Page 72 of The Princess Stakes
“She consented,” he muttered. “We both knew what we were doing.”
Doesn’t mean she wasn’t innocent.
She’d been a virgin. Sarani had been so passionate, so responsive, but innate sensuality did not imply that she was experienced. Rhystan didn’t know what he’d been expecting. She’d been engaged to Talbot for a few years. In hindsight, he’d made a stupid assumption. Sarani wasSarani.
Rhystan scowled. Hell, he was the worst kind of cad. Worse than Trent possibly.
He tipped up the whisky, feeling its contents burn a hot path to his stomach and waiting for the ease it would eventually bring. In the meantime, his thoughts remained on Sarani. In the aftermath, they’d lain together in his bed in a strange sort of comfortable quiet.
Neither of them had spoken until he’d risen to find a cloth, which he had used to wipe away the evidence of both her virginity and his prudence.
“Do you wish to return to Huntley House?” he’d asked. She’d stared at him, eyes unreadable, the barest flicker of something in them. Regret? Hurt? It had made his sudden awkward vulnerability become more acute. “Before it gets too late.”
“I suppose I should return,” she said, rising gracefully from the bed like theapsarahe’d likened her to.
It’d been on the tip of his tongue to beg her to stay, but he’d held back. Once was enough. More than enough for them to get whatever it was between them out of their systems. Once would have to suffice. From then on out, abstinence would be in order.
As she’d dressed and retied her cloak, Sarani had glanced at the bed and then at the discarded cloth with pale-pink stains discoloring the pristine linen, her cheeks tinting. “Won’t Harlowe…” She’d trailed off, embarrassed.
“I’ll toss it in the grate. No one will know.”
She’d nodded, pinning her lips. “Thank you.”
Rhystan did not know how he’d had the presence of mind to withdraw, given his insensible state at the time, but she was inexperienced. He was not. Conception was not an outcome for either of them: him as a seafaring duke, her as an independent spinster. Their lives were meant to diverge at the end of their pact.
Sex did not change anything.
Until it does.
With a snarl at the logical voice in his head, he scrubbed a hand over his face, stopping himself from getting another drink. Whisky solved nothing.
“Your Grace?” Harlowe asked, knocking on the door to the study. “Her ladyship has sent a messenger inquiring whether you will attend the Van Dunne masquerade this evening.”
Rhystan’s eyes narrowed. “Which her ladyship? My sister, my mother, or my…or Lady Sara?”
“The second, Your Grace. She is adamant that she must receive a response.”
Of course she was. Rhystan groaned. The last thing he needed was yet another ball, but a part of him knew he needed to come up with better suitors for his sister. And the truth was, he wanted to see Sarani again. In a safe place, surrounded by people, where he would not do anything untoward like drag her off to a deserted alcove to ravish her.
He’d done that already.
He truly was a dreadful excuse for a duke.
“Inform the duchess I will attend,” he said.
Appearances had to be maintained. For Ravenna’s sake, anyway.
* * *
Playing the wallflower on the fringes of the Van Dunne ball, Sarani did not feel any different. Not that she’d expected to—but she’d imagined that being ruined would feel somewhat salacious. That people would be able to see through the haze of immorality surrounding her.
Then again, she was wearing a mask. She huffed a laugh—not that the aristocracy didn’t wear figurative masks every single day. Very few let their real selves be seen for fear of being hurt or ridiculed by their peers. For all their culture and confidence, fashion and fortunes, aristocrats were extraordinarily frail. Like almost everyone else, Sarani supposed.
Ravenna and Rhystan caught her eye as they twirled past. They made a stunning pair. Ravenna was radiant in a ball gown the colors of the sunset and a beautiful red-feathered mask, and Rhystan wore black. Without a mask. Sarani wondered if he’d done it to be contrary. Or perhaps he was one of those few who refused to hide who he was. She frowned, recalling his stony-faced demeanor in his bedchamber.
No, Rhystan’s masks lay behind his eyes and appeared at will.
Few ever saw the real man.
