Page 52 of The Princess Stakes
Of course, Rhystan had diplomatically agreed. The farce of their engagement had been only for his mother’s benefit, after all. Though his acquiescence didn’t seem to have deterred her efforts in the least. No, the competition was still fierce. Ravenna had been delighted to show Sarani the popular London newssheets, which were calling the contest for Rhystan’s hand the Duchess Duels.
The Duchess sodding Duels.
Like that arrogant devil was some spectacular prize to be won. On paper, he was, considering his title and fortune, but if his head were to grow any bigger with self-importance, he’d float away to the moon.
“It’s ridiculously brilliant,” Ravenna had giggled one evening after she’d snuck into Sarani’s chamber, a regular occurrence that Sarani didn’t mind. Unlike the duchess, Ravenna had been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise suffocating space. The girl’s dry sense of humor, unfailing honesty, and clever mind were things that Sarani appreciated. Admittedly, at times not so much theunfailinghonesty. Especially with respect to her brother.
Ravenna spread out theTimesand pointed to a ridiculous caricature of galloping women on a racecourse. “They’ve likened it to the Gold Cup during Ascot week. See here. Lady Penny is two leagues ahead of Lady Margaret. They’re the two favorites and have the best odds.” She’d jabbed at the drawing, nearly poking a hole in the paper. “And here’s Lady Clara. Sadly, she’s at the very back of the pack with no hope unless a miracle happens. She’s my friend and not interested in the Duke of Disbelonging in the least, but her mother is making her. She’s on her second season with no prospects.”
“Duke of Disbelonging?” Sarani had snorted. “That’s not a word.”
Her grin had turned impish. “Do you prefer Duke of Dashing Desire?”
“Hardly,” Sarani had protested.
Ravenna had giggled and waggled her eyebrows. “When Rhystan isn’t looking, you stare at him like he’s a juicy plum pudding you can’t wait to dig your spoon into and get to the warm fruity, gooey center.”
Sarani’s face had heated to boiling, though she’d be a liar to deny it. Seeing the man sweep through ballrooms like a disguised predator made her faithless heart kick up a notch. Something about him polished to perfection and dressed in formal wear made him seem more dangerous, as though he were a wild, savage beast in a crowd of house-trained pets waiting to pounce. Sarani couldn’t deny that she stared her fill of him…whenever he was not aware, of course. The fact that Ravenna had noticed her staring, however, filled her with alarm.
“You’re sorely mistaken. I loathe plum pudding,” Sarani had said and steered the subject away. “And you, have you had a season?”
“This was meant to be my first.” The girl had tried to hide the flash of disappointment behind careless bravado. “But after mourning for so long for Papa and my brothers, Mama wished to wait until Rhystan returned. I suppose she knew he’d be back this season, because I was presented to the queen after Easter along with a hundred other girls, so I’m officiallyout. But who needs parties anyway? All you get are stuffy ballrooms, silly smelly sirs, and warm lemonade.”
Sarani had blinked, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place. So the dowager duchess had intended her son to return. The timing of Ravenna’s presentation at court as well as the interviews of potential brides were part of a meticulous scheme to see the Duke of Embry settled. After all, any enviable match of a duke would only help his unmarried younger sister. An odd feeling had squeezed against Sarani’s ribs.
Was it pity? For Rhystan, Ravenna, or herself?
“Silly smelly sirs?” she’d asked, shaking off the strange reaction.
“Have you ever noticed how gentlemen think that bathing means dabbing oneself with copious amounts of perfume and calling it done?” Ravenna had wrinkled her nose with an affected huff of disgust. “It’s bloody awful. Like putting rose water on a pile of refuse and expecting a perfectly clean lady to dance with it.”
Sarani had burst into laughter, though a part of her had wondered whether Ravenna’s marriage prospects had all been put on hold because of Rhystan. He’d been gallivanting who-knew-where while his sister languished in a state of painful limbo, waiting to be presented to society by her only remaining brother, the duke. And he had not been there.
Then again, Rhystan had been running from his own demons. From expectation.
Daughters and sons of the aristocracy were pawns to be played at will—to increase fortunes, to gain a title, to strengthen an alliance. Even she had not been spared from the crushing weight of duty, until she’d had no choice. She had run from Talbot and Vikram, unwilling to be prey either to a smarmy rotter or an underhanded assassin.
Rhystan had run from his birthright and mother.
That didn’t mean she trusted him, just that she empathized.
Swallowing past the growing lump of nausea in her throat, Sarani stood at the threshold of the staircase of the dowager duchess’s home leading down into the lavish ballroom, her stomach in its usual knots. This “intimate” welcome home party was yet another ploy by the duchess to make her son come to his senses and select a woman of her choosing. Sarani could feel it.
She hadn’t seen Rhystan in days. Apparently, he’d been busy dealing with some estate issues with his solicitor. Though he hadn’t shared anything with her, she could see the strain of it in his features whenever she did see him. Admittedly, the burden of the charade was wearing also on her. Pasting a smile on her face, she approached Fullerton.
“Lady Sara Lockhart,” the butler intoned as she descended.
She felt the gazes flock and settle on her as though she were some circus oddity or breed of rare creature that the Duke of Embry had brought back from his travels. It was India, for heaven’s sake, she wanted to scream, not some uncivilized hellhole. Even as she thought it, she almost laughed. Most of these narrowminded people likely viewed her birthplace and home as worse than that.
Propaganda…it was a dangerous weapon.
Though the people in this room might not suspect her mixed origins, she knew they had already judged her harshly for having been raised in the colonized east…a place full of murderous heretics, according to theTimes, which would undoubtedly have tainted her somehow. British news commentary denounced colonial society everywhere, often portraying its people, even in their own colonies, as mad and promiscuous.
Now walking among these hubristically superior English nobles, Sarani had never felt more like Miss Swartz in Thackeray’sVanity Fair. Even now, she could see the author’s written words in her mind’s eye:“Marry that mulatto woman? I don’t like the color, sir.”
Gracious, if they only knew the truth…
Would they snub her as well?
