A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (10 page)

He had no business entertaining thoughts of dallying with George’s sister. None at all.

There, he could count on his fingers all the reasons to leave Suri the hell alone. Put some distance between them, that’s what he needed to do. He stood, painfully aware of the lusty pulse in his groin still hammering away. He slid a hand down his thigh, smoothing the fabric of his trousers. Meerut was a day’s ride from Delhi. With two days there to check on troop dispersal and one day for the return, the time spent would leave Suri that much closer to her departure for England. Good. That’s what he’d do, head for Meerut. Four days’ absence should be ample time to cast the woman from his mind.

“If you’ll excuse me, madam,” he called to her retreating back and he strode off with vigorous determination. Now all he had to do was rid himself of the memory of his mouth against the soft curve of her neck.

…

In the blackness of the night, Suri awoke with the essence of Ravenswood still clinging to her. The shock of his fingers skimming her shoulder, his mouth settling hot against her skin, hummed through her body. She rolled onto her back and the air stirred. Good Lord, even his scent lingered in her mind, as ripe with invitation as the first time he’d stood near her those many years ago.

She wondered how he’d regard her the next time they ran into each other. How could they not in this narrow social setting? Her cheeks heated at the idea. Perhaps she could refuse to attend any of the events Marguerite concocted and sequester herself in her chamber for the duration. Impossible. She’d learned that little lesson in a matter of days.

Running her hand along the sheet beside her, for the first time in a long while, she became acutely aware that she was entirely alone in her bed—and that’s how things would be.

Forever.

A random memory crept from the periphery of her mind—a lonely child, a lonely world. How could she have felt forlorn when she’d been surrounded by a loving family? By a father who’d doted on her? But she’d always been aware she was different from the others—that she was an illegitimate half-breed. She hadn’t known what that had meant at first. She only knew it had cast a spell of loneliness, even within the warmth of her family. And then she had learned the awful truth when outsiders had whispered her name, accompanied by terrible gossip. Cruel barbs had torn fissures in her heart. She couldn’t even recall how old she’d been when she’d decided she’d never marry and bring a child like her into the world. After that, she had constructed an impenetrable barrier, and had gone merrily about her life with no one the wiser, as open about her lot as was the next, while her clever mind devoted itself to her future school.

Sealed tightly within her dream, her world had never been threatened. That is, until one wicked kiss ten years ago. A most treacherous kiss that had been, for it had left a chink in the wall she’d built around her heart. A bit of fanciful mortar, and she’d managed to mend the crack. That is, until she’d landed in Delhi and there was Ravenswood again. Oh, Lord.

She’d had to escape him back in the garden. With merely his touch, a coarse thread had threatened to weave itself into the fabric of her life. This thread was dangerous, for it wove thoughts of love, and held within its core an expectation of something that could never take shape. This thread was studded with thorns and lies.

Rolling onto her side and curling her legs up, she set her mind to dreaming of her school once again. Residing there would be children she would never birth but would raise as her own. Once back in England, she’d meet with her solicitor first off. He’d been instructed to scout out a large home in the countryside with plenty of land that needed tending.

As she had done so many times through the years, she set about lulling herself to sleep by mentally designing the interior and exterior of her school. In her mind, she strolled through lush gardens. There would be cabbage roses in abundance. Beautiful, sweetly scented pink blooms large as dinner plates.

An image of Ravenswood cleaved through the petals of the great pink blossoms. He stood there, in the middle of the garden, quiet and watchful. A pain lanced her heart. Tears sprang from nowhere and dropped like acid, eroding her heart. She rolled over and kicked at her covers as if to shove thoughts of him from her bed. The last thing she needed was to yearn for a life that could never be, with a rogue of a duke who was merely passing through her life for the second time. Yes, that was it. He was merely passing through her life—and an inconvenient passing it was.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

John leaned back in his chair in the marble room, exhaustion numbing his brain. He swiped a hand over his eyes and addressed Chatham. “Our man in Meerut is in accord with me—whoever is passing information to Emperor Bahadur Shah and Kunwar Singh is right here in Delhi.”

“As you thought,” Chatham responded.

“Singh’s pretty damned sure of himself. That old Rajput king is lying around in Meerut, on silk pillows, arrogantly directing what the emperor here in Delhi is not. Both men may be in their eighties, but they’re more dangerous than any young pup eager for revolution.”

He held his thumb and forefinger a whisper apart. “We’re this close, Chatham. And when we find the son of a bitch who is feeding those two information, we’ll have my brother’s killer.”

“Your recommendation to proceed?”

“Best to keep our suspects close enough to spit on. Might Marguerite arrange a dinner party every evening until we ferret out the culprit?”

Chatham rolled his eyes. “She’ll be in her glory. As will the attendees, since there’s little else to do. Not to mention we employ the only French chef in Delhi. They’ll come for the food, if nothing else.”

“Make certain Ravi Maurya and that thieving Resident Percival Bradleigh receive invitations.” John stood. “I’m calling it a night and hope to hell I get some rest. Tension was so heavy along the route you could bloody well cut the air with a sword. The extra troops I engaged slowed my return. Had to layover in Murad Nagar.”

“You couldn’t have managed much sleep then,” Chatham said.

“Not a wink. I bid you a good evening.”

He exited the marble room and headed down the corridor lit by low burning oil lamps. The door to the kitchen swung open, casting a swath of light. Suri stepped forth, a plate in hand.

Christ!
Without a word, he marched back to the marble room. “By the way, Chatham, see to it I’m not seated near Miss Thurston for the duration.”

Chatham paused in sorting documents. “Any particular reason or none of my concern?”

John merely lifted a brow and shut the door. Damn it, Suri still stood in front of the kitchen with that plate held mid-air. What was he to do? Certainly not what his primitive instincts demanded, which was to knock the food from her hand and carry her off.

Fatigue fed his agitation. And his rampant desire. He drew nearer, sensing the inherent danger in drifting too close. There she stood in a dressing gown and slippers, sneaking into the kitchen for a late night treat. He almost smiled at the endearing sight, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t let
that
happen.

Keeping to the opposite side of the wide corridor, he offered a stiff nod while failing to slow his pace. “Miss Thurston.” The hard edge to his voice disgusted him.

“Your Grace.” Her words echoed off the walls, thin and lifeless.

He strode from the house and into the night. Good God, his conduct was reprehensible. Here he’d thought himself to be a breed apart from such low behavior. He swore again. When he’d left for Meerut, he’d thought dismissing her from his mind wouldn’t be terribly difficult. He’d been wrong. When he wasn’t engaged—thoroughly engaged—in his tasks, she had invaded his senses. Day or night, it mattered not; she had been like a nagging dream. The ride back was the worst. The closer he drew to Delhi, the faster his rebel heart had beaten.

He’d be relieved when she left for England. A realization seized him—relieved perhaps, but not glad of it.

…

Dressed in a periwinkle gown, Suri made her way from the dining room into the ballroom. Out of sheer boredom, she’d agreed to attend tonight’s festivities—but only if seated far from His Pompous Grace. He never bothered looking her way. Still, his avoidance stung. But not as much as the other night when he’d passed her in the corridor and had clung to the opposite side as if she were a leper.

She glanced around the ballroom. He was nowhere in sight. The sigh escaping her lips should’ve been one of relief, but it felt more like disappointment.
Oh, what do I care?

The skin on the back of her neck prickled. An intense power gripped her, as though something menacing stood mere inches away. From across the room, Ravi-ji’s brilliant gaze bore down on her. The prickling increased. Why did she feel as though he’d transitioned from aiding her to owning her? She shrugged off the thought as nonsense. He was her cousin, out to help her. Soon, however, he’d be requesting a dance and proceed to take up her entire evening. Not tonight. Easing to the left, she concealed herself behind a large-framed gentleman and searched for an escape.

The terrace.

Shielded behind others, she slipped from the room and into the jasmine-scented night. Coconut oil lamps, burning low to the ground, puffed spirals of smoke meant to keep mosquitoes from dining on human flesh. She crossed her arms at the waist and set her sights on the sky. If nothing else, India offered glorious starlight.

A rustle in the jasmine and a churring startled her.

“It’s only Shahira.”

Ah, that deep-throated voice. “What’s Shahira doing out here?”

“Watering the plants, it would seem.” Ravenswood stepped around Suri, his countenance licked by shadows. “I would’ve slipped away without you noticing, but…” He shrugged and nodded toward the brush.

Oh, God, her heart tripped at his very nearness. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave this…this privy to you and your cat.”

He chuckled and then dipped his head to better scan her face. “I should apologize for my deplorable conduct a few nights ago.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

With a wry curl of his lips, he said, “We both know better. I owe you an explanation as well.”

She took her time looking him over. Every nerve in her body bristled at his nearness. What was it about him that held so much power over her? Was she merely drawn to the energy emanating from him? Or was it the confidence and authority he made so obvious? She should escape his presence before he saw her weakness.

Graceful and nimble, Shahira slid through the underbrush and came to stand beside Ravenswood. He attached the golden chain to the cat’s collar and whispered something. Shahira dropped soundlessly to the ground.

Good heavens, Suri had been so caught up in his essence she hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding the cat’s chain all the while. “Then give whatever explanation you deem necessary and I’ll be off.”

“We’re attracted to each other…”

She opened her mouth to refute his words.

He lifted his hand, halting her interruption. “No, let’s not deny it. If it weren’t for my responsibilities and for your brother, I’d likely have your skirts raised by now.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “My skirts…my brother?” She turned in a circle. “My
brother
? Rupert?”

He shook his head. “George. We are…we were close mates at Cambridge. If nothing else, out of loyalty to him, I should look after your well-being while you’re here in India, and not be thinking of laying hands on you.”

“Of all the…” Her spine stiffened. “I shall
never
have my skirts lifted. By you or anyone else.”

He tipped his head back in that heavy-lidded way of his. “And what would be the fun in that?”

“You had better listen carefully because I will say this only once.” The flat of her hand slapped against his chest and she gave a little push. Easier to have moved a wall. “I am far too old and far too financially set to be looked after by
anyone
, or to find the need to become someone’s mistress. I am my own person, Ravenswood. Completely independent, in mind and means.”

Beneath her splayed fingers, his chest muscles quickened while something odd flashed across his features. He placed his hand over hers. “Say it again,” he said, his words a low rasp. “The part about owning your own mind.”

His fingers pulsed against hers from above and his heart pumped hard from beneath. Her little gasp for air did not go unnoticed, for the last place he looked before he released his hand and strode away, was her parted lips.

…

Staring at the bloody ceiling all last night wasn’t what John was used to doing. It had put him in a hell of a mood today. As did celibacy, of late. “Are we finished here, Chatham?”

Chatham lifted a brow. “I believe so. Care to join the family for a meal? It’s nearing noon.”

John nodded and bit off a grin. He’d stare that
completely
independent
little vixen down while they dined. His dark mood lifted.

A tug on a bell cord and soon, a soft rap sounded. Chatham opened the door to a servant. “Collect Lady Marguerite and Miss Thurston and direct them to the dining room in thirty minutes.”

The servant bowed. “Miss Thurston took her meal in her chambers, sahib. At present, she’s in the library. Should I retrieve her just the same?”

“Indeed. She can join us for dessert.”

John stood. “I’ll fetch her.” Guiding Shahira from the marble room, he headed down the corridor where he fastened the cat’s chain to the base of a statue. The cat flopped down and rolled onto her side. “There’s a good girl.”

Stepping inside, he spotted Suri sitting on a leather settee, an open book in hand. Damn, she was a sight—a vision in a pale blue sari. She must have sensed his quiet approach because she glanced his way and then went back to reading.

Like hell she was going to pretend he wasn’t there. “May I?” He motioned to the seat beside her.

She assessed him in a cold manner and then glanced pointedly at a large chair opposite her. No smile, unfortunately. “There’s no other seating here about?”