A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (20 page)

Kohl lined her eyes—to keep flies from eating at them, she was told. Pomade smudged her lips to keep them from cracking in the heat.

Munia slipped the sari off Suri’s shoulder and draped it over her head, far enough back to expose the jewels in her hair. “You may inspect yourself now, memsahib, while I prepare myself for our departure.” She left the room without further comment.

Marguerite, who’d sat silent all the while, sighed. “Wait until you see yourself, dear. You are the most stunning thing I have ever seen.”

Suri stepped to the mirror. And gasped. “Good heavens! Is that really me?”

“Like a princess,” her sister said. She regarded Suri. “I wonder if you resemble your mother. You certainly carry nothing of our father in you but the color of your skin. Which, by the by, does not distract among all this finery. I don’t think anyone will even notice. Ravi…your cousin is not so dark skinned, is he?”

“You’re right,” Suri responded. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She turned this way and that. “My, but this is an adventure. Can you imagine what the bride might look like if I’m allowed to dress so opulently?”

Marguerite laughed gaily. “Who knows? Perhaps she’s an ugly thing and you’ll outshine her no matter what she wears.”

“Well, with thousands in attendance, I doubt I’ll get so close as to make comparisons. Oh, I can hardly wait to experience everything for myself.” She grew more nervous by the moment. Would Ravi-ji take her directly to her grandmother? Would she have to wait? What about protocol? Would she have a chance to speak to her? If given the opportunity, she’d have to pretend to be ignorant of the language and use Ravi-ji as an interpreter.

Munia returned, dressed in a lilac-colored cotton sari that complemented Suri’s purple. “Don’t you look lovely, Munia.”

“Ravi-ji awaits, memsahib,” came Munia’s dry response.

Devil take the old grump, Suri thought.
As long as she tends to me, why should I care if she acts the sourpuss?

The three made their way along the corridor, Munia in the lead, to open the door, Marguerite following Suri.

Munia’s shoulders gave a little jerk when she stepped through the passageway, but then she scurried down the hall to retrieve Ravi-ji.

Suri froze.

Leaning casually against the wall, his head pitched at the same angle as evenings in the ballroom, arms folded over his broad chest, stood Ravenswood, regarding her through heavy lids. Shahira was at his side, her gold chain wrapped around his hand.

“Oh my,” Marguerite whispered behind her back.

Suri had thought she’d never see him again. An unmistakable current ran the space between them. She waited for the butterflies to clear her throat before she spoke. “Ravenswood.”

A cold shadow of a smile flickered over his lips, but traveled nowhere near his eyes. “Miss me, darling?”

“Don’t make this difficult.”

He gave one shoulder a shrug. “Someone has to watch over you.”

She turned to her right. Where was Tanush? Ah, he’d gone on, had he? Before Ravi-ji took notice of him? Her nerves threatened to shred.

Ravi-ji rounded the corner with Munia scurrying a few steps behind. The man was nothing short of spectacular. His black hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, exposing a dimple in his chin. Eyes so green they flashed like emerald shards, peered right into her soul. He wore a cream-colored sherwani—a long, high-collared coat-like jacket elaborately trimmed in gold. Beneath the garment that reached just below his knees and fitted with side slits to ease his strides, he wore a pair of
churidars
in the same cream color, fitted tight to his muscular legs. Golden slippers adorned his feet. He dipped his head and smiled as he approached.

He didn’t so much as glance Ravenswood’s way.

But Munia did, not bothering to mask the derision written on her face.

“Ah, you are a goddess, Miss Thurston. A sight to behold.” Ravi-ji extended a hand her way at his approach.

Ravenswood’s lip curled. Shahira hissed and suddenly crouched as if to spring at Ravi-ji. Her master murmured something unintelligible and the cat’s hissing turned into a low rumbling in her throat.

In a singular, smooth move, Ravi-ji stepped in front of Suri, as if to protect her.

Ravenswood snorted.

“Dear Lord,” Suri whispered to Marguerite who held tight to her sister’s arm.

Maurya turned to Suri, “Shall we depart?”

He touched her elbow.

The cheetah lunged to the end of her chain, hissing and spitting.

Ravenswood held the golden leash taut. “Easy, girl.”

The women squealed and Munia rattled off something derisive in her native tongue, backing away in the direction of the front door.

Another murmur from Ravenswood, and the cat ceased straining against the chain, but her eyes held fast to Ravi Maurya, the low rumbling in her throat a warning.

Ravenswood lifted himself from the wall. “Looks like she doesn’t care much for you, Maurya. I’d be careful, if I were you.” He strolled past Munia, who still jabbered in Hindustani, her back pasted to the wall.

Suri heard her say something about a curse being laid upon John’s soul.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Why was Delhi not so appealing as yesterday? The day prior, Suri had only noticed sacred bovines wandering the streets with fragrant garlands hanging about their necks. Today, she saw cow dung littering the same roadways—the slop run through by countless carriage wheels. Chattering monkeys eliciting her laughter a mere twenty-four hours ago were little more than pests now, carrying on like rabid fools and throwing things uglier than leaves at passersby. And did a bird dropping just land on the horse’s elaborately decorated tack? Good Lord!

Ravi-ji placed a hand over hers. His wide brown grip squeezed her fingers, gouging the heavy ring she wore into her knuckles. Ignoring her wince, he leaned closer. “You seem distracted, Miss Thurston.”

She caught his sweet scent—hair pomade, cologne, bath soap—perhaps a blend of all three. He’d certainly been heavy-handed with the stuff. Thankfully, they rode in an open carriage. At least she still found his rich, melodious accent pleasant enough. “Merely observing, Ravi-ji.”

His intense green gaze pierced hers. That couldn’t be lust she saw in him, could it? He was her cousin, for heaven’s sake. A curious shiver of fear sluiced through her veins while saliva dried on her tongue. What happened to her once high regard of him? Was it the clandestine knowledge John had passed on to her that now left her cold to her cousin’s touch? Or was it his note instructing her to leave the soiled yellow sari behind that gave her pause? Whatever brought about this change, in her mind, Ravi-ji had shifted from sacred bovine to cow dung.

She swallowed against the dry lump in her throat and prayed he didn’t see the truth in her eyes. Forcing a smile, she eased her hand from his and denied her body’s urging to move as far from him as possible. Well, she’d have to tolerate his closeness long enough to meet her grandmother, and then she’d beg off, feign illness if she had to. How much time would be spent in the women’s quarters, she wondered? Not enough.

Too bad she and John hadn’t got together earlier. Memories of their heated night raced through her mind and ran along every nerve in her body.

Ravi-ji tilted his head. “Private thoughts?”

Good Lord, she couldn’t think of such things or he might read on her face any emotions she conjured. John was right. She made a poor candidate for a spy.
Don’t even think that!
She straightened, brushing the folds in the sari over her lap. “I was merely wondering if you had any inkling as to when I might meet with our grandmother. Surely you realize how anxious I am after all these years.”

He cocked a brow and then flicked a fallen leaf off his knee with a gesture she once might have considered aristocratic, but now appeared effeminate. “In due time,” he said. “To rush into the women’s quarters shouting for your
nani
would produce poor results. Patience, dear cousin.”

He tilted his head again and smiled at her with the same easy grin he’d used on her so often. How had a simple curl of the lips changed into something slightly menacing?

“I suppose you are right,
cousin
.” She purposely returned the familial connection. Somehow, its usage gave her back a modicum of power. Lord, but she’d have to discipline herself to selective thoughts if she were to get through this wedding unscathed. Perhaps John shouldn’t have revealed all he knew. Naïveté did have its advantages.

“When I meet our grandmother,” she said, “will you be the one to interpret for me?”

He angled his body so he faced her. “That I cannot promise, memsahib. If your meeting takes place in the women’s quarters, you might well have a female relative who does the honors.”

“Or Munia?” God, she hoped not.

He pursed his lips to stifle a small snort, but to no avail. “Someone of our grandmother’s station would never allow a low-caste servant like Munia to speak on her behalf.”

Oh, dear.
“I’ve a great deal to learn, haven’t I?”

His gaze slid over the length of her. “Follow my lead and you will be safe.”

“Safe?” Her skin prickled. “Why do you use such a word? Will I not be secure in the women’s quarters without your protection?”

“Munia will guide you to the proper person within those walls. She knows what to do.”

Munia knows what to do?
The sudden pounding of blood in her head shouted danger. Something wasn’t right. Or was she reading more into his words than she ought? “Has Munia been trained in certain protocols as a result of working for the Chathams? Or has she received private instruction? From you, perhaps?”

Something dark flashed through Ravi-ji’s eyes. But with a blink, whatever was there vanished. “So many questions. Why don’t you relax and enjoy yourself? We have an old saying here in India. Roughly translated, it means that to concern oneself with grave human thought destroys the lightness of the soul.”

He reached over and patted her hand. “I doubt you will have another experience such as you are about to encounter. A pity if shallow concerns diminish your capacity for joy. Haven’t you noticed we Indians are a joyful people? Perhaps you should weave that part of your heritage into your daily life.”

She eased her hand from his, pressed it to her midriff.
Agree with him.
“You’re right, cousin, I fret over-much.”
Think pleasant thoughts.
She forced a wide smile. “Have I forgotten to thank you for the lovely things you sent? And please, ignore any discourteous behavior on my part. I wouldn’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve so graciously arranged on my behalf.”

He only raised a brow and fixed his cold eyes on hers.

Don’t just stare at me, damn it, say something!
Flowers landed in her lap. She glanced around. When had the carriage moved into crowded streets?

Ravi-ji straightened, turned forward, and with an enigmatic smile and the princely deportment of his high position, he waved his hand in slow motion at the people gathered alongside the road.

Ahead, the crowd multiplied and spilled into the street. The driver slowed the horse and carriage to a snail’s pace. “Do I follow your lead and wave as well?” she asked.

“No,” he responded through a clenched jaw. “You are female. Look straight ahead and do not make eye contact. Allow the people to observe your regal loveliness.”

He continued to wave, smile, and speak through his teeth. “All eyes are upon the great beauty sitting beside me. Little do they know you are nothing but a lowly half-caste.”

The sting of Ravi-ji’s words remained with her all along the route but dissipated at the sight of a queue of elaborately draped elephants moving slowly across the road in front of the carriage. Suri had never seen such a wondrous sight. Atop the magnificent beasts sat men and women inside ornate, canopied carriers draped in red silk and fringed in gold. The elephants ambled along single file, their large trunks curled around the tiny tails of the beasts in front of them. Alongside them walked men in saffron turbans bearing long sticks with hooks on the ends. Two colorfully dressed men in front of the lead elephant carried what appeared to be palm fronds dipped in gold.

Suri turned to Ravi-ji, too stunned to speak.

He gave a slight nod toward the cortege. “The man you see riding atop the front elephant is Prince Mughal Mizra. He is the eldest son of our Mughal Emperor, Bahadur Shah. On the following elephants are his two brothers. The wives and children of these royals ride the remaining pachyderms. Is this not a magnificent spectacle?”

They were near enough for Suri to study the grandeur of the entourage up close. A red turban wrapped around the prince’s head flashed brilliant jewels in the sunlight as though the sun’s rays shone down on him alone. A diamond the size of a hen’s egg festooned the front of his turban.

Some of the bystanders fell to their knees while others bowed their heads. Before the crowd grew silent, a low murmur drifted through the throng—
Dilli Chalo
.

March to Delhi?
The call for mutiny?
Every muscle in Suri’s body grew rigid and, despite the sticky heat, the air froze in her lungs. “He certainly has the carriage of a royal,” she choked out, hoping Ravi-ji hadn’t noticed the frayed edges to her words. “But there is also something about him that reminds me of the sepoys lining the Chatham’s drive.”

A peculiar expression she couldn’t identify flickered across Ravi-ji’s face. “Our prince is a great warrior. He commands the heavens.” His words were as soft as the flower petals in her lap. She wondered if they’d even been meant for her ears—ears that burned with what she’d thus far heard, and they’d not yet arrived at the palace!

This close, she saw fiery passion shining brightly in the eyes of the prince. A sudden thought seized her and sent her heart trembling.
Dilli Chalo
—
March to Delhi
. Could these Mughal princes be riding in on their elephants as a signal the time had come to rise up against the British? Would they celebrate for days, excite the crowds, and then turn them loose on those they wanted killed? May God have mercy if this wedding was meant to initiate a mutiny.