Something Sinful (25 page)

“And food works very well on Uncle Zachary,” Peep said.

Thankfully after that the conversation turned to the merits of painting edible subjects. Charlemagne found it more interesting, though, that DeLayne had traveled to Delhi on business. Had he met the Carlisles through Hanover, or through Sarala?

Once everyone finished dinner the ladies, led by a fiercely giggling Peep and trailed by a flattered—and probably baffled—Lady Hanover, left the dining room to go dress for the ball.

“What do you think they’re up to?” Zachary asked, gazing at the closed dining room door through which they’d disappeared.

“They are women,” Valentine answered, smiling briefly. “We will never be able to answer that question.”

Charlemagne silently agreed with that assessment, though he’d never considered it much of a problem until a few short weeks ago. Until figuring out what a particular woman might be thinking had abruptly become of paramount importance to his heart and to his happiness.

“
I
may faint,” Sarala’s mother said from her seat by the window. “Three ladies wearing trousers—and in public! We’ll all be forced to leave the country, I just know it.”

Sarala had a few doubts about their reception, herself, but she’d be damned before she would admit that in the face of Eleanor and Caroline’s obvious enthusiasm. They were the first friends she’d made since her arrival in London. Whether that friendship would have occurred—or would continue—without Charlemagne’s presence in her life, she didn’t know, but the relief from loneliness was so marked that she didn’t feel up to finding out just yet. It seemed sincere, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

“They’re not trousers, Mama, they’re
salwar.
And they’re very traditional in Delhi. So are the
kadeez
and the saris.”

“We are
not
in Delhi!”

“Which are which, Sarala?” Eleanor asked.

“The
kadeez
is the top shirt underneath, and the sari is the wrap that goes around.”

“At least tell me you won’t be going to the ball in your bare feet,” her mother pleaded.

“No. We have matching slippers. Wait,
mojaris
, yes?” Caroline stepped into the red shoes that matched her red sari with its intricate gold thread trim.

Sarala chuckled. “Yes,
mojaris.
Very good.”

“Oh, now you’re teaching Hindi? This is a disaster.”

“Far from it, Lady Hanover. This is extremely fun.” Eleanor had chosen the yellow
salwar kadeez
and
sari,
while Sarala’s own costume was deep green. She particularly liked the red beading that hung in light tassels from the bottom edge of the delicate combination veil and head covering—it enabled her to wear the ruby Shay had given her.

Finally the maids stepped back, and Sarala joined the other two ladies in front of the dressing mirror. The long
salwar
tapered at the ankle and thankfully concealed the fading henna tattoo on her ankle, though she suspected that Eleanor had seen it while they’d been changing.

“I want to go downstairs first,” Peep announced, sporting a spare blue headdress and veil that Sarala had luckily brought along in case of emergency. “I look very good.”

“Yes, you do, Peep,” Eleanor said, taking her niece’s hand. “And I think you should definitely go first. Are we ready?”

Caroline took a deep breath. “As we’ll ever be, I suppose.”

As they glided down the stairs, young Penelope in front and her mother once again behind, Sarala wondered what Charlemagne would think. If nothing else had truly worked, this would demonstrate once and for all that she was little more than a foreigner. Better that he—and everyone else—understood that before they decided whether the wedding plans should continue.

Penelope marched up to the butler as he stood issuing instructions to a pair of footmen. “Stanton, where is my papa?” she asked.

The butler immediately faced her, his gaze after a bare second going to the rest of the ladies where they stood ranged down the staircase. Sarala didn’t know him well at all, but she would have called his expression stunned. “He—they—are in the drawing room, Lady Penelope,” he managed shakily.

“Would you open the door for us, Stanton?” Eleanor’s cool voice came. Sarala admired her pure courage, but then Eleanor was a Griffin born and bred. There was likely very little she feared, especially when it came to choice of clothing.

The poor butler audibly swallowed. “Ye…” He cleared his throat. “Yes, at once, my lady.”

Sarala’s heart beat as madly as hummingbird wings while they moved into position on the far side of the drawing room door. At a nod from Eleanor, Stanton pushed open the double doors and practically dove out of the way.

“What do you think, Papa?” Peep asked, stopping just inside the doorway and doing her imitation of a snake-charming dance.

The duke turned around. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. After a brief glance at Melbourne, though, Sarala turned her attention to Charlemagne. His expression mirrored that of his older brother. She didn’t think he found himself without words often, and she found herself smiling beneath the thin green veil. He’d definitely noticed her, anyway.

“St. George’s buttonholes,” Zachary rasped, falling backward into a chair.

Lord Deverill set aside his glass of port. “Which one is mine?” he drawled, moving forward as Eleanor waggled her fingers at him.

“That would be me,” she breathed.

“Good,” he continued, skillfully unhooking one side of the veil and kissing his wife gently on the mouth.

Visibly shaking himself, Charlemagne approached her. “Was this your idea?”

“It was mine,” his sister chortled, batting at her husband’s hands as he attempted to lift some of the sari’s loose wrappings. “Look at Sebastian. He can’t even speak.”

“I can speak,” the duke countered, taking a rather generous swallow from his own glass. Slowly he came forward. “All three of you look lovely,” he continued, and stopped beside Shay, directly in front of Sarala. “You will all definitely be the center of everyone’s attention tonight. Are you prepared for that?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Shay answered, before she could. “I’ll be the envy of every man in attendance.”

She was grateful that Shay had interceded, because from Melbourne’s brief glance at his sister, he was less than pleased with their choice of attire. The rest of the men present, though, seemed more of Shay’s opinion. Even Sarala’s father chuckled, shaking his head as he looked at the three of them.

As they moved into the foyer, the duke did compliment his daughter on her stunning appearance before handing her off to her governess, but as he’d pointed out, young Penelope wouldn’t have most of the London aristocracy staring at her all night.

Charlemagne brushed her fingers with his. “You are not going to be able to keep me away all evening,” he whispered, his warm breath caressing her ear.

“Who says I want to keep you away?” Not speaking her mind had gotten her nowhere; being straightforward felt…better, anyway.

He curled his hand, grasping hers more strongly. “I’ll remember you said that.”

“And so you should. Where’s your mask?” she asked.

“Blast. Just a moment.” He charged up the stairs.

“Now you look like the Sarala I remember from India,” John DeLayne said, offering his arm to her.

Sarala made a show of straightening her silver headpiece, pretending she didn’t see the gesture. “I don’t think you ever saw me dressed like this, my lord,” she returned coolly.

“Perhaps not, but you always
felt
like that.”

Footsteps thundered back down to the foyer. “Here we are,” Shay said, lifting a mask in his fingers.

“The devil?” Sarala said, lifting an eyebrow as they stepped out to the front portico.

“The red matches,” he said defensively, gesturing from the half mask to the ruby pin in his cravat.

Zachary pointed at the mask in his brother’s hand. “Hey, that’s—”

Charlemagne elbowed him in the gut. “Sorry about that, Zach,” he muttered with a grin, clearly not sorry about anything.

“You must ride with us,” Eleanor said to Sarala, taking her arm.

“Not without me,” Shay countered, falling in beside her.

“Lord Hanover, I have a land question for you,” Zachary put in, offering his arm to Lady Hanover in the same motion.

For a long moment no one approached John DeLayne, and Sarala had the bad grace to want to smile. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to sense that he was just a bit too happy to join the ranks of the Griffin clan, if only as a hanger-on to almost-relations. The viscount looked from one coach to the other, his smile frozen but beginning to fade just a little.

Behind him Melbourne murmured something to Zachary as he passed by on the way to the Deverill coach. Whatever Zachary said in response didn’t look too flattering, but he turned around to collect the viscount. “Ride with us, DeLayne,” he said, not offering a pretty excuse for the invitation.

“For an old friend of your family, Lord DeLayne seems to have been somewhat forgotten,” Lord Deverill noted, gazing at her as their coach rolled down the drive.

She shrugged, her shoulder brushing Charlemagne’s. Once again she’d ended up between Shay and Melbourne, and as surreptitiously as she could, she edged sideways to give the duke a bit more room. “You did us the kindness of inviting us to join you to a very exclusive event. My father shouldn’t have asked that you include Lord DeLayne as well.”

“So you criticize your father’s decision in front of others?” Melbourne asked, his gaze out the window toward the other coach.

“Seb,” Charlemagne said, his tone cool.

“I only criticize his overabundance of kindness. I’ve learned that in Society, kindness seems to take a secondary position to appearance.”

The duke made a low sound that might have been a chuckle. “And now you chastise me.”

Apparently she’d made a palpable hit. “Only if you saw it as such, Your Grace.”

“If anyone thinks there are too many of us,” Deverill drawled, “I’ll be happy to take Eleanor home.” He ran his fingers along the bottom fringe of her veil. “Very happy.”

From Eleanor’s expression she wouldn’t have minded that, either, but she only patted the marquis on the knee. “I’m afraid, Valentine, that you’ll have to dance with me at least once. Be patient.”

When they arrived at the large house of Earl and Countess Wexton, half the coaches of London’s nobility seemed to be choking the streets in every direction. “There’s Hannah Dyson,” Eleanor said, peeking out through the curtains. “The poor thing’s dressed as a shepherdess again.”

“Evidently the chit is very fond of sheep.” Deverill stepped down from the coach and offered a hand to his wife.

As they all headed inside, Sarala realized precisely what Melbourne had been talking about. Not only had she, along with Eleanor and Caroline, dressed in highly unusual fashion, but this was her first public outing since the duke had announced her betrothal to Charlemagne.

“I’ve never seen so many people in one house.” Sarala did a slow turn in the foyer. “How do they expect anyone to be able to move?”

Charlemagne chuckled. He’d barely stepped more than a foot away from her since she’d first appeared in her costume. “The trick is to have everyone rotate in the same direction at the same time.” He glanced over her shoulder, and his smile deepened. “Aunt Tremaine.”

“I’m in costume, lad,” a rich female voice returned. “You’re not supposed to be able to recognize me.”

“What I don’t recognize is what you’re dressed
as.
“ Shay leaned down to kiss his aunt’s cheek.

“I’m Boadicea, the scourge of Rome.” The large woman shifted her substantial breastplate, facing Sarala. “And you must be Lady Sarala. I’m Gladys Tremaine.”

Sarala curtsied, immediately liking the older woman. “I’m very pleased to meet you, my lady.”

“Oh, please. Call me Aunt Tremaine like all of these silly nieces and nephews of mine. We are to be relations, after all.”

“Aunt Tremaine, then,” she returned, though she still had some large reservations about the marriage. Larger even than Melbourne’s, she would wager. And not for her sake, but for Shay’s. He thought he knew all he needed to about her, but she wasn’t nearly as certain about that.

She and Charlemagne circled each other and grasped hands. “Actually, it’s your fault. You’ve made me interesting.”

“All I did was notice your moss green eyes, your…” They parted for another circuit of the huge line. “…brilliant mind, your…” Another quick change of partners. “…unique character, and your breathtaking smile before everyone else.”

Chuckling and nearly out of air, Sarala took his hand again for their final prance down the middle of the line. “So I’m an odd, plant-colored bluestocking with foul breath.”

They slowed as they reached the end of the dance. “Even if you were, I’d still wish to marry you.”

Despite his smile, his eyes were serious. Sarala stopped the quip she’d been ready to make. “What if what was wrong with me was something not so obvious?” she asked instead.

His brow furrowed. “Who says that something is wrong with you?”

Across the room she caught sight of John DeLayne, laden with glasses of Madeira and heading in their direction. With a swift breath she took Shay’s arm and guided him toward the nearest door. “Come now, Shay. You’re a Griffin, and I’m barely English. Compared to half a hundred other young ladies who would love to be married to you, yes, there’s something wrong with me.”

“I’m not interested in half a hundred other young ladies. Once I set eyes on you, I…I’ve canceled rendezvous with women because I had papers to finish or a meeting to attend. From the moment I met you, though, I’ve barely thought of anything else.” He leaned closer to her as they walked. “I’m not perfect, and I’m not a saint. And you are as tempting to me as sin. Especially tonight, dressed like that.”

That settled that. She would have to show him. Telling him only made him wax poetic, and that in turn only made her legs feel as weak as her resolve was becoming. If she couldn’t end this farce, then he would have to. And she knew of only one way to convince him.

“What’s in here?” she asked, stopping in front of a half-closed door.

“The library.”

She pushed open the door and led the way inside. The fireplace and a few candles provided the only light, but it was enough to see by. “That’s a Reynolds portrait, isn’t it?” she asked, stopping to view the large painting that hung over the fireplace.

“It is. It’s Wexton the year he graduated from Oxford.”

“It’s extraordinary.” He’d left the door open, though it seemed a bit late now to be concerned over her reputation. Her slippers silent on the carpeted floor, she returned to the entryway and swung the door shut.

“Sarala, I don’t think this is w—”

“Shh.” Returning to the fireplace, she wrapped her hands into his black lapels and leaned up to look him in the eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered. “Or should we argue over the price of something first?”

With a slow smile he unfastened one side of her green veil and bent his head to touch his mouth to hers.

She couldn’t help her responding moan. Immediately his arms swept around her, pulling her hard against his lean body. She’d wanted him for what seemed like forever, and this time she would make the first step. Their kiss deepened, and she lifted her arms around his shoulders. His mouth became hungrier, teasing at her until she opened to him. Sarala moaned again as his tongue tangled with hers.

He pushed her backward, pressing her between the wall and him. Behind her something clicked, and abruptly a wall panel directly beside them swung open. Shay tore his mouth from hers.

“What the devil?”

Sarala turned to look at the wall where she’d been leaning. A row of raised fleur-de-lis decorated a narrow oak chair rail. Slowly she reached out and pressed one of them. Nothing. The next one, though, pushed inward. “A secret door?”

Shay looked bemused for a moment. “You know, this house used to belong to one of King Henry the Eighth’s mistresses. Perhaps this was how he visited her.”

Lifting a candle off the mantel, her breathing still hard and her senses reeling, Sarala slipped through the narrow doorway. If she’d been wearing a ball gown rather than the
salwar kadeez,
she never would have been able to get in.

A broad form blocked the light behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?” Shay whispered.

“You said you thought this might lead to a bedchamber. I’d like to find out.”

“We can reach it by going down the hallway like everyone else.”

“Yes, but then everyone will know where we’ve gone.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Coming?”

“Of course I am.” With a low chuckle Charlemagne entered the dark, narrow corridor and pulled the latch to bring the door closed behind them.

He motioned for his unveiled princess to lead the way. Whatever she had in mind, if it was what he was beginning to suspect, he wasn’t going to argue with her about it. The passage went on for several yards, and she brushed aside the occasional spider webs like they were nothing. The woman did know how to charm cobras, so spiders wouldn’t bother her. Finally the narrow corridor turned sharply to the left and dead-ended. Shay took the candle and lifted it so she could look for the release latch. A moment later another door swung silently open, this time into a large, well-appointed bedchamber.

“Stay here a moment,” he said, slipping past her and going to the room’s main door. It was closed, but he locked it just in case. Another pair of candles sat in wall sconces, and he lit them with the one he carried.

Sarala emerged from the wall and closed the well-hidden door behind her. “That’s really quite ingenious,” she said, running her fingers along the door’s nearly invisible seam. “If I’d had one of these in Delhi, it would have saved me a great many trips down the trellis outside my bedchamber window.”

Charlemagne crossed the room again to stand in front of her. “And who did you go to see on those trips?”

“Not who. What.” She lifted a hand to run her fingers along his cheek. “India.” Tangling her fingers into his hair, she pulled his face down to kiss him again. The devil mask he’d perched on top of his head fell to the carpeted floor. He’d forgotten he wore it.

Heat spread beneath his skin. “Sarala,” he murmured, “I’m attempting to be a gentleman. You’re making that rather difficult.”

“I want to be with you, Shay,” she returned, “and we’re in a room with a bed. I think we should make use of it.”

Good God.
He cleared his throat. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”

“I don’t.” She frowned even as she pulled his cravat from around his neck and dropped it to the floor. “I can’t. But I do like you very much.” Her lips touched his throat. “Besides, the bed was good enough for King Henry, you said.”

“I think they’ve changed the mattress since then, but yes, I suppose it was.” And the arousal he’d been fighting since he’d seen her in those clothes had him on the outer edge of his control, as it was.

“How much of a gentleman are you?” she asked, unfastening the top button of his waistcoat.

With a growl he lifted her up and set her backward on the bed. “Not that much.”

So she’d gone out at night to see India. Seeing her in her emerald green traditional garb, her dark-lined eyes, and her rich, sun-kissed skin, she
was
India. Silently he knelt before her, cupped both of her cheeks in his hands, and kissed her.

Her silk-draped arms slid down around his shoulders, and she sank into his embrace. Whoever was seducing whom, they both seemed equally eager. And since as far as he was concerned their marriage was already a certainty, he didn’t feel as though he was taking advantage.

“The bed, or the floor?” she asked, tugging his coat free.

“Eager, are you?” And very sure of herself. Thank God he wasn’t some green youth on his first rendezvous.

“I know what I want.”

Alternating his movements with hot, open-mouthed kisses, Charlemagne shed his boots, then turned his attention to removing her green veil and headpiece, then the pins that held her hair in long, braided loops. Once it was free, he tangled the long, black cascade through his hands. With it he gently pulled her head back so he could run his lips and tongue along her throat. Her pulse beat madly against his mouth.

With her eager participation he shed his waistcoat and pulled his shirt from his trousers. “Do you think anyone else knows about those hidden doors?” she asked breathlessly, untying the silk knot at her shoulder.

“I doubt even Lady Wexton knows about them,” he returned with a grin, removing her green shoes and setting them on the floor beside him.

He stood, holding a hand down to her so she could rise, as well. While he carefully pulled, she slowly twirled in front of him, yards of green and gold fabric falling away. When the last of the
sari
drifted to the floor, Sarala was left standing in a long, gold-trimmed shirt and loose trousers that narrowed at the ankles.

“Good God, you
are
wearing trousers.”

“They’re
salwar.
The other part’s the
kadeez,
if you were wondering.” Her smile deepened. “Are you scandalized?”

In response he slipped his hands under her shirt—
kadeez
—felt the drawstring holding up the trousers, and untied it. “Are you?” he murmured, kneeling to slide the silk material down past her hips, her thighs, and her knees.

“No.” Sarala put her hands on his shoulders for balance and lifted her right foot to step out of the
salwar.

As she shifted and he drew the silk over her left foot, he froze. A delicate brown pattern of diamonds and octagonal flowers and flared arches ringed her ankle. He ran his fingers around it, feeling the bone and flesh and muscle beneath. “Is this what I think it is?” he finally asked, lifting his face to gaze at her.

“It’s henna,” she returned, her breathing more ragged. “A parting gift from my friend Nahi.”

Charlemagne turned her ankle and bent down to kiss the tattoo. She gasped as he trailed his mouth up to her knee and the inside of her thigh. He wanted more, but neither did he want to overwhelm her. Setting her foot down again, he stood, kissing her mouth hungrily. “Do you have any more of those tattoos anywhere?”

She moaned as he dragged her hips forward against his. “Not at the moment.” Sarala reached down for the bottom of the
kadeez
and pulled it up, past her belly, her breasts, and over her head. “Touch me, Shay,” she breathed, sliding her own hands up under his shirt.

He’d assumed she would be shy about exposing herself to a man, but he wasn’t about to complain when she seemed as eager for him as he was for her. Her hands felt warm against his skin. Shifting his kisses to her bare shoulders, he lifted his hands to caress and cup her breasts. Nipples budded beneath his fingers, and she arched her back, gasping again.

Sarala sat back on the bed, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him down over her. He shed his shirt one arm at a time and bent down over her to kiss her again, pressing skin to warm skin. No one else had better know about the secret door.

“You are magnificent, my
premi,
” she said, lying back and pulling him over her.

“What does that mean?”

“‘Lover.’”

“I am that. How do you say ‘heaven’ in Hindi?” he asked. Breathing her in, near to bursting already, he lowered his mouth to her breasts, gently tugging and licking.

“
Akas’a,
” she returned, knotting her fingers into the back of his hair.

While his mouth was occupied, he reached down to unfasten his breeches, shove them down, and kick them to the floor. Sarala lifted her head, looking at him, watching as he trailed his hand up her thigh and this time slid a finger up into her hot, damp depths. God, she was so ready for him already.

Their eyes met, and she caught hold of his shoulders to pull him up along her again. He paused once more at her soft, perfect breasts, then moved up to take her mouth once more.

She felt like molten fire in his arms, all heat and desire, with not a pinch of hesitation or worry touching her. That, apparently, was all for him to do. Steeling himself for the care and patience he would still have to show, he put a hand beneath one of her knees and lifted, parting her. She moaned again, lifting her hips beneath him, her thigh brushing his hard cock.

“Now, Shay,” she pleaded, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he shifted over her.

“Not yet,” he murmured, and sank down along her body again. He wanted to taste her, to arouse her and excite her and please her so that after tonight she would never say another word about not wanting to marry him.

With his fingers and his mouth he teased at her until she quivered. “For goodness’ sake, Shay, stop that,” she gasped, laughing breathlessly. “You’ll send me to Bedlam.”

“To
akas’a,
” he returned, dipping his fingers into her moist depths once more. “To heaven.” He lifted his head to look at her. “This is your last chance, Sarala, if you want to change your mind.”

She tugged on his shoulders. “I am not changing my mind. No negotiating.”

“No negotiating,” he repeated, moving up to kiss her on her soft, swollen lips again.