A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (4 page)

“Never one to mince words, are you?” Her sister leaned forward, tickling her ear with a whisper of laughter. “He’s always the last to arrive. Never misses dinner, so he’ll be along shortly.”

Suri vowed that when she met the duke she would not inquire about his brother. She simply would not.

A horn sounded. The room fell silent and all heads turned to the butler. “His Grace, Lord Ravenswood, and his guest, Lady Shahira.”

“His cat,” Marguerite whispered.

“His cat?” Suri replied.

“Lady Shahira is the name of his pet. He brought the beast, as usual. Make way.”

Those nearest the door stepped back, leaving a wide swath for the cat’s entry, but Suri inched forward until she found herself at the front of the crowd, just as the powerful cheetah glided around the corner.

Suri lost her breath.

She couldn’t move.

The cheetah halted and stood before her, staring at her with eyes as golden as a setting sun. Small black spots speckled her tan fur while perfectly symmetrical black lines ran from the corners of her eyes down the sides of the nose to her mouth. It was as though an artist’s brush had painted her. Her chest was deep, her waist narrow, the fur on her belly snow white.

Suri’s hand slid to her breast. “Oh, my. In all my days, I have never seen such magnificence.”

The cheetah blinked at Suri and made an odd rumbling sound, startling her out of her daze. It was then she noticed the collar, wide and laden with emeralds and diamonds as large as her thumbnails. Attached to the collar was a thick golden chain—glistening round links—leading to a gloved hand. And black boots, shiny and tall.

Her gaze traveled up muscled legs to lean hips, a peacock blue silk waistcoat fronting a flat stomach, and a dark, superfine jacket covering broad shoulders. She lifted her chin and regarded the man’s face.

And nearly swooned.

Good Lord, that mouth! No two people could possibly have lips—

She backed up.

That sultry, bow-shaped mouth twitched while storm gray eyes glittered with amusement.

“Ravenswood?” she choked out.

He gave a short nod. “Miss Thurston, isn’t it?”

The cat’s golden eyes locked with hers while that odd, stuttering noise vibrated through Shahira’s throat once more.

Suri’s hand slipped to her breast again. “What does that mean?”

“The peculiar sound you hear is called churring. It means she likes you.” As if he’d sent a silent message through the chain he gripped, Shahira’s muscles undulated, and then the great cat stepped out in unison with Ravenswood, and they strode past Suri.

A dull roar of conversation saturated the room. She turned and watched him part the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. He strolled into the dining room. She made a beeline for her sister. “What the devil is going on? You said he’d gone back to England.”

“No, dear one. I said his brother went back to England. That would be Edward, the youngest, of which I spoke.”

“You lied.”

“If you think on it, I asked you if the name Ravenswood meant anything.”

“You should have told me he was Ravenswood.”

“You never asked.”

“What happened to his eldest brother?”

“Fell off a horse—one of ours, I believe—and broke his neck.”

A devilish smile tipped the corners of Marguerite’s mouth. “Come along, dear. I think you’ll find the seating arrangements quite provocative.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

For the first time in nearly three years, desire washed through John’s veins. The object of his prurience stood before him, her emerald eyes unblinking and set squarely upon him. Her hand splayed across creamy breasts rising and falling with each breath. Now, if those were his fingers laid upon those luscious—

At his abrupt mood shift, the cat ceased her churring. He reached down, gave her a solid stroke along her back, and then marched past Suri. He didn’t know what else to do.

Since Lady Marguerite never failed to seat him to her left, he strolled into the dining room, and to the far end of the table in a manner that no doubt shouted arrogance to the others. Surely, her sister would sit at the other end, beside Chatham.

Damn it, no.

There was Miss Thurston’s place card, directly across from his, her name clearly spelled out in gold on either side of the card.
Oh, hell.

He’d known she would be here tonight—her arrival in Delhi was what this dinner was about, for God’s sake. But his reaction, a steady pulse of need in his veins, had caught him unawares.

He hadn’t had the slightest notion she would stir this kind of response in him. Not after all this time. Ten years ago, she’d had an intoxicating effect on him. Potent enough for her father to have barred him and his brother from ever stepping foot again on Thurston land after he’d heard about what had gone on in the stable.

The guineas John had slipped to the butler for a printed invitation to Marguerite’s coming out the following evening had sealed his fate. The servant had reported him to her father, and then had had the nerve to keep the coin. Bloody bastard.

His imprudent action in the stable had cost him, and his brothers, the best resource for horseflesh in all of England. Not to mention it had taken him months to get past seeing Suri every time he bedded a woman. Eventually, reluctantly, he’d tossed the incident off as youthful rutting. But one look at her after all this time, and he was transported back to the stable. Her taste—sweet as ripe cherries—swept across his tongue.

Blast it, this wouldn’t do!

With a force of will, he turned his attention to other matters. As Section Head of the highly secretive Queen’s Foreign Service, he’d accepted tonight’s invitation chiefly to study one guest in particular, possibly one of the key figures stirring up the native troops against the East India Company. Someone was feeding British secrets to Emperor Bahadar Shah Zafar. And whoever that was, God help the man when John got ahold of him.

He glanced around, realized that every chair had been claimed in expectation of the Chathams’ entrance. When had the room filled?

Harry Chatham escorted his wife and sister-in-law to their seats. “Lord Ravenswood, may I present Lady Marguerite’s sister, Miss Suri Thurston.”

John merely nodded. Did her eyes narrow a bit? Did they spark with anger because he refused to vocalize? Ah, had she a temper? Hell, he was doing all he could not to allow another lascivious thought to enter his mind.
That precious mouth
—

Abruptly, he turned to Lady Marguerite, took her gloved hand in his and kissed its back. Chatham turned and introduced Suri to Mr. Locksley, the gentleman to her right. With his wife and Suri seated, Chatham excused himself to the other end of the table where the Resident, Percival Bradleigh, British political agent for the East India Company, sat next to him. He was another suspect to keep an eye on. As Resident Minister, Bradleigh fell just short of the rank of envoy but he’d somehow managed to garner the trust of the powerful Indian emperor and thus held great influence, something that did not fit his rank. Furthermore, one of John’s secret agents had managed to purchase a rare Indian ruby from Bradleigh, proof of the man’s corruption. But John was hunting bigger game than a stolen gem, so he had let things lie.

For now.

He turned to the attractive woman on his left and slid her chair behind her knees. “Mrs. Abernathy, good evening.”

Of all the women present, why did Lady Marguerite place this…this flagrant tease next to me?
He turned to eye his hostess. One glance at the humor in her eyes told him she’d done it on purpose. There was hardly a person in the room, including Mrs. Abernathy’s husband, who didn’t think Mrs. Abernathy was John’s current affair, or that he’d bedded half the women in Delhi and beyond. Didn’t Marguerite love a bit of scandal, though?

Devil take her.

Well, let people assume whatever they wished. After all, the gossip that his occasional disappearances were for liaisons with married lovers served him rather well—he had a job to complete, and the greater the distraction, the less attention anyone paid to his whereabouts. Just so long as he didn’t get shot by a jealous husband.

With all the ladies properly seated, he and the other men took to their own chairs. A tug on the chain, and Shahira dropped to the floor between him and Lady Marguerite. Suri craned her neck to peer over the table at the cat, just enough not to appear rude. John nearly laughed.

Mrs. Abernathy regarded Suri with eyes gone cold. “You really must sit next to Shahira sometime.” Beneath the table, her hand slid to John’s knee.

He flicked it away.
Damnable woman.

The frigid smile that touched Mrs. Abernathy’s lips destroyed what was left of her fading beauty. “Shahira is the only true competition we ladies have. Isn’t that so, Your Grace?”

He gave her a deliberate and rude once over. “My dear Mrs. Abernathy, since you are happily ensconced in your marriage, I doubt you should use the word,
we
. You
are
happily established, are you not?”

She gave a throaty laugh and ran a finger down his sleeve. “Ah, so cruel you can be to a dear friend.”

Across the table, Locksley chuckled. John scowled at him. At least someone was enjoying the evening.

He glanced down the row of guests and spied Ravi Maurya, a member of one of the wealthiest native families in India. Almost royalty, they considered themselves. The man studied Suri with an intensity that made his emerald eyes glitter. When he caught John watching him, he turned and conversed with the guest seated to his right.

John’s attention focused on Suri. If it weren’t for her fair English skin, she could easily be related to Maurya. He doubted any other race of people sported eyes as fiercely green as certain Indian castes. Her hair, so dark it could be called black in the lamplight, framed a face he’d thought pretty ten years ago. Now, she was beautiful. The years seemed to have added a layer of inner strength and maturity that shone throughout her entire countenance.

Thoughts of Laura dying in his arms raced through his mind—of their babe in the shroud beside her. Guilt, for his body reacting toward another woman, ran his blood cold. He sure as hell didn’t need more guilt heaped on top of what already weighed him down. There were layers enough to share with every person at the table and still have leftovers. Three goddamned years of hearing Laura’s last words that she’d never forgive him for causing her death…nearly a lifetime of hearing his brother, Edward, then five years old, begging John not to leave him alone with their drunken father. And then there was James’s death—he could’ve prevented that, too. Christ, when would these bloody nightmares end?

At the sound of Lady Marguerite addressing him, he realized he was staring right through Suri. Her unblinking emerald eyes scorched his flesh.

“Excuse me, Lady Marguerite. I fear I was momentarily distracted. Did you say something?”

“I wondered if you’d received that shipment of the Cocks’s Reading Sauce you mentioned at our last dinner. I fear Worcestershire makes a rather poor substitute on fish, at least to my taste, yet it is all one can seem to come by in these parts.”

“Not as yet, madam. I’ll send a case over when it arrives.” He should have stayed home.

Mrs. Abernathy placed her hand high on his thigh this time. “Do send a few this way, Your Grace. Better yet, I would be pleased to have you deliver them personally.”

That cuts it.
John placed his fingers over hers and squeezed, just enough to grind bone against bone as he removed her hand from his knee. “I’ll send my butler.”

Her cheeks mottled. She turned to her left and began a conversation with her neighbor.

Locksley snorted. “Finished with her, eh?”

John ignored the urge to set the man straight. He’d never started with the woman. He glanced at Suri. Was that a bit of humor running through her? He leaned back to study her, let his hand drop to his cat and stroked.

Shahira began to purr.

Suri’s face lit up as though sunshine had washed through the room. “I say, Marguerite, his cat does indeed remind one of a rackety steam engine.”

He regarded Lady Marguerite. So, they had discussed him? He scratched behind Shahira’s ears. “Now that’s a description, isn’t it girl?” The purring grew louder.

Suri laughed. “You said she churrs when she likes someone. What makes her purr?”

“Contentment.” He separated the palm leaves on his plate, extracted a piece of baked fish, and held it before Shahira’s nose. The cat’s ears shot up, but she sat quietly waiting with the flesh dangling mere inches from her mouth.

Suri stood and leaned over her sister.

John averted his eyes from a neckline that dipped lower. “Take it,” he murmured to Shahira.

The cat opened her mouth, and with the delicateness of a house cat, took the fish between her teeth without touching John’s fingers.

“Oh, my,” Suri exclaimed.

Marguerite stood. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Suri. Switch places with me lest I suffocate from the way you hang over me.” She looked to John. “England only offers livestock, not jungle cats, for my sister to dote upon.”

Suri hastened to Marguerite’s vacated seat while a footman switched their place settings. “What would make her roar?”

It was all John could do to keep his eyes fixed on Shahira. He stroked her fur. “Cheetahs can growl when they are upset, but unlike other big cats, they are incapable of roaring. Mostly, they hiss and spit if they don’t care for someone.”

“May I touch her?”

Bloody hell?
His gaze shot to Suri’s.
Was the woman completely irresponsible? Or, God forbid, daft?
“My hand is the only human touch she knows.”

“Oh.” Suri studied the cat for a moment. “How did you come by her?”

“I was out…ah…out for a stroll one evening outside a small village when I heard a chirping. Since a bird wouldn’t likely call attention to itself in the dead of night, I investigated. Thought it might be a cub crying out for its mother, because that’s the sound they make. Shahira’s mother lay dead beside her, stripped of her coat by poachers. I took the cub home with me.”