Something Sinful (23 page)

“I never did. But don’t change the subject.”

Considering the griffin on the wax seal that hung from the bottom of the missive, she had a fair idea both who’d sent the note and what it contained. Her mother loved her surprises though, so she set aside her book. “What in the world is it?”

“It is a note from the Duke of Melbourne, inviting us to dine with them tonight, and inquiring whether we would care to join them at the Wexton masked ball afterward! And to think the invitations for that ball went out weeks ago, before we ever arrived in London!”

“That’s good, then.” A shiver of nervousness went through her. She’d encountered all of the Griffins en masse before, but that had been when they were at the recital. Having their undivided attention focused on her, and knowing now that Shay intended for her to join their ranks—oh, dear.

“Good? It’s wonderful! I must find your father and tell him. I think he’s playing billiards with Lord DeLayne.”

“De—John is here?”

“He arrived a few minutes ago.”

Her mother hurried from the morning room and made her way to the stairs. Hurriedly Sarala rose and followed her. “Mama,” she hissed.

Her mother stopped on the first landing. “What is it, darling?”

“Are you certain you should tell Papa about the ball while Lord DeLayne is standing there? He probably wasn’t invited, either, since he’s only just come to London.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right. I’ll hand the note to your father, and let him read it.”

Blowing out her breath, Sarala watched her mother vanish up the stairs toward the billiards room. She had been half convinced that Melbourne wouldn’t do it. After all, everyone knew that the Wexton party was bound to be the event of the Season. He could just as easily have had them over for dinner any other night. A low buzz of excitement joined the nervous fluttering of her stomach. A masked ball. She knew what she wanted to wear—heavens, she’d known from the moment Shay had mentioned the party to her—but she had two problems: her nerves, and her mother. If either one got the better of her, she’d never be able to go through with it. She shouldn’t go through with it.

She heard a knock at the front door. A moment later the butler, armed with a salver and calling cards, appeared in the morning room doorway.

“My lady, Lady Deverill and Lady Caroline Griffin wish to know if you are in.”

Sarala stood, another bolt of nerves diving into her stomach. At this rate she might not survive to marry Charlemagne. “Of course I’m in. And bring some tea, if you please.”

Both ladies had been very kind to her two days ago when the disaster had occurred, but she’d been so frazzled that she hadn’t had any idea what they might actually have thought about everything. If it had been her watching a brother or brother-in-law caught and forced to announce marriage with someone practically a foreigner, she wasn’t certain how kind she would be.

“Good morning,” Lady Deverill said as she strolled into the room, Lady Caroline behind her.

“Good morning.” Sarala went forward to take each lady’s hand.

To her surprise, though, Caroline kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?” she asked.

“A bit disconcerted,” Sarala admitted. “What may I do for you?”

“We have a favor to ask of you,” Eleanor said, sitting in the chair Sarala indicated.

They probably wanted to ask her to return to India.
Sarala pushed that thought aside with a forced smile. “Anything.”

“Well, as you know, tonight is the Wexton masked ball. Sebastian has invited you to join us, hasn’t he?”

She nodded. “We received his note this morning.”

“Good.” Caroline cleared her throat. “Shall I, Nell, or do you want to?”

“Heavens, what is it?” Sarala broke in, a genuine smile breaking through her nervousness at the realization that she wasn’t the only one who felt on uncertain ground. For the sake of their family they would have to be friendly to her, she realized. Whether they meant that friendship or not—that was what she wished to determine. “You don’t want me to kill someone, do you?”

“Not yet. We wanted to ask your help with costumes for tonight, actually.”

“
My
help?”

“We thought,” Eleanor took up, “Caro and I, that is, that it would be fun if the three of us dressed as Indian—Hindu—ladies. But please, if you don’t feel comfortable about that, we won’t do anything of the sort.”

“You know, I honestly thought of dressing that way, myself,” Sarala admitted. “But if I may say, I have no intention of doing anything which might…further damage your or anyone else’s opinion of me.”

“Because you’re betrothed to Shay?” Eleanor asked. “I know my brother well enough to state that he’s never gotten involved in anything he didn’t want to. Charlemagne has a remarkable capacity to get things accomplished. So if anything, I would be angry at him for ambushing you, rather than the other way around.”

It sounded sincere. She wanted them to be sincere. Assuming, however, wouldn’t get her anywhere. “He didn’t ambush me. Please don’t think that.”

“I don’t.” The marchioness accepted a cup of tea from a footman. “I saw the way you two looked at one another.” Slowly she smiled. “And I invited you to luncheon before I knew either of your…feelings for one another.”

“I’m not certain
I
know what those are.”

Caroline took her hand. “You will, eventually.”

“Indeed,” Lady Deverill put in. “So what do you think? Should we all dress like princesses from India?”

Shay had said she looked like one. It
would
be fun to dress that way, especially if it was to be for last time. “I did bring several traditional
salwar kadeez
and saris and veils with me. Shall we take a look?”

Caroline clapped again. “I think Zachary may faint,” she said, chuckling.

The Marquis of Hanover stepped into the room. “Ladies,” he intoned, sketching a shallow bow. “My butler said you were here. I was wondering, would it be possible to bring one more with us tonight? I have a friend also recently arrived from India, and I think he would—”

“Of course,” Eleanor broke in. “The more the merrier. I’ll let Melbourne know our party will include one more.”

“Splendid. I shall leave you to your fun, then.” With another nod, Sarala’s father left the room again.

Sarala hid her sudden disappointment as she summoned Jenny and led the way to her bedchamber. It made sense that her father would want to include John DeLayne in their party, but she had several reasons to wish otherwise—the largest being that she didn’t want Charlemagne Griffin and Lord DeLayne ever to meet. No, it wasn’t disappointment she felt. It was dread.

Viscount DeLayne had returned home to change for the evening, and she imagined he would appear at Griffin House shortly. Invitations to such an auspicious place for something as intimate as a family dinner were far more rare even than tickets to an event as sought after as the Wexton soiree.

She stepped down from the coach with the assistance of a liveried footman and made her way up the shallow marble steps, through the wide double doors, and into the large foyer.

“Hello.”

She turned to see Charlemagne standing in a neighboring doorway and gazing at her. “Hello. You look very handsome tonight.”

“My sister says I clean up well.”

He did, indeed. His long-tailed black coat set off a black and gold waistcoat and black trousers that hugged his muscular thighs. His snow-white cravat was austere and elegant, pierced by a ruby pin—the only ornamentation he wore. An Indian ruby, no doubt. She tried not to read anything into his choice of decoration, but just by noticing it, she supposed that she already had.

“I thought I might take you into the billiards room to show you that bust of Caesar,” he continued.

“Am I not supposed to greet the Duke of Melbourne before I begin wandering about his house?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I live here, too, and you’ve greeted me. There’ll be time enough for Melbourne tonight.” He took her fingers, tugging her forward. “Come and see Caesar.”

“As long as you’re not attempting to get me into more trouble, yes, I would like that.” Then at least she wouldn’t have to witness the duke greeting her mother.

Shay freed her hand and offered his arm, and she wrapped her fingers around the fine black cloth of his sleeve. She’d been so preoccupied the last time that she couldn’t remember much about Griffin House except that it was huge. Tonight she took in the line of fine portraits along the short gallery of the upstairs hallway, the exquisite pieces of china and porcelain and Italian blown glass on the hall tables, and the gold gilding on the upper cornices of the walls.

“How long has your family owned this house?” she asked.

“It actually came to the Griffins from my great-great-great-grandmother, a daughter of the Duke of Cornwall. It became Griffin House in 1648. The rear half of the house burned during the Great Fire, but it was rebuilt in 1667. Various Griffins have modified, modernized, and expanded it since then, of course.”

“It seems as though your family has been here since the time of the Romans.” She’d heard that from Augusta, Lady Gerard, but if she was to marry into this family, she wanted to know all she could about their ancestry. And even if she wasn’t going to marry Charlemagne, she still couldn’t help wanting to know about him. Just hearing his voice gave her shivers.

“We have been. There was a Maximus Grifanus, a general under Emperor Trajan. The story is that he fell in love with a local tribal chief’s daughter. As a wedding gift the emperor gave him land, and he remained here as a landowner after he retired from the Roman army. His descendants decided they were British more than they were Roman, and after the legions left, they stayed as part of the original aristocracy.”

He came to a stop inside the billiards room and indicated a white marble bust between the tall windows opposite. “Zach calls him Uncle Julius, though the chances that we’re actually related are rather abysmal.”

She went closer to examine the bust. “Even abysmal is somewhat intimidating, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “All families come from somewhere. We simply happen to have kept records.”

“I would guess you’re actually a bit less cavalier than that about your ancestry,” she countered, half her attention still on the statue. She could see why he’d been interested in acquiring it; the quality was extraordinary. It had come from a Roman palace somewhere, and probably one occupied by Caesar, himself. The stone felt cool beneath her fingertips.

A young throat cleared itself in the doorway, and Sarala turned around, surprised. A very petite girl who looked a great deal like Eleanor stood there eyeing her. Hands clasped behind her and rocking back on her heels, in stance she looked more like Melbourne. The duke’s daughter, no doubt.

“Uncle Shay, would you be kind enough to introduce me to our guest?” the girl asked.

“Certainly.” Charlemagne hid a quick grin. “Peep, Lady Sarala Carlisle. Sarala, my niece, Lady Penelope Griffin.”

Sarala curtsied, taking her cue from Charlemagne. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Penelope.”

The girl curtsied back. “I like your accent,” she stated.

Charlemagne stirred, offering a hand to Sarala again. “She used to live in India, Peep. And she knows how to charm cobras.”

“Shay,” Sarala began, ready to chastise him for frightening Lady Penelope with talk of snakes. Before she could continue, though, the girl pranced into the room and grabbed her free hand.

“Is it true that the music you play hypnotizes the cobras?” she asked, gray eyes shining with excitement.

“No, it’s actually the movement of the instrument that holds its attention, Lady Penelope,” Sarala returned, freeing her hands to demonstrate with an imaginary flute.

“You may call me Peep,” Penelope said, mimicking the motions. “Like this?”

“That’s excellent. Are you certain you’ve never charmed a cobra before?”

Peep giggled. “Only Uncle Zachary. Which mask are you wearing to the ball tonight?”

Eleanor and Caroline had sworn her to secrecy, but there was no reason she couldn’t tell the girl precisely that. She knew how important this meeting was. “I’m afraid it’s a secret, but I’ll make certain you get to see before we leave the house.”

“I would be a pirate,” Peep returned, “but Papa says I would frighten all the ladies.”

“You frighten me,” Shay put in, tugging one of the girl’s curls.

“Very amusing. I would like to sit beside Lady Sarala at dinner.”

“Sarala, please,” she returned, grinning at Charlemagne over his niece’s head. “The ladies in your family are all very nice,” she said, meaning it.

“They have to compensate for the evil character of the men,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing her fingers.

Warmth swirled up her spine in response. For the first time she tried to imagine actually being married to this man. The thought terrified her, but at the same time she felt more…excited than she would have believed possible. And the most frightening and exhilarating thought of all was that
he
wanted to marry
her.