged so firmly up his arse that it was a wonder he could walk. Sarani had bitten her lip to keep from laughing. The description matched several she’d come up with in the last months of knowing the man.
Despite Ravenna not leaving her chamber in days, Sarani had finally managed to bribe her with a silk scarf she’d brought from Joor to get her to take a bath. So now Sarani sat with a book in hand on the armchair in Ravenna’s chamber, waiting for her to finish.
“Why would he forbid me from seeing the world?” Ravenna groused, stalking from the bathroom, her hapless lady’s maid following. “He’s done it!”
“He’s a man. They are expected to go on a grand tour.”
“Why can’t ladies do the same? Why should we be fashioned like good little puppets whose strings will be passed from one master to the next? Tied down, hearth-bound, and miserable.”
Sarani did not have a reasonable answer. She’d always thought the same. If the boys could do it, so could she. Though England was new to her, she’d seen quite a bit of India on travels with her father, and he had not hesitated to take her along in spite of her sex. Odd that a country that was viewed as backward by England had more progressive views of women in positions of power. Her friend Manu had exceeded all expectations and surpassed all limits as the queen of Jhansi in her own right, riding into battle like the warrior she was, not in the least bit inhibited by the fact that she was a woman.
A wet-haired Ravenna peered at her. “What are you reading over there?”
“Wuthering Heights,” Sarani said. “Do you know it?”
She scowled. “I’m all in favor of vengeance right now.”
“It’s more than just revenge,” Sarani said. “It’s about the darkest of passions, loss, and the balances of power. And in the end, perhaps it’s about allowing ourselves what we deserve.”
“Heathcliff is like Rhystan. Hard of heart, ruthless of mind, and empty of soul.”
Sarani cast her a stern look. “Ravenna, your brother might be a cold and exacting man, but he’s not soulless. And he loves you. He only wants what’s best for you.”
“By forcing me to marry?”
“By seeing you safe. I wish I had someone left to care enough to do the same.” The hard words were out before she could stop them. “I have no one left in the world.”
Besides a cousin who wants to murder me.
She didn’t add that last part.
“I am sorry,” Ravenna said, her soft voice contrite. “But you cannot understand what it’s like to be forced into an unwanted position.”
