by Liz Carlyle
“As if you could have stopped me?” she murmured a little haughtily.
“Oh, I could have stopped you, my girl,” he said grimly. “Depend upon it. And next time, I will.”
A dark, stubborn expression flitted across her face, as if she meant to snap back at him. Then suddenly Anisha bounded from her chair as if nervous energy propelled her, surrounding him in her exotic fragrance as she swept past. It was a scent he could have happily drowned in, he sometimes thought; a sort of Indian magnolia, she’d once said, blended with a touch of sandalwood. The result was a creamy, spicy, almost erotic perfume that was the very epitome of Anisha’s personality.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you anymore,” she said, drifting about the room. “What’s done is done.”
“Nish.” When he moved to follow her, she held up a staying hand.
“Pray keep your seat,” she ordered. “I just . . . I’m all on edge. I need to move.”
It was then, just as she turned, that her shawl slipped, revealing three faint bruises above her elbow. “Anisha—?” he murmured, reaching out to touch her.
She slipped beyond his grasp and looked away. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I was roughhousing with the boys, I suppose.”
And it was nothing. Still, his rush of sudden tenderness only added to his confusion. He shut it away and glanced at the clock, to see it was nearly six. Forcing himself to relax, he turned his whisky glass round and round, resisting the urge to comfort her. Even he could see that tonight she did not want his consolation. And he knew he should have been glad.
“You hate this, don’t you?” he said. “Entertaining. Society. My God, you’re even wearing a hat. Well, some feathers, at least.”
She shrugged, pausing to pick up a Meissen figurine of an apple-cheeked lady holding a beribboned spaniel in her lap. “I don’t precisely hate it,” she said pensively, turning it to the light. “But do you know, I sometimes feel a little like this dog. He looks pampered, does he not? His every need is met. He sits, literally, in the lap of luxury.”
Lazonby snorted. “Yes, well, luxury is overrated.”
“It can be, even for this little dog,” said Anisha. “Sometimes I think you are one of the few people I know who actually understands that. We can see, you and I, that the ribbon round his neck is in fact a leash that flows to her hand. He is bound to her. Bound to his duty.”
“And you think hosting this dinner is a duty?”
She looked at him a little wistfully. “I feel bound by English society,” she said. “Sometimes.”
Abruptly, Lazonby set away his glass and crossed the room, forgetting his vow. Taking her empty hand, he lifted it to his lips and pressed them hard to the back of it. “Nish,” he whispered. “You are the best person I know. Just . . . be yourself. Be as you are tonight, in your mother’s silks and jewels. Wear that—that thing wrapped—”
“A sari,” she prompted.
“Yes, that.” Absently, he stroked his thumb down the back of her hand. “Wear it as you please, and if you like, even put that pin back in your nose to—”
She stiffened. “You’ve never seen that.”
“Nish, there’s a little hole,” he gently chided, “if one knows where to look. I know. I saw it the day I met you.”
“Did you?” she murmured. “Oh, well. It’s mostly for childbirth, you know. But my father, he hated it—once he noticed it, three months after the fact.”
Rance felt his smile twist. “Nish, your father is dead,” he said, “and now, the point is, no one who matters gives a—”
“Don’t curse,” she gently interjected. “And you don’t understand. This isn’t about what matters to me. If it were, I would never have left India. But this is about Tom and Teddy. This is their world. A world I chose for them, Rance, the day I married an Englishman. In that, Papa was right to chide me.”
He hesitated, seeing her point. The English were a hidebound lot. “Aye, I’ll give you that one,” he reluctantly agreed. “But save for what you must do to help the lads get on, stop thinking in terms of shoulds and oughts. After tonight, just be Anisha. You don’t owe the rest of us anything—especially me.”
“Some days you act as if I owe you blind obedience,” she said, lowering her gaze. “But I do owe you my loyalty and my . . . well, my friendship, Rance. You have ever been a friend to me. To all of us, really.”
Anisha’s eyes were focused, he realized, on their fingers, now entwined. Until that moment, he’d scarcely realized he had not released her, and that she had made no move to withdraw.
Instead, her small, cool fingers lay curled in his, the soft scent of sandalwood and flowers still swimming all around them. Her head was turned slightly, exposing the warm, ivory length of her throat, and the tiny pulse point below her ear; a soft, creamy spot that all but demanded he set his lips to it and draw her scent deeper.
Lazonby closed his eyes and realized how desperately he yearned to simply pull her into his arms. To tuck her head beneath his chin and just to hold her close. Not in any sensual way—though it might quickly have come to that—but in the way one might hold a precious, treasured thing.
Unable to completely resist, and having forgotten the servants nearby, he cupped his empty hand around her cheek, lifting her face and turning her gaze back to his. But her warm, brown eyes seemed tonight to hold regret.
Oh, he didn’t want that. Not for her, this woman whose price was truly above rubies. For her, he wished only joy, and to make smooth her path through life.
“Anisha,” he whispered, “I wish—”
Just then, the knocker dropped, echoing through the downstairs. He cut an impatient glance at the door. He had the oddest sense that they were on the verge of something. But Anisha had fallen silent, one hand in his, the other still holding the Meissen.
“Well,” he said, stepping back, “I suppose more duty calls you.”
Hastily she set the figurine back down. “Rance, there is something—someone—I wish to warn you about.”
But almost at once, Lord Lucan Forsythe came bounding down the stairs and into the room, his golden curls still damp, his sunny smile firmly in place. “Rance! Well met, old fellow.”
“Evening, Luc,” he returned. “You’re looking in good spirits.”
By the time the words were out of his mouth, the longcase clock at the foot of the stairs was striking six, and an instant later the massive front door swung open and Lazonby could hear familiar feminine laughter ringing down the passageway.
“That’s Lady Madeleine,” he said, urging Anisha toward Luc. “Go. See to your guests. I’ll still be here when all of them are gone.”
Her gaze flicked over his face one last time. “I am not at all sure of that,” she said.
And then she was striding from the room, her silk wrap floating after her, leaving nothing but a cloud of sandalwood behind.
It was too late to ask her what she meant.
Lucan caught Anisha’s arm as she came out of the parlor. “Come along, Sis,” he said, grinning. “Curtains up!”
In response, she shot him a withering glance. But this was no time for serious regret. It was, however, time to stop gazing into Rance’s eyes and acting like a foolish girl. Even now she could feel the comforting warmth of his hand on her face.
But he would likely be angry with her again before the night was out. Suddenly, something like tears welled in Anisha’s eyes. How stupid she was! Blinking hard, she kept walking.
In the front hall, Geoff’s mother, Lady Madeleine, and her husband, Mr. Merrick MacLachlan, were already divesting their cloaks. Geoff’s much younger siblings were not present, his brother being at university in Scotland, and his sister still in the schoolroom.
Mr. MacLachlan was very dark, very tall, and more than a little intimidating, with hard eyes and a horrific scar curling like a scimitar’s blade up his cheek. His wife, in contrast, was like pale, clear sunlight, with her pile of blonde hair and her frothy gown of yellow silk.
Anisha’s salvation in that regard, Anaïs de Rohan, was alighting from the next coach with her elderly cousin, Maria Vittorio, her parents having not yet returned from their travels. Miss de Rohan’s foster brother, Nate Corcoran, and her twin, Armand, followed them out, and though Anisha had never met either gentleman, it was easy to guess who was who, for Armand closely resembled his dark-haired sister.
Three more carriages rolled in, and the floodgates opened in earnest. Soon people were everywhere, most of them the bride’s family from Gloucestershire, all speaking at once, all of them friendly. Anisha was barely retaining their names when a second set of twins arrived, Chip and Lucy Rutledge, as chattering and vivacious as their elder cousin, and accompanied by their mother, Frederica Rutledge.
Soon wraps were flying, hands were waving across the hall, and Higgenthorpe was busy herding those who would leave off their hugging and kissing into the withdrawing room, where wine was being served.
Passing along the corridor, Lady Madeleine stopped and caught both Anisha’s hands. “Oh, my dear, you are too kind!” she said, brushing her lips over Anisha’s cheeks. “I do hope, though, that you don’t mean to throw me off once it’s all over?”
Anisha drew away, puzzled. “Whatever can you mean?”
Lady Madeleine squeezed both her hands hard, then released them. “I just hope we are still friends,” she said. “I hope when Geoff is settled, you and I can take up where we left off?”
Anisha felt relief surge. “I should like that,” she said. “Very much.”
Lady Madeleine hooked her arm through Anisha’s and resumed her pace. “I have long been a friend, you know, of Miss de Rohan’s aunt, Lady Treyhern,” she said. “You will like her, Anisha. She has a most remarkable understanding of . . . well, things.”
Anisha’s brow furrowed. “What sort of things?”
“Well, people, I suppose,” said Lady Madeleine vaguely. “She was trained to be a special sort of governess. I consulted her when Geoff was young. And she—well, she understands him, I think. Oh, Anisha, this family is going to be a good match for him. Almost as good as . . . well, I am just reassured, that is all.”
Anisha understood what Lady Madeleine had not said aloud. Geoff was very much like her elder brother, his connection to the metaphysical barely leashed at times. It was part of the reason, she knew, that he’d asked Raju’s permission to marry her. To Anisha, he’d need never explain his terrible gifts and bleak moods.
But understanding, alas, was a narrow foundation on which to build a passionate marriage. A suitable one, perhaps. A mediocre one, certainly. But Anisha had already suffered mediocrity. Next time, she resolved—if there was a next time—she would have passion; the wild, desperate passion of which poets had written, and of which the Kāmashastra spoke.
For an instant, Rance’s face flashed through her mind, and in the same breath, she closed her eyes, willing it away.
Lady Madeleine was remarking upon Mrs. Rutledge’s gown as she strolled past them and into the grand withdrawing room, but Anisha had already lost the thread of the conversation. Rance stood with Mr. MacLachlan by the pianoforte, the blue heat of his gaze unmistakably following her. Turning slightly, Anisha looked at him, and for an instant, their eyes locked. It was as if, for a split second, she glimpsed a pure truth in his eyes. A longing as deep as it was undeniable.
Or was she just a fool?
For if it were that, how could he not acknowledge it?
She knew him.
He knew her.
They were intimate in every way save one. She desired him; desired him above all things. She was tired of this game. Tired of pretending that something else—or someone else—might do.
But Lady Madeleine was still speaking, and gushing on about Anisha’s exotic attire. Anisha picked up her pace and tried to attend.
“I had not seen these Gloucestershire girls all grown up,” said Lady Madeleine, changing the subject as they joined the others in the withdrawing room. “So pretty, are they not? And exuberant in the bargain.”
Pulling her thoughts back to reality, Anisha surveyed the knots of chattering guests and was forced to concur. Although Miss de Rohan had an incomparable vivacity, Geoff had by no means set his sights on the beauty in the family. That prize would go to one of her young cousins.
Anisha had been forewarned that Miss de Rohan’s invited guests would be primarily female, the bride having explained that hers was a true country family, and that spring planting took priority over the social Season: Her uncles would come to London only long enough for the wedding.
It was as well for Anisha, since the Fraternitas guests tipped the male balance in the other direction. Save for Anisha’s elder brother, no one else amongst the brotherhood was married—perhaps with good reason. Mr. Sutherland had brought his widowed sister, and Sir Greville St. Giles was escorting his mother, who knew Lady Madeleine through her many charitable efforts.
Once everyone was ensconced inside the withdrawing room, Anisha saw immediately that Lucan was flirting with Lucy Rutledge. The young lady’s mother noticed it, too, however, and moved at once to her side. Thus thwarted, Lucan simply smiled and turned his attention to another cousin, Lady Emelyn Rutledge, who appeared to be of an age with Lucy and was, if anything, prettier still.
Anisha sighed and turned to chat with the Reverend Mr. Sutherland and his sister, Mrs. Hathaway. The Gloucestershire ladies, she feared, would have to guard their own.
But on her next breath Anisha realized there was one guest yet to arrive. A chill fell over her, and as if timed by fate, Higgenthorpe appeared at the drawing room door.
“Mr. Royden Napier,” he intoned.
A complete silence fell over the crowd.
Wedged in across the room as she was, Anisha was unable to hasten toward the door.
Rance, who moments earlier had been teasing one of the bride’s aunts, was now glowering, his dark gaze sliding from Napier to sweep the room in search of Anisha. Their eyes met again, this time his accusing.
Napier stood upon the threshold looking supremely uncomfortable.
But at the last instant, Miss de Rohan stepped from the crowd, her hand extended. “Assistant Commissioner!” she said brightly. “How good of you to come. My father sends his warmest regards.”
The fact that Miss de Rohan’s father could scarcely have known of the dinner party, let alone the guest list, did not matter to Anisha. The rest of the guests—save Rance—returned at once to their conversation. Anisha exhaled. It had been but a split second, yet it had felt like infinity.
By the time she managed to excuse herself and push through the crowd, Miss de Rohan and Napier had fallen into conversation and he was looking perfectly at ease.
Anisha motioned that the footman should bring Napier champagne. Then she greeted him briefly and left them to it so that she might circle the rest of the room and chat a moment with each of her guests. Nonetheless, for the rest of the evening, even while dining, she could feel Rance’s eyes burning into her.
Dinner was served promptly at seven and seemed an overwhelming success. Seated at the head of the table, Lucan managed to enchant everyone, especially the younger ladies—and some of the older ones, too, it appeared. By the time dessert was served, Mrs. Hathaway had been reduced to blushes, while Miss de Rohan and Lady Madeleine, who flanked him, had begun to look upon him almost dotingly.
At last, thought Anisha dryly, the lad’s charm has come in handy.
For her part, Anisha managed well enough. Geoff was seated to her right, and they fell at once into their old, comfortable ways. To her left, Rance turned his attention to the bride’s aunt, Frederica Rutledge—another dark, vibrant beauty
. Wisely, however, the lady kept one eye on her daughter Lucy, who kept exchanging low, sidelong glances with Lucan.
After dinner, Anisha served coffee to the ladies in the withdrawing room and found herself a little unprepared. Given their country roots, she had expected, she supposed, that the ladies would chat about something benign; the best methods for pickling and preserving, or the outrageous fashions being worn in Town. Instead the conversation turned political—a spirited discussion of the waning war in Spain, and whether or not the Carlists should be granted amnesty.
“Papa says it scarcely matters,” Miss de Rohan declared. “He says no matter which of the Bourbons one supports, they are troublemakers, the lot of them.”
“And this from a man who lost his father and half his lands to Napoleon,” said Frederica Rutledge knowingly.
“Well, you should know, Aunt,” said Lady Emelyn. “Your father died in the Peninsula Campaign, didn’t he?”
And slowly, as the conversation progressed, Anisha began to realize these ladies were not quite what she’d assumed; that Mrs. Rutledge was apparently Portuguese, and that Miss de Rohan’s parents were not abroad on a lark but in Catalonia to keep her great-grandmother’s vineyards from being torched by the Carlists. In time it came out that Lady Treyhern was French, had been educated in Switzerland, and had lived in Vienna for a time.
Moreover, all of the ladies—even the young ones—held well-informed views, not all of them in agreement, and Anisha suddenly realized that it was she who had been guilty of making assumptions. Her guests had likely not spared her unusual background a thought.
They had also been, she had noticed, exceedingly warm toward Rance all evening. Beyond the circle of the Fraternitas, people often were not, Anisha knew. And it broke her heart for him.
She hadn’t long to contemplate it, however, for the gentlemen lingered less than half an hour over their port, with Rance and Mr. Napier as distant from one another as was humanly possible when they trailed in through the withdrawing room.
Anisha suppressed the urge to laugh. It served them right, really, for they were both too arrogant by half.