The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  It wasn’t the time or the place, but Rhystan did not care. His blood boiled, but for civility’s sake, he kept his voice low. “What is your problem with Sarani?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She looked startled for a moment at the brusque question, but her mouth firmed at his expression, eyes going wintry. “She’s…not a suitable match, Embry.”

  “Why?” He resisted the urge to rake his hands through his hair. “Tell me, Duchess, what in your judicious opinion makes her unsuitable?”

  “She is not fit for a duke. Everyone here knows that but you.”

  Rhystan had had enough. “Everyone here? That woman has more nobility and integrity in her little finger than half the purported blue-bloods in this room, and if you think I give a fig for what any of these intolerant fops think, you’re wrong.”

  “Embry!” His mother’s eyes widened and darted around the room. “Control yourself. This is what I mean… Look at you, this behavior is not befitting a duke.”

  He let out a grim laugh. “Believe me, that has nothing to do with her. Roland and Richard were ducal material, not me.”

  She flattened her lips. “Your gallivanting all over the world and consorting with these colonials has made you forget who you are.”

  “On the contrary, Mother, they’ve made me see the duke I wish to become.”

  Their furious exchange was drawing notice, though no one dared approach. One word from the Dragon Duchess and they would no longer be welcomed in the haute ton’s illustrious circles. Rhystan frowned. Was that what she was afraid of? That she would lose all the precious influence she’d built?

  Rhystan settled a cold glare on the duchess. “Did you wish it had been me to die instead? Then you would have been content with your perfect sons and their approved wives, though at the rate Roland was going, the ducal coffers would have been empty.”

  Pain broke in her eyes, and he felt the smallest slash of guilt. “No, I don’t wish that. I want only the best for you, Rhystan. I always have. Your father, too.”

  “Don’t you dare bring him into this.”

  He expected her to walk away. This was much too public for her tastes, but to his surprise, his mother turned to face him, her back to the crowd. “You were much too alike, the both of you. Headstrong, smart, rebellious. Until he died, he insisted on updates of your accomplishments. He was proud of you.”

  Stunned, Rhystan faltered. “He had a strange way of showing it.”

  “The duke was not a demonstrative man, but he loved you.” She inhaled a deep breath, looking unsure of herself for the first time he could think of. “He did not send for you five years ago. I did. I sent the message with the ducal seal to the vice admiral after we received his letter.”

  He blinked. “Why would you do that?”

  “To prevent you from making the same mistake as you are now with a woman who will tarnish the Huntley name. Then, you were only the son of a duke. Now, by fate’s decree, you are a duke. Consider what this will do to your reputation, our standing in society. You need to marry a woman of consequence, one who matters.”

  “Like Lady Penelope?” he shot back. “Whose parentage is disputable?”

  “That is gossip. In the eyes of the ton, she is the catch of the season.”

  He shook his head at the double standard. “Then the ton is bloody obtuse.” His mother’s mouth curled with displeasure at his crudeness, but Rhystan had had enough. “I will see the estates sorted out, and I will see Ravenna married. And when that is done, I will leave for good.”

  “And your fiancée?”

  “You will have your wish, Mother,” he said wearily. “Our agreement will be ended. Family bloodlines will be unsullied, and your precious reign will continue.”

  * * *

  Sarani watched from the ballroom floor, barely taking in the conversation of her partner. He had a delightful French accent, but beyond that, she hadn’t heard a word. She’d been much too interested, like most everyone else, in the discussion taking place between the dowager duchess and her son. While their faces were composed and their voices remained low, Sarani was so attuned to Rhystan that she could feel the tension rolling off him. It didn’t surprise her when he gave his mother a curt bow and strode off in the direction of the terraced gardens.

  “Thank you for the dance, Lord Marchand,” she told the marquis when the polka ended and he escorted her toward the refreshments room.

  “It was my pleasure…Princess Sarani,” he replied softly. Sarani’s feet rooted to the spot, her eyes darting to his. The marquis smiled. “I had the pleasure of visiting your father’s court some time ago. We were introduced, though I’m certain you do not remember me. I was sorry to hear of his death. He was a good man.”

  “He was, thank you,” she stammered, at a loss. A stranger had recognized her, a member of French nobility no less, and he did not regard her any differently or look at her as though she were an interloper. Even knowing exactly who she was, he’d asked her to dance. Sarani cleared her throat. “I apologize for the deception of my name. It was necessary for my safety.”

  “I understand,” he said with a courtly bow. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate. It is good to see you again, Princess. Now I must go and claim my dance with the lovely Lady Ravenna.” He grinned. “Any suggestions?”

  “Be yourself,” Sarani said and then almost laughed at the irony.

  After the marquis left, she surveyed the ballroom, looking to see if Rhystan had returned, but the duke was nowhere to be seen. Following his footsteps, she made her way out to the terrace. He was not there either. She paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the lawns framed in thick hedgerows. The idea of walking alone into the shadowy gardens to find him was unnerving. But he needed her; she could feel it.

  She would have a quick look and then return to the ballroom. Walking briskly, she’d stepped past the first set of hedges when a hand latched on to her elbow, yanking her into a narrow arbor.

  “Excuse me,” she began and then stopped when she recognized her companion with a wave of nausea. “Lord Talbot, this is untoward.”

  The earl smiled. “Is it? Engaged couples have secret trysts all the time.”

  “We are not engaged.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, his body blocking the exit.

  She gritted her teeth—she would barrel through him if she had to. “You can beg all you like,” she said. “Agreements change all the time. You do not own me.”

  “Not yet,” he said, stepping closer. “But I will have my way, one way or another.”

  Sarani did not move, squaring her shoulders and refusing to cower before this man’s aggression. “Tell me something, did you ever see the fighting exhibitions at my father’s court in Joor, Lord Talbot? The ones with the knives.”

  He stopped moving. “Yes. What of them?”

  “Would you be surprised if I told you one of the masked fighters was me?”

  She lifted bladeless palms and whirled them in a complicated but recognizable pattern for anyone who might have viewed the matches. Talbot’s throat bobbed, eyes widening. Sarani grinned. In this public setting, she would use her faithful kukri blades only as a last resort. She was trying not to cause any further scandal, if she could help it.

  She stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “You are a gutless coward, accosting a woman in the dark.”

  His hands flew out to capture hers, his grip punishing. “I am a peer of England.”

  “Good for you,” she said. In response, his fingers tightened painfully. Sarani hefted her knee, but her stupid crinoline frame was in the way, blocking the blow from connecting where it would hurt him the most.

  “Do you think anyone will care about you?”

  Rhystan would. Ravenna would. The French marquis would. And maybe there were others. There were always exceptions to ever
y rule and people who might not be so close-minded or judgmental. She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  “Vikram didn’t,” he drawled, squeezing the slender bones of her wrists. “He was all too willing to barter you like chattel for a crown. Why do you think he sent a man to find you? You were part of the agreement; no princess, no prince.” Sarani inhaled, but the earl went on. “Eventually, I would have relieved him from his position and annexed your little state. But I have one thing to claim first…my bride.”

  “I will never be yours. Release me, Lord Talbot.”

  “I’d do as the lady says,” a voice said from behind them.

  The deadliness in Rhystan’s words sent shivers down Sarani’s spine. Talbot released her so quickly that she stumbled backward, nearly crashing into the duke. He moved to intercept the earl, but Sarani put a hand on his chest, stalling him. “He’s not worth it.”

  His gaze burned with rage. “But you are.”

  The words filled her with both happiness and sadness. She knew he meant them, but words were empty unless they were backed by action. He could declare it in front of a snake like Talbot but not anyone else. Not the duchess. Not the ton.

  She straightened her spine. “I am, and I know I am. Will you please escort me back inside, Your Grace?”

  Rhystan nodded with reluctance, his fist clenched at his sides, but offered her his arm. As they walked back up the terrace, Sarani did not look back. That was her mistake, she supposed. Because she wasn’t prepared for the wild-eyed earl who’d followed them, crashing into the ballroom like a bull gone mad.

  “You stupid, worthless creature.”

  Music cut off, and voices went silent. Sarani’s heart climbed into her throat, though there was nothing she could do but watch the train wreck of her life finally derail.

  “She’s nothing but a filthy mongrel, Embry!” Talbot shouted. “Daughter of a native and a disowned countess. Lady Lisbeth? Everyone knows what a harlot she was, running after that Indian like a bitch in heat. Even Beckforth wrote her out of his will.”

  Sarani whirled. “Don’t you dare speak about my mother!”

  “That’s your future duchess?” Talbot sneered at the Duke of Embry. “Lady Mulatto?”

  She glanced at the duke, whose face had gone rigid with fury. She recognized that deadly look—she’d seen it on the Belonging. A thousand men could not hold him back, much less Sarani. She did not even try. With one fist, he flattened the earl, knocking him out cold. Screams cut through the ballroom, chatter climbing to the rafters. Rhystan had silenced the man, but the damage had been done.

  She caught the horrified eyes of the dowager duchess, the sympathetic ones of Ravenna, and the triumphant glare of Penelope. But mostly, people stared at her with disdain and mistrust, as though she were an impostor who would run off with the silver or contaminate them with some malodorous disease. The whispers grew around her—native, duchess, scandal—until nothing else could be heard.

  There, the truth was out.

  Everyone knew.

  Twenty-Five

  The scandal sheets the next day were far from kind. Rhystan had expected it. They were calling him the Disgraced Duke, though Lord knew why he should be disgraced in any way, beyond engaging in fisticuffs in the middle of a ballroom to defend a lady’s honor. As though that had never happened in the history of the aristocracy.

  He was the one who had let Sarani down. In the aftermath of Talbot’s announcement and Rhystan’s own ungoverned reaction, he had called for their carriages and they’d left. His mother, predictably, had had a fit of the vapors and returned home to Huntley House. Ravenna, however, had insisted on staying with Sarani at his residence. They’d slept in Sarani’s bedchamber, and he’d been grateful that Sarani had not been alone. He had no idea what she must be thinking or feeling, and it gutted him. He didn’t want her to feel pain or be hurt in any way.

  In the breakfast room, Rhystan stared down at the caricature in the newssheets with a grimace. This one rubbed him raw. It was one of him standing with his foot on top of a map of India with a pencil-shaded Sarani staring up at him with avarice in her eyes. Her features had been exaggerated—eyes lengthened, lips fattened, and curves emphasized—painting her as a foreign, title-hunting jezebel. It made him sick to his stomach. That was what Talbot had intended, perhaps. To shame her into running.

  The one good thing out of this was the loss of Markham’s leverage. Gideon had found Finn Driscoll, and once Rhystan had given the Irishman the vice admiral’s marker, Markham had gone to ground. But it was only a matter of time before his crimes—and the new owner of his debt—caught up to him.

  Rhystan’s skin prickled with awareness moments before his sister and Sarani entered the room. God, she was beautiful. Even with an ashen cast to her skin and purple shadows under her eyes, she was lovely in a pale-green-and-white-striped dress, trimmed in gold ribbon.

  “Good morning, Brother,” Ravenna said without looking at him, her attention on the sideboard where steaming dishes let out mouthwatering smells. “Goodness, I could eat an elephant.” She giggled. “Though I’m sure if Mama were here, she would scream that eating elephants is just not done.”

  Sarani’s eyes met his. He saw her gaze skip to the folded newssheets beside him, apprehension flickering in their green-brown depths. He wouldn’t hide the news from her, should she choose to see them, but neither would he shove it in her face.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said.

  He smiled. So proper. “Good morning, Princess,” he said, startling her. “If we’re standing on formality, that is. Though I suppose it’s ‘Maharani’ now.”

  “What does that mean?” Ravenna piped up, plopping down in a chair that a footman had pulled out for her and pointing to the seat opposite her, on his left, to Sarani.

  “Queen,” Rhystan said.

  “I am not a queen,” Sarani said. “My cousin is maharaja. I am… I don’t have a title.”

  “But you were born a princess,” Ravenna pointed out while gesturing at the footman to fill her plate. She glared at him when he stopped after a small scoop of eggs. “I’m a person, Camden, not a bird,” she told him. “Keep going until it reaches the edges.”

  Rhystan saw Sarani biting back a grin. How close she and his sister become pleased him, but then Sarani had always had a knack for drawing people to her.

  “So, as I was saying,” Ravenna went on, buttering a piece of toast once her plate had been piled to heaping, “you were born royal, which means you don’t just stop being royal, no matter what you concoct in that clever head of yours. One cannot run away from one’s birthright. Ask my brother here, who has been running for years, only to discover—sod it to purgatory—that he’s still a bloody duke.”

  “Ravenna!” Rhystan chided.

  “What?” she asked innocently. “Do stop being a milksop, Brother dearest. Mother Dragon isn’t here.”

  Rhystan blinked. Did his baby sister just call him a milksop in his own house? He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind but stopped as Morton came to the entrance of the breakfast room with a bow.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the dowager duchess has just arrived,” his butler announced.

  “Oh, hell on wheels,” Ravenna squeaked, brushing the crumbs from her chin and shoving her overfull plate toward the waiting footman. “Camden, take this, for the love of all things holy, before she sees! She’ll sack you for feeding me. Trust me, she’s done it before.”

  The footman blanched and hurried to take the plate. Rhystan shook his head at Ravenna’s antics, but he had to admit, his spine went a little straighter, too. It was appalling the effect his mother had on them. He had the sudden urge to pull off his cravat, muss his hair, and smear jam on his pristine shirt.

  “Thank you, Morton. Instruct the footmen to set another place in case Her Grace decides to stay,” he said instead and b
raced himself.

  The dowager duchess swept into the room, elegantly appointed from head to toe. Besides being paler than usual, she had a fight in her eyes. By God, Rhystan had had enough and she hadn’t even spoken. He opened his mouth to say so and stopped as she lifted an imperious hand.

  “Allow me to apologize.”

  Rhystan swore he could hear half a dozen jaws hitting the floor—his, Sarani’s, Ravenna’s, the butler’s, and even those of a couple of the footmen. A small part of his brain wondered if she might be ill or going mad. Either was possible.

  Still, he wasn’t going to allow his mother to lower herself in front of the servants. He waved a hand, and the footmen cleared the room, Morton closing the door, until it was only the four of them. His mother gave him a grateful look.

  “I was wrong, Embry,” she said haltingly. “About all of it. What you said there at the end about my reign made me think. You were right about me and the silly things I valued, and I asked myself, for a woman who has lost so much, would I be willing to lose the family I have left to preserve the status quo? To care for those who would cut my family down for sport without blinking? I’m ashamed to even think I put them first.” She drew a shattered breath. “Because the answer is no. I don’t wish to lose you.” Her gaze slid to Ravenna. “Or you. You’re all I have left, now that Elodie has remarried and taken my granddaughters to Northumberland.” She walked to the table where Rhystan sat, calmly picked up the newssheets, and ripped them in half. “And no-goddamned-body vilifies my family and gets away with it.”

  Ravenna gasped, staring at their mother like she’d grown wings and a tail, her mouth ajar. Even he was shocked speechless.

  The duchess sent them an arch glance. “What? You thought your straitlaced mother didn’t know how to swear?”

  Sarani, for her part, held her composure, though something like shock flashed in her eyes. She tensed when the duchess turned her gaze toward her as though uncertain of what to expect. “I was wrong to judge you so harshly. What you did for Ravenna when that man had her in his grasp…” She choked up, a hand coming to her throat. “I made a horrible mistake. I was so afraid for her, so afraid I’d lose her, too, and I admit my reaction was cowardly in the extreme.”