Together, they hatched a plan that could have only been borne of desperation. Cornelia needed to marry, and fast. The modiste was slipped something extra for creating not one, but several gowns with extra paneling, as well as for her silence. That night, Cornelia made sure to shine her brightest, for now she was a wild rose with a mission to plant her seeds in her own native soil.
Still, miracles do not simply happen, and it was a full month before she was able to achieve her goal. She blessed everything she held dear that she carried small and that the man she was marrying was a fool. Lord Steven Davenport was exactly the kind of man she had spent so long dreading—an English gentleman with no taste for wildness, no understanding of women or their sensuality, but at least he was a dullard who would not do any particularly careful calculations. They celebrated a wedding in high style, even if it was fast enough to stir some gossipy whispers.
When she lay with him, she allowed her mind to drift off. It was as if she was creating her own inner monologue, in which she lived another life, a secret life with the boy she could never be with. She looked down and saw her husband's pale, flabby body pumping into her secret caverns and begged the boy for forgiveness. As time went on, she drifted into a darkness in which she imagined him watching, the nails on his fingers digging into his palms even as his cock rose up in unrestrained lust to see her so used.
Her belly swelled with the months, and Lord Davenport could not have been more puffed up and pleased at his own virility. He crowed everywhere that he was surely the most prodigious man for look at how quickly his luscious new wife had conceived. Cornelia would close her eyes and squeeze them together in disgust, trying her best to shut her new idiot husband out of her mind, out of her life; he would mistake this for a symptom of her pregnancy and ask if he could bring her anything. It was always water she requested, glass after glass, for nothing could quench her thirst. She had been endlessly parched since Assam, and no amount of water her ama could bring her could fill her up. An ache and emptiness inside of her the size of a whole country had appeared and nothing could fill it.
When the baby was born, it came into the world as messily as it had been made. There was more blood than Cornelia could have ever imagined, and a pain that ripped her from anus to belly. As she pushed, her hair once again stuck to her skull, and she transformed into a sweating, grunting animal; it was the only time she felt alive since the boy. Only pain and pleasure could awaken her true self, it seemed, until she held her baby daughter in her arms. A little girl with dusky skin and rosebud lips, a little girl who latched onto those brown nipples and stared up at her with eyes the dark blue of all infants that are born. Part of the ache subsided, for Cornelia carried a piece of her true self by her side at all times.
In time, the infant's eyes lightened to a strange, pale green. When Lord Davenport delightedly exclaimed upon his daughter's undeniable beauty, a strange fear gripped Cornelia. She explained that the baby's unusual eye color stemmed from a distant relative who had died years ago. The desperate glance of a mother tiger protecting her cubs did not escape her ama, who sealed her lips, joined in the secret and in the love of the little child before them.
The child called India.
Lord Davenport attributed the unusual name to Cornelia's time in Assam. “Your father's work was so important there, lifted so many of the natives out of their tragic, heathen lives,” he would tell her. It surprised her, or would have, had she still been alive for anyone other than her progeny, the way he had transformed since India's arrival. She had thought the allure of her nubile young body was only an added bonus and that all he was after had been a share in her father's company, but it appeared Lord Davenport was even stupider than he appeared. It appeared he actually held pride in the work of an exploitative company and believed that the natives were naught but ignorant slaves headed straight to hell.
Well, if that's where they were going, then Cornelia wanted to tumble along with them, head over horns over heels.
She carried her true self inside for all the years of her life. Only she and her ama knew the full truth, and yet there were things to be grateful for. Lord Davenport, believing against all odds that India was his rightful daughter, bestowed upon her the finest education and wealth he could provide. Cornelia saw to it that her daughter had the finest tutors from all around the world, for she would not have her grow up to become as limited in her world view as her alleged father. For it seemed that no matter how hard Lord Davenport tried, he could never replace the love that was already in her heart for the native boy. And so it was with no great remorse that Cornelia received the news that Lord Davenport had died in a hunting accident when India was eight. She simply made sure all the papers were in order and that her daughter, the result of her union with a less than appropriate man, was to be accepted into London's high society as a lady of the first order.
She kept her secret close to her heart until India reached the ripe age of eighteen and was ready to come out on the social scene. And then, Cornelia Augusta did the unthinkable. She signed over her inheritance to her daughter, left her ama behind, and traveled back to India. The scandal hit London's social scene like a grenade, leaving shrapnel everywhere, sparing no one. Not her father, who had tried his best to protect her, not her mother and sister, who had willingly turned a blind eye to the occurrences that had had happened after their fateful venture into a foreign land. And so it happened that Cornelia returned to a land that had always felt closer than home, off to find her fortune or to find a much greater joy that perhaps she had always laid claim to. India did not pretend to understand all of the details of her mother's story, for little was shared other than the truth of her parentage through the letter her mother had left behind, but she understood her mother's heart most intimately.
It seemed that they were both different from the norm, and both of them against their will. India cast no blame, just wished her mother a fond farewell with a promise to write. For it was time for them both to move to foreign territory, and the lives that awaited them both were changed forever by simple acts of passion.
But that was yet to come.
* * *
The coming out ball thrown in honor of India Augustina raised speculation far and wide, but also attracted the highest number of the ton in attendance that had been seen in over a decade. Nobody had seen the young lady since the death of her father, for her mother had been a most curious creature, obsessed with a land that was populated mostly by savages. Some speculated that the girl had followed the same route and lived much like the ama who was raising her; that is to say that rumors had flown about that the girl was residing in a room filled with spices and witch-like spells, a ridiculous notion if India had ever heard one. She was putting the finishing touches on her own curls when the servants informed her that the carriage was ready to take her to the Davenports. The elderly couple had much taken her under their wing during the time her mother had left. Had India been a more charitable young lady, she might have recognized that her grandparents meant well. Ever since her mother's quite sudden permanent trip to the land of tea leaves, India had instead invested much in bringing out her own stubborn streak of independence. She had accepted the ball being thrown in her honor, but she was certain that she would not find what she was looking for there.
What she was looking for exactly could not be described in any words accepted by high society.
As India studied the satin sheen of her skin in her reflection, she considered what it might be like to take in her rare beauty from the outside. The pomegranate hue of her lips, fantastic green eyes that sat like jewels in her finely shaped skull and intimidated every English gentleman she had ever met from the ages of six to sixty. She dabbed on the last slick of kohl the ama had taught her how to make at the tender age of twelve to highlight those spectacular orbs and turned her attention to the gown on the bed.
The rose silk was cut low over her full bosom. Unlike the high, tight line of most of the peaches and cream ladies
around her, India's breasts were full, heavy, and came together with a glorious pucker that promised a most fantastic sight when released from their constraints. The gown was fitted tightly under the line of her chest to showcase the waist that was trim without the constraints of a corset. It was almost indecent, the way her abdomen rippled underneath the fabric, but India had never been one to care much about what others thought of her. She wanted to create an effect with her presence that would burn itself onto the consciousness of every man and woman present so that she would know for certain that every man who saw her that night would also be seeing her in their dreams. And their wives would know.
Despite the promised dullness of the evening, India felt a small thrill enter her blood as the carriage pulled up outside of the Davenports. She slipped in unnoticed after giving the butler that certain look, and was prepared to observe the wash of humanity from a small balcony. It was only moments, however, before her grandparents located her—hardly a difficulty considering she stood out from the simpering ladies around her like a jewel in a brass setting. They dragged her off to meet the Morningshires, and Levenworths, and all manners of families whose sons would be appearing on lists of eligible bachelors all over London before the year closed. India made note of which mothers clutched their sons to their bosoms protectively when they met her, and made sure to bat her eyelashes at them in particular. How she detested people who treated her as if she was an exotic animal, to be caged due to her teeth. Well if they wanted teeth, she thought to herself, draping herself on the arm of a short, simpering, pink-skinned lord, then teeth they would get, and claws to boot.
She was caught in the trap of Lady Morningshire prattling on about the latest modiste who had managed to make a mockery out of what the matron loosely referred to as her style, when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a change in the atmosphere around her. It was as if an invisible wave passed over a group of women, but the curious thing about it was how it managed to ripple all throughout every group. What was the locus, the center of such a force? India glued one eye to the abhorrent lady, and kept one peeled for the source of the disturbance.
He was surprisingly difficult to spot, given the effect he was having on the female population of the room. When she finally caught sight of the man that was making every well-bred lady in the room sit up and take notice, he was extracting his hand from the white glove of one Lady Eventide, a woman twenty years India's senior, and seemingly unaware of this fact in the face of a gentleman of middling height with close-cropped dark hair. India did not quite understand what all the fuss was about; gentlemen she took notice of tended to be prime physical specimens, and although the breadth of this particular man's shoulders seemed wider than most, from the back, he did not appear to be of particular noteworthy appearance. She allowed him to slip out of her mind, although the allure of mystery still remained. What was it about him that was causing the near-swoon of all the ladies in the room? It could not be their stays, for no other gentleman in the room seemed to be having quite the same effect.
Perhaps this was no gentleman.
A parlay with Lady Eventide revealed that the man was named Robert Cooper, and that he was a duke. Little else was known about him save for the fact that he had just returned from a rather pocket-bending trip across the seas to the states. Some said he had been attempting to interest the businessmen there in a venture to join forces with the East India Company, while others maintained that his interest lay in the far more loose women that the states bred at immeasurable rate.
“They say they are two laws away from making brothels legal,” chortled Lord Eventide, even as high spots of color appeared on his wife's cheeks at such non-parlor talk. He quickly choked the laugh back at her severe look, and the momentary discomfort of the married pair allowed India the chance to finally slip away, unnoticed, onto the second floor balcony, to an alcove from which she was well hidden from view. She was relieved to be rid of the presence of every person below her, of the insipid conversations that were at once prim and simultaneously absolutely rife with gossip so stupendously grotesque and scandalous in nature that India's head would have swam if she did not feel absolutely above it all.
She heaved a deep sigh and watched the fabric of her gown rise and fall with the breath. It was in moments like these that she wished most of all that her mother was by her side. For all of her ridicule of the ton, she envied the young ladies below whose mothers watched them like hawks and attempted to parade them in front of eligible bachelors like so many decorated tarts in a kitchen, glistening with the fruit of youth, glazed over with the falsified sugar of rouge, excitement, and silk.
India had long ago gleaned the nature of her parentage and made her peace with it. There were years where she labored under the horrid delusion that Lord Davenport had indeed been her sire, despite the emotional distance she always felt from him, far more than was normal for a child whose father doted on them so incessantly. Upon receiving her mother's letter, she realized that the gulf between them had not only been natural, it had also sprung up between her and every person she would come into contact with for the rest of her life. So far, the secret had been kept by the Augustina family, leaving everyone to believe that her unusual coloring came from far too much sun and a very distant relative who had had a drop or two of mixed blood from Spanish conquistadors. The details had escaped the many, shrouding India in a cloak of mystery all her own.
Watching the swirl of fabric and hair and cravats below, India leaned against the railing and felt like a queen bee surveying her hive. Would there ever be a match for her down below in the swirl of monotonous cream?
“Like sheep, aren't they?” asked a male voice by her side, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Taking a moment to compose herself, unwilling to allow her new companion to observe that he had disquieted her, India turned to the man.
His dark hair was thick, and he was much taller than she had expected. On second glance, perhaps he appeared larger not in height, but just the mere physical presence of the mysterious man that had parted the crowd like a biblical personage was more overwhelming than India had anticipated. He had a smattering of dark stubble across his chin, and a heavy lower lip that made her unconsciously reach out her tongue and touch it to her own. His powerfully male presence, like a heady rush, was intensified only by the ice blue of his eyes, framed with lashes that on anybody else would have appeared effeminate, but gave Duke Robert Cooper the appearance of a wild animal shrewdly surveying his hunting ground. India actually caught her heart speeding up an unprecedented amount and willed her pulse not to jump out through her skin. The way he was looking at her was unnerving, or would have been had her nerves been just a tad less steely.
“I'm afraid I don't have a clever retort to that, seeing as Lord and Lady Davenport are among the throng below,” she told him.
He smiled, and it creased his face delightfully. Lord, but she saw it now, or at least a glimmer of what it was that had caused the stir in the slew of ladies down below. “You are a Davenport, then?”
“An Augustina, more like.”
Recognition flickered in his face, and for a moment, India thought she had miscalculated and made a terrible mistake. “Your grandfather was a stock share holder in the East India Company,” he said, and India breathed a sigh of relief.
“Yes,” she replied, now watching him carefully for any signs that the scandal associated with her mother's name would put the same cat-got-the-cream expression on his face that it did on so many of the sons she had been introduced to today. He was scanning her face and body in a way that made her feel as though her name was of little consequence to him. His gaze lingered on her mouth and on the tendrils of hair that were managing to escape her careful upsweep to linger delicately along the long line of her neck. She examined him in kind, noting the faint lines around his eyes, a precursor to what he would look like in just ten years, and decided right there and then that she liked it. He was broad around the shoulders and through hi
s coat, she could tell that he had the kind of muscles that were built not from the light horse work that most of the gentry appeared to delight in, but from hard, heavy labor; she imagined he had spent some time in the tea fields himself, and predicted that she would be exactly correct.
“You stand out from them, you know,” he told her, and a note of fear spiked the excitement she felt around him. What did he know? And did he much care?
“I am a lady, just like the rest,” she told Robert Cooper, turning away from him and grasping the rail in her hands, the skin stretching smooth over her knuckles. She felt him take a step towards her, the heat of his body radiating onto her back. His hands settled gently on her upper arms, and India Augustina Davenport forgot how to breathe. What was he thinking, doing this in a spot where they could so easily be seen? What disrespect for a man to approach a lady in this manner, to take such liberties. She stepped forward to break free of his grasp, but he held her tightly.
“Unhand me,” she hissed, trying to wrest away, but he leaned over so that his warm breath fell onto her ear.
“You are far lovelier, far smarter, and far more a woman than any of those satin-covered sticks and prigs below,” he whispered, and turned her so that she faced him. His light eyes pierced into her until she saw herself the way that he did, and the sight was enough to send adrenaline to the very tips of her fingers and toes. He brought her slim, muscled frame closer to him until she felt, for the first time in her life, at the mercy of a real man. And she liked it.
“I am a lady. How dare you treat me like this?” she asked, only a slightly enraged that he was allowing himself such liberties. In truth, this was fodder to her sense of adventure, which was gaining gradual ground because who else but a real man would allow himself to hold her in so intimate a way in such a public setting? And yet, she felt she still had a choice; Robert Cooper had quite a way about him, indeed.
ROMANCE: CLEAN ROMANCE: Summer Splash! (Sweet Inspirational Contemporary Romance) (New Adult Clean Fantasy Short Stories) Page 110