Page 47 of The Princess Stakes
To her surprise, he’d nodded after a beat of scrutiny. “Very well. I will retire elsewhere tonight. Once I meet with my mother and introduce you, perhaps you can stay at Huntley House. My sister should also be in town for the season. She’s a few years younger than you, just now eighteen.”
“What’s she like?”
A fond smile had curved his lips, making her heart hitch an unexpected beat. Seeing any kind of emotion on his face that wasn’t lust, loathing, or some combination thereof was a bit of a shock. “Demure, sweet, dutiful.”
The opposite of her, clearly.
He didn’t have to say it, but the implication had been more than obvious.
They’d passed the rest of the journey in silence. And then, as they’d driven through the bustling streets of Mayfair, not even Rhystan’s sourness could detract from her fascination with the clean lines of the architecture, carriages pulled by matching teams of plumed horses, and the neat groups of sedately dressed lords and ladies. It was the antithesis of Joor, lacking the joyful chaos, intricate architectural styles, and broad palette of bright color she was used to. It was all so very…structured.
She’d smoothed nervously at her skirts, drawing Rhystan’s stare as they’d pulled up in front of a gorgeous town house.
“What’s the matter?”
She’d swallowed, not sure why she suddenly felt panicked. “I didn’t expect it to be so pristine. Even the cobblestones are freshly scrubbed.”
“Don’t let the exterior fool you,” he’d murmured. “Beauty is only skin deep. After all, the loveliest of smiles can mask the cruelest of intentions, can’t it?”
Her eyes had flashed to his, drawn by the harsh, bitter note in his voice, but he’d already returned his attention to the signet ring on his finger.
Now, Sarani’s nerves returned in full force while Asha combed and styled her hair into a low chignon with looped ringlets over her ears. She gave herself a critical look in the mirror when Asha was finished. The remaining weeks of travel after St. Helena that she’d spent cooped-up belowdecks had been effective in making her look like an English corpse bride. She pinched the apples of her cheeks, making them flush with a dusky hue. There, that was marginally better.
Now she didn’t look quite so sallow. Sarani glanced at Asha in the mirror whose brown skin practically glowed next to hers. Unlike her, Asha had been parasol-free and soaking up the sun for days. Sarani swallowed her envy and grimaced at her reflection. She wished she could line her eyelids with liberal amounts of kohl—it always made her eyes pop like jewels—but that would set her apart even more, and the goal was to fit in…not stand out.
She was beginning to feel an acute sense of pressure.
“Do you require face powder, Princess?” Asha asked.
Sarani wrinkled her nose. She hated the stuff, though blending in was the point, wasn’t it? But when her gaze slid to the translucent dust in its decorative dish, everything inside of her suddenly choked.Did blending in mean becoming invisible? The parasol was one thing, but this was one more step of erasure.
“No, not tonight.”Not ever.She lowered her voice, glancing over to where the undermaids were bustling about the antechamber. “And it’s ‘my lady,’ don’t forget. And remember, you are to play the role of my companion as well, so you must act accordingly.”
Asha nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
After donning a bottle-green gown from her portmanteau, Sarani gave herself one last look. A tepid English rose stared back at her. Perfectly coiffed hair, freshly scrubbed skin, and elegant clothing combined to groom her into the future Duchess of Embry.
All except for her eyes, which blazed. They burned with fire, defiance, and pure, unadulterated ferocity. As if to say:How dare you give in? How dare you become this parody? Howdareyou?
Sarani gulped, her throat tightening, and lowered her lids. Now was not the time for her inner tigress to come out fighting, claws first. It was a matter of necessity if she was to survive. There were rules that had to be heeded, modesty that needed to be minded. She had to be perfect.
“Ask His Grace’s valet about an available modiste,” she said to Asha. “I will require a full wardrobe befitting a future duchess. Money is no object.” It would not be, with a raja’s fortune in gems in her carpetbag. “And ask Gideon to look into how I can sell some of my jewels.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Sarani inhaled and exhaled, risking a final peek at her eyes. The fierce gleam there had calmed, thank heavens. Eyes could reveal so much about a person if one knew how to read them. She’d learned that as a girl in her father’s court. They often gave away when a man was lying or revealed what he truly desired. Smiles, expressions, and words could be easily faked, but the eyes rarely lied.
Markham’s disdain beneath his official bearing had been obvious. Talbot’s lust had shone through his gentlemanly reserve. The ladies of the court had envied her while they derided her. Back then, even Rhystan had been transparent, his affection shimmering in those blue-gray eyes. Now, not so much. These days, he was near impossible to read between the irregular bursts of anger and desire, which meant that she had to tread carefully.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young maid said at the door, “but His Grace is inquiring whether you are ready to depart for Huntley House.”
Canting her head, she stood and smiled graciously at the maid. “Thank you. You may inform His Grace that I’ll be down shortly.”
Sarani pasted a demure smile on her lips and clasped gloved hands together at her waist, channeling the many lessons her mother and her stalwart governess had imparted about English high society. Such lessons of comportment were also part and parcel of being a princess, but what was needed of her now as Rhystan’s future bride would require a strategic touch. She elongated her spine, angled her chin a smidgen downward, and held herself with impeccable poise.
A line from Rumi’s poetry struck her: “Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am,” and she let a serene smile touch her lips.
Time to be the rose.
