A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (3 page)

A whoosh of air escaped Suri’s lungs. She steadied herself on trembling legs and watched him disappear from sight.

He’d done it. This stranger had opened a door she had never wanted unbolted, and she had waltzed right through it without thinking. Harsh tears pricked her eyes at her own folly. She would suffer because of this reckless moment. He had left her with a terrible yearning, but there was nothing beyond the chamber he’d unlocked in her heart that could ever be hers.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

D
ELHI, 1857—
T
EN YEARS LATER

Suri swiped her damp brow with the back of her hand and shoved a limp curl behind her ear. “Oh, Marguerite, I do believe India is about to do dreadful things to my disposition, not to mention my hair and clothing. It is so blazing hot and humid I may suffocate before the day is out.”

Marguerite sat in a plump chair under a large overhead fan made of carpet, slowly being turned by a native boy. Soft laughter erupted as she smoothed the colorful silk that draped her lap. “Wait until the monsoons hit, dear. You’ll think today was a slice of heaven. You really must remove your stuffy English wear, especially your corset and petticoats, whilst in private.”

She glanced toward a petite, dark-skinned woman standing off to the side. “Munia, find one of my saris for Miss Thurston, and help her out of her travel clothes. Something in a blue would do. Oh, and some cool jasmine tea before you show her to her rooms.”

With a silent nod and bow, the maid exited through a richly carved door.

Suri moved to where she caught more of the fan’s breeze. “How have you managed to survive these two years over here? I do not recall a single complaint in your letters.”

“That’s because I had nothing of which to complain. You know how I detest the horrid English weather. Besides, with all Harry has provided me here, I should be horsewhipped if I were to issue even the smallest grievance.”

“Indeed you should.” Marguerite’s opulent lifestyle could rival that of a royal. Suri ran her hand over an ivory inlaid table and had to admit it was remarkable. Exotic plants brushed up against wood carvings of many-armed figures hanging on three walls, while the fourth opened to a lush garden. Somewhere beyond her sight, she heard the rhythmic splash of a fountain. “This certainly is a different world from whence you came.”

Munia stepped back into the room with a tray balanced on her fingertips. Atop the tray stood a tall and narrow glass of tea, a sprig of mint attached to the side. She waited in silence.

“Your maid, or
nauker
, as they are referred to here, will show you to your rooms. Allow her to bathe you or her feelings will be hurt. You will feel much better after a nice scented bath. By this evening, you’ll be ready for our little dinner soirée.”

“A dinner party? Oh, heavens, I am in no condition to—” She stopped, fisted her hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“You know exactly what I mean. If I recall from your letters, you relish giving
little
dinner parties—of fifty or more.”

Throaty laughter escaped Marguerite’s lips. “My dear, tonight is a simple thing, really. Numbers don’t count when invitations are off the cuff, so to speak. You arrived three days early.”

Suri used her most commanding voice. “Marguerite!”

“Not quite fifty.”

“I would rather have a tooth extracted.”

“Don’t be a dunce. You must come. Listen to this—one of my guests is the Duke of Ravenswood. Does the name ring a bell?”

One moment Suri’s head was clear and the next it was filled with a buzzing sound that raced along every nerve she possessed. How could the name not have meaning? She’d never forgotten his beguiling brother or that kiss he’d bestowed upon her. Not for a single day. Or night. “Kin to that insolent man who kissed us in the stable the day before your coming out? I’d forgotten.”

A winsome smile touched Marguerite’s mouth. “Kissed
us
? My dear, what the man gave me was a mere peck. The kiss was entirely yours.” She raised a finely arched eyebrow. “And don’t try to convince me you don’t remember him or his name. No woman forgets something as earth-shattering as what he did to you.”

Suri wondered if he ever thought of that day. Or of her. “Well, that little peck he gave you, and the lesson that went along with it, certainly had its rewards.” She swept her hand about the room. “Look at you and what your first kiss brought you. You simply glow with happiness.”

Marguerite propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, rested her fingers on her temple, and studied Suri. “Tell me. How often does that Adonis and his outrageous act cross your mind?”

Often, blast it!
Suri shrugged, hoping to appear bored, but there went that exasperating heat pulsating through the pit of her stomach at the very thought of him. “Whatever became of the man, do you know? He only met with Papa that one time and then neither he, nor his brother, ever showed their faces again. I wonder why?” She had often wondered why. Even after so many years had passed, the mere act of stepping inside the stables had made her wonder why he’d never returned. Furthermore, every finely turned out gentleman who’d crossed her father’s threshold had set her to wondering yet again. The man had left an indelible imprint on her soul.

“Apparently India and all its riches beckoned Lord Ravenswood and his brother. The financial climate suits them well.”

Could he be here in Delhi? Suri swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. A tingling swept through her as unbidden memories of what John Fairfax had coaxed out of her that day in the stables threatened to overwhelm her composure. She focused her attention on another wall hanging, wishing her sister would cease her infernal staring.

“The duke is quite wealthy. And quite, ah…unique,” Marguerite said.

“Unique?”

“Yes, unique. He’ll show up tonight with his pet cheetah in tow, wait and see.”

“A pet cheetah?”

“Must you repeat everything I say? Honestly, Suri, a swarm of tsetse flies could nest in your mouth, it’s slung open so. He is a singularly distinctive man who insists on doing everything his way and goes nowhere without his pet cat, as he calls it. The dratted thing will likely be decked out in more finery than the women. The beast wears an emerald and diamond collar tethered to a solid gold chain. Purrs like a faulty steam engine under the table the entire evening. By the way, rumors abound that Ravenswood is convinced an uprising of the native privates against our British officers is imminent and is trying to ferret out the instigators.”

Curiosity forced Suri’s tongue to move beyond her will. “What of his brother?”

Marguerite tapped her finger on her lips. “
Mmm
, I believe he sailed back to England some months ago. He was here to dinner the night before his departure, so let me think, yes, nearly two months exactly. I am not at all certain when he’ll return.”

Something old and familiar curled up Suri’s spine at the idea of Lord John Fairfax having frequented her sister’s home. How had Marguerite never written of him? But why should she? That incident had occurred ten years ago, for heaven’s sake.

“Jeremy? Jeremy!” Marguerite called. “Oh, that boy of mine will be the death of me yet. Come in here this moment.”

Silence.

“I know you lurk about like a marauder in the night.” She pursed her lips and made a motion to Suri with her head, indicating the garden. “If you don’t come this moment, I will inform your father you took a slingshot to a sacred cow this morning.”

A small red-haired boy stepped out from behind a flowering bush. “Hullo, Aunt Suri.”

“Oh, my, Jeremy, how you’ve grown!” Suri rushed forward and gathered her nephew in her arms. “I’m surprised you even remember me.”

His eyes glistened. “I remember you, Auntie.”

“How lovely. Two years is forever when you are six.” She jostled him in her arms. “You’ve got heavier bones.” His arms slid around her neck and he hugged her tight, filling her nostrils with the scent of boy—sweat, dirt, and more sweat. “Did you miss me, Jerri?”

He nodded into her shoulder.

Marguerite fiddled with an earbob and studied Suri. “Fair warning—do not think to fall back into old habits. You’ll spoil him rotten. You really should marry and have a brood of your own, you mother hen.”

Suri only smiled. “You know quite well how I feel about bearing my own children. And for all the little chicks in the world, this mother hen would not want a man who would have the likes of me. We all know what he’d be after, and I have plans for my inheritance.”

Marguerite’s eyes widened. “You don’t say? What?”

“I intend to build a fine school and home for…for children of my ilk. I shall have them sent from here. Heaven knows how many illegitimates the military will leave behind. I shall give the poor things a better life than they could possibly find on the streets.”

With a lift of her chin, Marguerite studied her sister anew. “So, you are destined to play the mother hen after all.”

Suri collected Jeremy’s hand. “Walk me to my quarters? We’ve been apart far too long.”

A grin spread across his face.

“Dinner is at eleven, dear. We’ll gather for refreshments at ten.”

Suri turned on her heel. “Eleven? Good heavens, so late?”

“We dine at that hour so there won’t be a cloud of mosquitoes feeding on us. The weather is somewhat cooler as well.”

“Oh, you mean the weather cools from a hard boil to a mere simmer? How very nice. I’ll be dead to the world by then.”

“Not if you sleep away the afternoon.” Marguerite waved her off. “Go. Allow Munia to bathe you, and do not allow my little scamp to steal your day.”

Jeremy hiccuped a giggle.

“It’s a relief to have you here at last,” Marguerite called after them. “I was quite worried you might change your mind. You’ll get used to the way things are, you’ll see.”

…

Suri cursed to herself when Munia tugged tighter on the strings of her corset. “Enough. I can’t breathe in this godforsaken furnace as it is.”

The shy maid said nothing, merely tied off the ends, and proceeded to dress Suri in a rose colored gown of silk and lace. It had only taken the afternoon, after a bath in her own private garden, and donning a flowing sari, to convince her that English women were daft not to adopt the native dress. Thank goodness she planned to remain at her sister’s only long enough to meet up with an Indian cousin who would arrange a meeting with her maternal grandparents. Her papa had warned against trying to connect with her deceased mother’s family, since they thought she’d been fed to the lions long ago, but she had to know what the family was like—she simply had to know. Now that Papa was no longer living, there would be no answering to him or causing him embarrassment. If Marguerite knew, however, she would be sure to step in on behalf of their father. Getting past her sister might prove difficult, indeed.

She surveyed her suite, not dissimilar to Marguerite’s, save a narrower bed. The mosquito netting around the low-slung affair added a rather romantic touch, she supposed, but romance was not anything she allowed herself to contemplate. Still, the lush ferns, cool, dark wood floors, and colorful silks on the myriad of pillows thrown on the bed, fainting couch, and chairs were remarkably romantic—to anyone with such a notion.

Her sister had been right—a bath and long nap had done wonders. She glanced toward her own walled garden and smiled. It had taken a moment or three to get used to the idea of bathing outdoors without a stitch on, and with a maid to scrub her clean, but by the time her bath was complete, she was a convert to the Indian way. At least in that.

Already, she felt a bit limp, and her hair was sure to droop before the night was out. Oh, drat, she’d rather curl up beneath the mosquito netting and read.

A light tapping on the door sent Munia scurrying. “It be Lady Marguerite, memsahib. I know the knock.” She opened the door to Suri’s sister, with Harry Chatham directly behind her, his hair an orange halo in the coconut oil lamplight. He shot Suri a dazzling grin over his wife’s shoulder.

Suri rushed forward. “Harry! How good to see you again. You look lovely in blue, Marguerite.” She sidled through the door, took Harry’s hands, blew him a kiss on either cheek, and then simply smiled back at him. “Harry, Harry.”

As always, cherries appeared on his cheeks. His boyish grin widened. “And you look lovely, as well, Suri. Mayhap, you’ve grown even lovelier since last I saw you. Hasn’t she, Marguerite?”

“I didn’t think it possible, but yes, darling, I believe she has.”

Suri laughed. “Not graying at twenty-seven, but I don’t feel a day over, ah, twenty-seven.” The faint sound of a horn caught her attention. “Did I hear a horn? Is that Jeremy?”

Harry offered her his arm. “Although Jeremy would love to be the one blasting away, what you hear is our guests being announced. And I do believe I just heard another blast. Shall we?”

Marguerite stepped to the rear. “I’ll follow and admire my sister’s, ah…lovely behind.”

Harry chortled. “Behave, dear.”

“Why?” the sisters said in unison, and they all laughed.

Perhaps joining them for dinner wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

If she thought the private quarters were plush, the withdrawing room was exquisite. Were there any walls to speak of? The outdoors bloomed within, while ceiling fans kept a constant breeze flowing throughout the room, despite the crush of people in this not so overly large space.

“I thought you said a mere fifty,” Suri said through her teeth as she surveyed the room.

Marguerite pasted a smile on her face and spoke through her teeth as well. “You know how terrible I am with numbers. Allow me to introduce you to a few of our Anglo-Indian guests of the haute society of India. I’ll begin with the most important and work my way down.” With the grace of a dancer, Marguerite floated forward. “Smile, dear. All eyes are upon you.”

“Where are the
unique
Lord Ravenswood and his pet cat?”