Her Only Desire (13 page)

The effect left him speechless.

He, who had argued before kings and earned a reputation for eloquence in the House of Lords, could do naught but stare.

Hesitating in the doorway for a moment, she had also thrown the Marathas into something of an uproar. He did not require any great mastery of their tongue to interpret the general reaction: a mix of surprise, uncertain affront at her bold intrusion, and simple male bedazzlement at her lavish beauty.

The Marathas knew that Englishwomen did not keep purdah, but Ian gathered by their reaction that they had never seen anything quite like Georgiana Knight before.

For that matter, neither had London. Not since her aunt, anyway.

Ian wasn't sure if he was exasperated or amused. What on earth was she doing here? Did nothing scare the girl?

Though she must have sensed their scandalized reaction, the intrepid Miss Knight was clearly not about to be deterred. She was glancing around the banqueting hall as though she had every right to be there, searching for someone she knew.

Subtle signs of uneasiness in her movements and posture drew Ian's chivalry again as he realized she was not as brazenly sure of herself as she wished to appear. It looked as if his little hellion-damsel was in need of another timely rescue.

With a polite nod, he took leave of the gentlemen he had been talking to and went to collect her, determined this time to take in stride whatever mischief the minx tried to throw his way.

Heading toward her, he downed his last swallow of fiery Scotch whisky.

He was probably going to need it.

CHAPTER

         
SIX
         

G
eorgie hesitated in the doorway, looking out upon a glittering sea of bold colors and shocked brown faces, but she refused to back out. She had invited herself to the feast in order to make a statement: She was here because the other women couldn't be.

Still, it was a bit intimidating, and behind her outward show of total poise she was terrified, pulse pounding, mouth dry. The Maratha courtiers' hostile stares, and even the scowl from Colonel Montrose and a few of the Highlanders, underscored the point that nobody felt she belonged here. It pained her, for at the back of her mind, she was still upset by the reminder from Lakshmi and Meena that she didn't quite belong in their world, either, as much as she liked to pretend.

Georgie wasn't sure she belonged anywhere.

But she bunched up her white-gloved hands into fists by her sides, lifted her chin a notch, and scanned the crowd, desperately seeking her brothers. Surely, they would not turn her away.

Instead, it was Lord Griffith who emerged from the crowd, his stare clamped on her—though it was impossible to tell by his guarded expression if he was coming to browbeat or to rescue her. Either way, her heart soared at the sight of him, dazzling in his formal evening wear, all black-and-white lordly magnificence. The tails of his ebony coat swung with the vigor of his long strides as he marched toward her.

Wondering if he'd order her to leave, she braced herself, ready to fight him again if need be, but when he reached her, he completely upended her expectations with his greeting.

“Miss Knight.” He took her hand and bowed over it with polished aplomb. “You look lovely.”

She gazed at him in perplexity.

Her brothers arrived a step behind him, hurrying to intercept her. Derek greeted her with a tense smile, but Gabriel drew Lord Griffith aside and spoke to him in a low tone.

“My lord, I'm so sorry about this. I didn't know she was coming. I'll tell her she has to return to the harem—”

“Nonsense, they've already seen her,” he answered in a murmur, glancing from Gabriel to Georgie again. “If we try to hide her away now, we'll look weak. We'll all lose face. She must stay. She'll sit at the king's table with us.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Gabriel murmured.

“It'll be fine,” the marquess replied. “Let her come with me. That way, they can't get rid of her without insulting the whole delegation.”

Gabriel nodded. “Very well, then.”

Lord Griffith turned to her with a suave smile. “Won't you join us, Miss Knight?” When he calmly offered her his arm, she passed a searching glance over his face.

His expression was a perfect mask of gentlemanly courtesy, but there was a great deal more going on behind his eyes. He really was the most intriguing man. “Why, thank you, Lord Griffith,” she replied with a formal courtesy to match his own. Then she took his arm.

She saw the shrewd glance her brothers exchanged but decided to ignore it.

Nothing could spoil the sudden lilt in her stride as she walked through the banqueting hall on the marquess's arm. He'd probably subject her to another lecture later over this, but for now, it was just as well that he had chosen to take her under his wing, she thought. For at that moment, she noticed Prince Shahu staring at her again from across the room.

Georgie had developed a wide range of skills for keeping amorous males at bay, but they were usually British nabobs raised on Western chivalry. Not Kshatriya royalty accustomed to taking what they wanted.

         

Soon King Johar made his entrance, and the palace's army of servants hopped to the work of serving the great banquet.

Waiting for the meal to officially begin, everyone lounged in their seats—or rather, on the array of square cushions and large cylindrical pillows arranged for the guests around each long, low table. Ian found it an extremely intimate way to take a meal, especially when one had a charming and beautiful woman by one's side.

Removing her gloves for the meal, Miss Knight sat between Gabriel and Ian, while barefoot servants cooled them all, slowly waving long-handled peacock fans.

Large silver platters bearing a dizzying selection of exotic foods were soon presented between each pair of guests. Next, stacks of disc-shaped breads, both leavened and unleavened, were brought out. Soft and steaming, the fresh bread circles came in a variety of textures and flavors, which Georgiana explained to him: wheat bread, mint bread, corn flour bread, a dark bread made from the flour of water chestnuts, another from ground lentils. These were used instead of cutlery to scoop the food into one's mouth.

The platters offered a broad array of Indian delicacies as well as staples like rice. There were grilled kebabs with alternating vegetables and bite-sized pieces of chicken and lamb, all skewered on miniature swords. The collection of bowls nesting within the platters' indented compartments offered things like lentil puree and
biryani,
a slow-cooked chicken stew rich with colorful vegetables and full of aromatic flavors: cinnamon, saffron, and cardamom. Ian felt like he was back in the spice market, where he had first laid eyes on Georgiana.

He investigated another interesting dish that she described as the Indian version of mutton stew in a white cream base, mildly flavored with almonds. He asked her if she'd try it, too, but she informed him she did not eat meat. He raised an eyebrow at this, but while she helped herself to the curried potatoes and the more curious vegetables, crispy lotus root and bitter gourd, he asked her to explain the condiments: mint chutney, pickled mangoes with ginger, tamarind sauce, and a whipped yogurt sauce to counteract the hotter spices—their plates were garnished with little green chili peppers.

Raised on bland English fare, in the sit-up-straight school of aristocratic manners, Ian knew it was time to be adventurous in his palate. He only hoped that in this lounging position, he did not end up wearing the lentil puree on its precarious journey from the table to his mouth atop the scoopy bread. Georgiana watched him in amusement, laughing at his occasional self-deprecating remarks, such as his grumbling jest that, of all nights, he had chosen this to don a white waistcoat.

“My dear Lord Griffith, didn't your interpreter mention the Indians' view of the colors black and white?” she murmured, leaning closer.

“No, why?”

“Because in India, white is the color of death and black is bad luck,” she whispered.

“Are you joking?” he exclaimed, sitting up straighter.

She shook her head and daintily licked a little stray sauce off her finger. “Personally, I think you look very handsome, but if you want to charm our hosts, try red or green or blue. Yellow's a fine choice. Pink is also acceptable.”

“Pink? My dear lady, no descendent of a Norman warlord ever wore pink.”

“You could start a new fashion, then. Adley would do it,” she added with a merry wink.

He laughed aloud.

All the while, the maharaja's troupe of musicians played. The winding
veena
music accompanied by an expressive flute, together with the slow, complex rhythm of the drums, proved quite relaxing.

The meal passed in pleasant conversation.

Pleasant, except for Prince Shahu's efforts to get Georgiana's attention. No doubt the young coxcomb found her a novelty, but her gracious indifference seemed to leave him completely confounded. The more she politely ignored him, the louder and more insistent grew his boasts. His two royal bodyguards were left the unenviable task of having to continually affirm the royal whelp's claims of his own prowess in a variety of areas, from his hunting triumphs to the excellence of his horses, to his own much-vaunted skill at swordplay.

King Johar looked like he wanted to slap him.

So did Gabriel.

Sensing the exasperation building within his serious-minded friend, Ian took it upon himself to allay their mutual irritation with a welcome change of subject. “So, how is your father, Major?”

“We haven't seen him in months, since he headed out to sea to meet up with our cousin Jack,” Gabriel said, “but I imagine he's in fine health.”

Down the long table, Derek leaned forward to meet his gaze. “Did you know Jack owns a shipping company?”

“I had heard that.”

“Warehouses all over the world. The moment the East India Company's monopoly was lifted here, he expanded into the Indian market. He's got offices now in Madras, Calcutta, and Bombay.”

“Good for him,” Ian murmured, impressed at how the village troublemaker when they were lads had turned his life around so drastically.

Georgiana nudged Ian gently with her elbow. “I understand you knew our father when he was a young man? What was he like?”

“Oh, we loved him,” he declared with all sincerity. “Back in those days—God, we were mere cubs, ten, eleven—Lord Arthur was the only adult who would ever tell us the truth about anything. We were desolate when he left. Especially Jack,” he added.

“It's a shame how the two branches of our family grew apart,” Derek remarked.

“I understand Father had quite a falling-out with his elder brother, the previous Duke of Hawkscliffe,” Gabriel said.

“Yes, I have heard that, too,” Ian answered. “But I do not know the substance of what happened.”

“I'm not sure it matters anymore,” Derek said.

By now, the meal had drawn to a close.

Dishes were whisked away by an army of efficient servants and a sweet course of the most luxurious order was served. The desserts were cooling in contrast to the vibrant spiciness of the meal. There was fruit-flavored sherbet and air-light pistachio-and-saffron ice cream. Magnificent fruit trays arrived mounded with sliced melon, mangoes, apricots, and huge lush plumes of grapes. There was
tilgul,
made of cinnamon and molasses, and sweet biscuits ornately decorated with icing like little works of art, lavishly trimmed with paper-thin threads of real silver. Scattered among the
paan
were silver-coated cloves to aid the digestion and sweeten the breath.

“Lord Griffith?” Georgiana asked.

Ian washed down a biscuit with a swallow of Champagne. “Yes, my dear?”

“Did you ever meet our aunt, the Duchess of Hawkscliffe?” she asked almost shyly.

“Er, yes. On several occasions.” His dutiful smile betrayed none of his real opinions on that topic. He steered the subject elsewhere. “I also knew your uncle. He was my godfather.”

“Really?” she exclaimed.

He nodded. “Our families have always been great allies. You should visit London sometime. I'm sure your cousins would love to meet you.” He noticed the flicker of tension behind her cobalt eyes after his suggestion. His gaze sharpened and he studied her with a narrow smile. “What is it?”

She tried to wave away her fleeting response. “Oh, I'm sure a visit to England would be very nice. But…I don't expect I ever will go there.”

“Why not? Surely you don't share that native superstition Ravi told me about, that ‘crossing the great water' leaves one cursed?”

“No! I just have…no desire to,” she said with an evasive shrug.

“Why?”

A pink tint crept into her cheeks. “I'd really rather not say.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

“I don't wish to be rude.”

He laughed softly. “Now you have to tell me. Come, I'm too intrigued.”

“Well, it's just that people from London don't seem very agreeable.”

“Really?” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes! I am sorry, but whenever they come to India, all they do is complain and criticize everything. The weather, the people, both Indian and British—they treat us like backwater provincials. If my cousins are like that, I'd just as soon admire them from afar. Thankfully, you're nothing like that,” she added with great sincerity.