by Lane, Nina
“Speaking of luncheons—” Mrs. Thompson leaned forward as if she were about to impart news of great importance, “—we heard that you dined with the maharaja himself recently.”
Devora’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? Where did you hear that?”
Mrs. Thompson waved her hand in the air. “Oh, you know, dear. Servants gossip, don’t they?”
“So I’ve been told,” Devora replied dryly.
“Well?” Mrs. Thompson’s double chin fairly quivered with excitement over the possibility of hearing the news from the main source. “Is it true? You dined with the maharaja?”
Devora nodded. “Yes, it’s true. He invited me to have lunch with him a few weeks ago. It was all very proper, I assure you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Thompson said. “But, my goodness, Devora, you must have more caution. This is how rumors get started, and with the maharaja’s reputation, you can’t be too careful.”
“It was a very simple lunch,” Devora said, knowing perfectly well she was about to be the subject of rumors herself, probably ones started by Mrs. Thompson.
“The mere idea is highly irregular, you know.”
“We also heard that you returned after dark,” Adele said, pinning her gaze on Devora as if daring her to dispute the fact.
“Yes. We had car trouble on the way back, I’m afraid. These things do happen.”
“Yes, but not often when one is returning from a maharaja’s palace,” Adele said.
Devora made a big show of looking at the clock. “My goodness, would you look at how late it is? I’m so sorry we didn’t have a longer opportunity to visit. I do hope we can get together next week sometime.”
“Yes, and I might suggest that you do join us for bridge.” Mrs. Thompson collected her gloves and hat, giving Devora a pointed look. “You wouldn’t want people to think you are unsociable now, would you?”
“That’s the last thing I want,” Devora agreed. “Thank you both for stopping by.”
She saw them out, then rang the servant’s bell for Kalindi to clear away the tea things. She considered the idea of giving Kalindi a lecture on gossiping, but she knew it would be a futile effort. Instead, she went to her easel and resumed work on her painting. She had drawn a sketch of a full-breasted female statue, and she was in the process of making a small painting from it.
“Memsahib, you require something?” Rohan stopped beside the table.
Devora glanced up. “Oh, no, I just wanted Kalindi to clear the tea things,” she replied. “Thank you.”
Rohan nodded and turned to leave. A sudden thought occurred to Devora as she looked at the broad expanse of his back.
“Rohan?”
He turned towards her again. “Yes?”
“May I draw you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Draw.” Devora gestured towards her sketchpads and pencils. “I would like to draw a portrait of you.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Devora sighed. “Do you think anything is a good idea?”
“Begging your pardon again, please?”
Devora put down her paintbrush and approached him. She placed her hand on his arm, realizing this was the first time that she was actually touching him. His arm felt warm and strong underneath his jacket. Devora guided him to a chair and told him to sit.
“Memsahib, I must return to my duties.”
“Oh, sod your duties for a change.”
“Excuse me?”
Devora couldn’t help smiling. He looked as if she had just asked him to strip naked and dance the waltz. “All you have to do is sit there, Rohan. I’ll do all the rest.”
She turned one of her sketchpads to a fresh sheet of paper and picked up a sharpened pencil. After gazing at the lines of Rohan’s face, she focused her attention on the paper and began sketching what she saw. His face was made for representation on paper. A strong jawline; high, broad cheekbones, a sensual mouth, eyes as dark as midnight and filled with mystery. Devora drew his black hair with long, sweeping strokes, pleased that a few locks of his hair fell over his forehead. Somehow, the wayward strands humanized him.
“Wait. Move your head to the right a little.”
Devora stood and put her hands on either side of his head, turning his head slightly. His hair felt delicious against her hands, and she fought the urge to stroke her fingers through the thick strands. Her heart leapt as she glanced at him and saw that his eyes were on a direct line of vision to her breasts. And that he was looking at them.
Devora’s nipples hardened against her dress so suddenly that she was shocked. She quickly moved to sit back down, unnerved by how she had reacted to a simple leer that any man would have made in the same circumstance. Clearing her throat, she resumed the sketch.
Although she usually tried to capture an expression on her subjects’ faces, she knew that such a feat would be impossible with Rohan. His implacability would transfer even to paper. Devora spent an hour rendering his likeness on her sketchpad before she put her pencil down.
“All right, that’s all I need,” she said. “Thank you.”
Rohan nodded shortly and stood. “May I see it?”
Devora hesitated, but opened the pad and showed him her work. Rohan looked at his image. In that moment, Devora realized she was holding her breath as she waited for his verdict.
“Very good,” he finally said.
“Thank you.” Devora snapped the sketchpad closed and leveled a look at him. She was almost annoyed by how much his words pleased her, for it reinforced the notion that she cared what he thought of her. Which, of course, she didn’t. At all.
Devora moved to stand in front of her easel again. “You may leave now.”
After he had gone, Devora looked at the sketch again. He had the most intriguing face, full of character and strong planes. If he would exhibit his emotions more readily, his face would be alive with life. As it was, his expression remained as unmoveable as a statue. Devora didn’t think she could capture his humanity even if she tried.
She put down the sketchpad and went after him. “Rohan, wait.”
He turned from the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Memsahib?”
“Do you ever smile?”
“Excuse me?”
“Smile. Do you ever smile?”
“I have no reason to.”
Frustration rose in Devora like a wave. “Everyone has a reason to smile. Smiling is part of…of everyday life, for heaven’s sake.”
“I will remember that.”
“God, you are such a machine,” Devora said, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “Nothing moves you, does it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, I didn’t think you would.” Devora looked at him and shook her head. “Never mind. Go about your duties. Tell Kalindi to draw me a bath, please. I need to dress for dinner.”
“Yes, memsahib.” With a shrug, Rohan disappeared into the kitchen.
Devora stood there for a moment, biting down on her thumbnail. She had never been one to back away from a challenge, particularly one as intriguing as Rohan.
She turned and went into the bedroom and sat at her dressing table. Her skin had already turned a shade darker from the sun, despite her use of hats and parasols. She unclipped her hair and brushed it out, then went to take a bath. After scrubbing away the never-ending dust of India, she slipped into a silk dressing gown and went back to the bedroom. Gerald would be returning home shortly, an event that Devora had begun to anticipate. At least when Gerald was home, she had someone to talk to besides the tiresome British women.
Settling on the bed, she opened the English copy of The Kamasutra and began to read. The maharaja had been correct when he said there was a section on the behavior of virtuous wives, although Devora wasn’t surprised that the book lacked a similar section for virtuous husbands. Instead, there were sections on using the fingernails during sex, and the various ways to bite
one’s partner. And, oh, the postures of sexual intercourse, including the “support congress” up against a wall and the “yawning position” in which a woman put her legs on the man’s shoulders.
Devora chuckled. If a woman actually yawned in the yawning position, then she was with the wrong man.
She leafed through the pages, unsurprised that many of the commandments didn’t put women in a very favorable light. Nor was she terribly thrilled with some of the names of the types of union, including the “congress of the cow” if a woman was on her hands and knees.
Although, Devora thought, as she pushed the book aside, she would like to try that, regardless of the name. A quiver rippled through her body at the thought of being so wholly exposed while Gerald pounded into her from behind.
Ah, how she hoped that she could convince Gerald of the pleasures of experimentation. The mere idea made her sex pulse. She lifted her arms above her head in a long stretch, allowing her muscles to lengthen gloriously. Her limbs felt loose and weak after her soak in a warm bath, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the sensations.
With images of sexual congress swimming behind her eyelids, Devora slipped a finger between her thighs and gently teased the outer lips of her sex. Her skin was still damp from the bath, but the heat of her skin began to evaporate lingering water droplets.
Devora sighed with pleasure as she teased herself with a finger, stroking the plump lips and toying with the dark curls. As much as she loved being with a man, there was something so personally intimate about touching oneself. She relaxed against the pillows and probed a little deeper with her finger just as a noise sounded at the door.
Devora lifted her eyelids halfway and fixed her gaze on the shadowy figure behind the bedroom door. She froze as her heart leapt into her throat. It had to be Rohan watching her again.
A rush of anger broke through her shock. She might have believed the last time was an accident, but what if he was actually seeking her out and waiting to witness her most private moments? What if all those rumors about Indian men were correct? Watching her sexually must be the only thing that made Rohan respond.
And wasn’t that what she had been wanting? His response?
Devora hesitated for a minute, but then her fingers began working almost of their own volition at her sex again. She couldn’t believe she was actually doing this with the knowledge that Rohan was standing just behind the door. The knowledge of his presence, however, inflamed a rush of desire over her veins.
She spread her thighs wider, drawing in a breath as she slipped her finger into the moist folds. Closing her eyes again, she let her head fall back against the pillows as tension began to tighten in her lower body. Her thumb brushed against the swollen knot and sent a twinge of delight through her body.
Slowly she pressed her finger into her passage, her arousal intensified with the knowledge of her silent voyeur. She lifted her other hand to her breasts and plucked at her nipples through the silk fabric of her dressing gown. Then she tugged at the belt and let the gown fall open, exposing her naked body to a dark, heated gaze. Devora’s heart pounded hot blood through her veins as she thrust her finger back and forth.
A moan escaped her throat as she pressed harder, her hand moving with increasing frenzy as she spurred herself towards the ultimate release. She imagined that she could even feel Rohan’s gaze pinning her to the bed, painting trails of fire over her skin as the pressure built to unfathomable depths.
With a cry, Devora broke through the invisible wall into a world of pure sensation. An orgasm rocked her body, her sex swelling with a rush of moisture.
Gasping, Devora sank against the pillows and drew in a deep breath, urging the final sensations out of her body. She opened her eyes slowly to look at the doorway. As she expected, Rohan had gone.
Devora lay on the bed for a long moment, wondering about that strange, inscrutable man who trimmed rose bushes and spoke such perfect English, yet revealed nothing about himself.
“Devora?” Gerald’s voice rang through the house.
Devora grabbed her belt and tied her dressing gown around herself just as Gerald entered the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his expression concerned.
“Darling? Are you feeling all right?”
Devora nodded, aware that she must look flushed and damp. She pushed her hair away from her face. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just had a bath, and I must have fallen asleep.”
“Oh, I see. Bloody hot day out there.” Gerald entered the room, tugging at his tie. “And the damn Indians can’t seem to keep their paperwork straight.”
“I’m sorry, love.”
“Yes, well, one gets used to it.” Gerald dropped a kiss on Devora’s forehead. “Are you looking forward to going to the club this evening? I hear they’re putting on a musical show.”
“Yes. That should be quite entertaining.” Devora tried to instill a note of enthusiasm in her voice as she took a pale green, silk dress from her chiffarobe.
“I want to have a bath myself before dinner.”
“Wait, and I’ll tell Kalindi to draw one. I’ll fix you a drink while you’re waiting.” Devora dressed quickly and went to find Kalindi again. She poured Gerald a gin and tonic and brought it to him.
“What have you been doing today?” Gerald asked.
“Mrs. Thompson and Adele came over for tea this afternoon,” Devora said. “And I’ve been painting.”
Gerald nodded his approval. “Good. That’s exactly the kind of activity you should be involved in.”
“So you’ve said.” Devora smoothed down her skirt. “I’ll just go check on dinner.”
She gave Kalindi further instructions, then stepped out onto the veranda to find Rohan. He was watering the potted geranium plants, pausing to clip the dried flowers.
Devora cleared her throat.
Rohan glanced up. “Yes, memsahib?”
“Is the carriage ready for our trip to the club this evening?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Devora let her gaze travel over him, thinking that he always looked so crisp and correct, his white jacket bearing no smudge of dirt and his hair perfectly in place.
“There is something else you require?” Rohan asked.
Even after witnessing her most private moments, there was not a single crack in his implacable veneer. Devora might have found it amusing had she not been mildly insulted. One would think that such an experience would at least cause a man to look at a woman differently. Particularly if the man was Indian and the woman British.
“No,” she replied curtly. “Go about your work.”
She went back inside, wondering if the balance of power in her relationship with Rohan was starting to shift. And not in a direction that would be favorable to her.
“What are we eating for dinner tonight?” Gerald came out of the bedroom, buttoning up his waistcoat.
“Mutton pies,” Devora said. “I’m sorry, it’s not very interesting, but I thought we should eat quickly if we’re going to the club.”
“Quite right, my dear.”
They sat down to eat, their conversation focused around the activities of the British community and Gerald’s work. Afterwards, Rohan drove them to the club, a lavish, Victorian building built in the nineteenth century for the purpose of allowing the British a place to congregate apart from Indians. The only Indians allowed were the servants and guards, who stood at strategic locations like statues.
“Devora, darling, how nice to see you here!” Mrs. Thompson approached Devora in the lobby, her eyes bright. “Do come in and have a sherry.”
Gerald went off to have brandy and cigars with the men, while Mrs. Thompson led Devora towards the enclave of women. Several of the women gave Devora haughty looks and turned away without greeting her.
“Don’t worry, dear, it’s just that they’ve heard about your visit to the maharaja,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I did warn you that that was highly irregular. Word has gotten around, you know.”
; “I’m not surprised.” Devora sat down next to Louise in one of the rattan chairs, accepting a small glass of sherry from a servant.
“Well, I think it’s rather exciting,” Louise said. “I mean, when has the maharaja ever invited a British woman to his house for lunch?”
Mrs. Thompson pursed her lips. “That is precisely my point.”
“Well, I don’t really care what anyone thinks,” Devora said. “It was a very proper luncheon.”
“What did Gerald have to say?”
“He’s forbidden me from going again, of course. Frankly, I think he was just a bit jealous that he wasn’t invited.”
“My dear, I suspect you and Gerald are going to be living in India for some time to come,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I suggest you don’t make things difficult between you from the outset.”
“That isn’t my intention, Mrs. Thompson.”
Devora stifled a sigh as she gazed across the lobby at the group of men seated near the bar. While it was true she didn’t want to create difficulties between herself and Gerald, she couldn’t help thinking that he would always be the same kind of man. Caring and, on occasion, passionate, but basically uninteresting. Not even living in India could entice Gerald away from his set ideas and opinions. He simply lacked a desire for adventure. And lately, it seemed as if Devora had a desire for nothing but adventure in all its myriad forms.
***
CHAPTER EIGHT
Devora clipped the stems of the roses and arranged them in a glass vase on a sidetable. The flowers weren’t as full or dewy as English roses, but they still carried a nice scent. She opened two of the windows to allow a cross-breeze to enter the room.
The sky was heavy with thick, dripping clouds that looked as if they would break open any minute with a torrent of rain. At least that might cool the air a little, Devora thought as she went to dispose of the stem cuttings in the kitchen. She paused at the sight of Kalindi rolling out bread dough on the counter.
Kalindi looked up at the sound of Devora’s entrance. “Memsahib, you require something?”