Page 40 of The Princess Stakes
Two birds, one stone.
A pair of suspicious hazel eyes narrowed on his as though she’d sensed his train of thought. “What do you get out of a sham engagement?”
He debated telling her the truth and then shrugged. She would see through anything else. “My mother has grand plans to thrust me into ballroom upon ballroom of debutantes on my return. I’d rather avoid such torture if possible.” He exhaled. “That’s where you come in. If I arrive with a fiancée, it hinders her plots.”
“You don’t wish to marry?”
“I belong to a demanding mistress.” Rhystan saw the stark confusion on her face before he waved an arm at the surrounding sea. “The ocean owns me, body and soul.”
“But you’re a duke,” she said, a frown pleating her brow. “You have…duties.”
“I have stewards to see to those duties, including my mother the duchess and her army of servants, who do a much better job than I could.” He sucked in a breath. “I return to see for myself that the lady’s health is hale, to check on my sister, and to offer gifts to my sister-in-law and my nieces. Then I intend to leave.”
She blinked. “You have a sister?”
“Her name is Ravenna,” he said. “The unfortunate youngest of four with three older brothers.”
“Brothers?”
His heart squeezed with forgotten sorrow and guilt arced through him that he hadn’t spoken of them to her…or to anyone. “Dead, along with my father.”
“I am sorry.”
Rhystan shoved the sentiment back where it belonged, down deep, and hardened his expression. “Your answer, my lady. Which is it? Do you wish to return to St. Helena? Or do you agree to my proposal?”
She bit her lip, her eyes glancing over her shoulder to the departing shores, her indecision clear. He still couldn’t fathom that she would choose to face a killer over betrothal to him. She’d always been headstrong, but her intelligence had always been a dependable foil to her more impulsive ideas. He felt a stroke of admiration for her unshakable courage, as misguided as it was.
“Will it be in name only?” she asked. “This temporary engagement.”
Rhystan fought back amusement. “Meaning?”
“No…er…kissing,” she said, a blush rising up her neck. “Or inappropriate touching. Or any other things.”
“No.”
A shocked stare collided with his, hot color saturating those elegant cheekbones. Her lips parted on a gasp. “What do you mean, no?”
“Just what it sounds like,” he said. “My mother will see through the subterfuge if it’s not believable. You must allow me to touch you, and you must be willing to touch me. Though based on recent evidence, that will not be a hardship for either of us.”
Desire and heat twined through him, and Rhystan willed his overeager body to behave. A cockstand at this juncture would not win him any favors. He glanced at her flaming cheeks. Or perhaps it would. He leaned on the railing, jutting his hips forward. Rhystan knew the moment her gaze dipped to the overcrowded area in question, when a strangled sound escaped her throat and her flush deepened to dark rose. “You are unspeakable.”
“I’m a red-blooded male,” he returned evenly. “You want me, and I want you. Ignoring the monster between us won’t make it go away, Sarani.”
She rolled her eyes at his innuendo. “Your ego is truly enormous, unlike that part of you. And my name is Sara.”
“Sara, then,” he conceded, resenting the shorter sound of it on his lips. He much preferred the lyrical sound of her whole name but would yield if it meant that much to her. “The duchess will ferret out any lie in a heartbeat. As my fiancée, you must act the part, because she has to believe it’s a love match.”
Her slender throat worked. “Why? Most gentlemen hardly marry for love.”
“Because she is well versed on my vow never to marry. The fact that the ever prosaic, unsentimental duke has been brought low by Cupid will undoubtedly appeal to her female sense of romanticism.” He didn’t add that the Duchess of Embry did not have a romantic bone in her body.
Sarani narrowed her eyes, lips pursing. “Female sense? I didn’t expect such a deeply elemental thing to be relegated to one particular sex or for you to describe it so.”
His lips twitched, that tart rejoinder reminding him of their many vigorous discussions. From politics to literature to philosophy to science, they’d never been at a loss for topics of discourse, and she’d always argued her points passionately and with conviction. Those few times that he’d won an argument, she’d conceded with grace, willing to learn and widen her worldview. He’d never met another like her. Smart, articulate, and deviously clever.
Had she been born a man, she might have left revolution in her wake.
“Everyone knows women are hopeless romantics,” he said, biting back his smile.
