Something Sinful (8 page)

Jenny opened the parasol and held it up over Sarala’s head as they walked. “I hope I didn’t do wrong, my lady, but for him—a lord—to kiss you like that in public, well, I couldn’t—”

“Jenny, you didn’t do anything wrong. Thank you very much for looking after me.” Slowing, Sarala faced the maid. “I would appreciate, however, if you kept it between us.”

“Of course, my lady.” She hesitated. “You’re all right, then?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Just a little startled.”

The kiss
had
startled her, but not because of the act itself. She’d been anticipating another one for what felt like weeks. And it proved that she hadn’t imagined it the first time—the kiss had felt exactly as she’d remembered—warm, and confident, and intimate. Surreptitiously she ran one finger along her lips.

In the course of various business dealings she’d managed on her father’s behalf, men had attempted seduction before. Apparently if they couldn’t overwhelm her mind, their next and only remaining strategy was to attempt to bed her—as if that would miraculously turn her witless. They had been the idiots.

Charlemagne’s kisses, though, then and now, hadn’t felt like those of a man trying to exert his dominance or authority. He’d said he admired her. Nothing in his embrace contradicted his words. And that troubled her a little, because he kissed very well. Very well, indeed.

Once they reached the outer boundary of Hyde Park, she took control of the damaged parasol while Jenny hailed a hack. The drizzle continued soft and gray, and with the sun gone and the light east breeze, Sarala longed to sit in front of a warm fire. The blankets and warm coals of Lord Shay’s barouche had been heavenly.

She imagined that Shay would be soaked to the bone by the time he reached Griffin House, for he’d had no parasol or hooded coat, but it served him right. Perhaps she was enjoying this very unusual negotiation, but a straightforward exchange of numbers and a handshake would have been much easier on her nerves. Well, not her nerves, precisely, though she did feel…jittery whenever she caught sight of Charlemagne Griffin. And she certainly hadn’t been the least bit bored over the past few days, thanks to those silks—and to her opponent.

“Lady Sarah,” the butler said, as he accepted her wet cloak, “your mother is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

Blast it, she was going to freeze to death before she ever made it back to her bedchamber to find dry clothes. “Thank you, Blankman.”

“I’ll bring you some hot tea, my lady,” Jenny put in, helping to remove her bonnet and gloves.

“Thank you, Jenny.”

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind of warm kisses and other things at which Lord Charlemagne was undoubtedly equally skilled, Sarala climbed the stairs to the drawing room. She rapped softly on the closed door, then pushed it open. “Mama, you wanted to…see me?”

Half a dozen matrons turned to face her. Blast it all. No wonder Blankman had given her such a sympathetic look. Mama had undoubtedly forbidden him to warn her that visitors were present.

“Sarah. Come here, darling.”

Pasting a smile on her face, Sarala crossed the room. Belatedly she tucked a strand of wet hair away behind her left ear, and then with a jolt realized she still wore the peacock ear bobs. Damn, damn, damn.

The marchioness, seated on the couch beside Lady Allendale, took Sarala’s hands and pulled her forward so they could kiss cheeks. “Take those things off at once,” her mother whispered.

Sarala hurriedly removed the ear bobs and tucked them into her pelisse pocket. Inside, her fingers felt another shape—the ruby pendant.
That devious devil.

“I believe you know everyone, don’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, Mama.” Sarala made a curtsy to the room in general. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go change.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Mrs. Wendon said, brandishing a gingerbread biscuit. “You look charming. Doesn’t she, Mary?”

Lady Mary Doorley nodded. “Indeed. Just the thing, I’m certain.”

Sarala hid a frown. “Just the thing for what?”

“Oh, yes, and her accent is charming, as well.”

“Just the thing for what?” Sarala repeated. It had taken her only a day to figure out her mother’s old gaggle of friends. They were all matchmakers to the core. And if she was charming, then they were thinking of setting her after some man. She began to feel as if she’d been surrounded by a pack of hungry, laughing hyenas. “Excuse me, but what are you talking about?”

The marchioness reached out to take her daughter’s hand again. “We’ve all been speculating, Sarah,” she said expansively, her voice shaking with barely suppressed excitement, “about which gentleman might be the best match for you. I personally favor the Duke of Melbourne, but Lady A—”

“The Duke of—Lord Charlemagne’s brother?”

Just inside the doorway a tea tray crashed to the floor. Sarala jumped.

“Apologies, my lady,” Jenny squeaked, sending Sarala a miserable look as she knelt to pick up the scattered teapot and accessories and replace them on the silver tray.

“It’s no matter, Jenny,” Sarala put in before her mother could criticize the maid. “We have tea already. I only hope you haven’t caught a cold with me keeping you out in the rain like that.”

“Oh, thank you, Lady Sarah,” the maid whispered, curtsying and backing the jumbled tea set out of the room.

Sarala was actually the grateful one. The accident at least gave her a moment to compose herself. Her mother actually thought she would suit the Duke of Melbourne? Ridiculous, and even more so in light of the fact that she was practically at war with the man’s brother—despite the kisses.

“I still think she would better suit Lord John Tundle,” Lady Allendale said, rubbing her hands together with obvious relish. “He served in India several years ago.”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Allendale,” Sarala said carefully, trying to pull her thoughts together, “but do you not have a granddaughter just making her debut this Season? Why would you promote my interest over hers?”

Mrs. Wendon burst out laughing. “Because she already tried to set Millicent on half the gentlemen of the
ton
, and the poor girl has succumbed to the vapors each and every time. One of them told Lady A that her granddaughter seemed in need of a curative.”

“The girl’s too delicate for her own good,” Lady Allendale said unsympathetically.

“You can’t ignore that she and Lord Epping would look very well together, with his fair features and her dark ones.” Mrs. Wendon sipped at her tea.

The ladies began a long, loud debate over whether Melbourne should be the target and who would attend the Franfield recital that evening, and whether Sarala would show better on the stage or in the audience. Considering her barely adequate skill with the pianoforte, Sarala knew where she would prefer to be, but obviously none of this was her decision.

“You mustn’t mind them, you know,” a quiet voice came from behind her.

She looked up to see Augusta, Lady Gerard, standing at the back of the couch. As she reviewed the conversation, Lady Gerard did seem to be the only one who hadn’t offered a suggestion to alter her marital status. “They seem very enthusiastic,” Sarala offered diplomatically.

The elderly woman gestured for her to shift over, and then sat down on the sofa beside her. “They’ve all mostly married off their own children, and everyone knows grandchildren can’t be managed, so they’ve decided to loan you all of their matchmaking expertise.”

“So I see.”

Pale blue eyes met hers. “You may speak your mind with me, Sarala. Or should I call you Sarah?”

Sarala took a deep breath. It would be so nice to be able to speak frankly with another woman. She’d missed that more than anything else in the weeks since she’d left India and her friends behind. That to her was far more important than being tossed into matrimony. At the same time, she had no intention of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.

“My mother wishes me to go by Sarah,” she answered, meeting the baroness’s cool gaze.

“Mujhe ap pareshan lage
,
”
Lady Gerard murmured. “You seem worried to me.”

“You speak Hindi?”

“Not as well as I used to. My husband was stationed in Delhi for fifteen years, though well before your time, I’m afraid. India is a lovely country, and very different from England.”

“
Very
different,” Sarala agreed vehemently. “Were you sorry to leave?”

“I was sorry to leave friends, and happy to reacquaint myself with others back in England. I don’t imagine you have anyone with whom to renew old friendships here though, do you? You were born in India.”

“You know a great deal about me, my lady.”

“I know a great deal about a great many people. That’s why I’m always invited to parties. For instance, I know that the Duke of Melbourne would never offer for you.”

Sarala lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Lady Gerard chuckled. “Don’t be offended, my dear. It has little to do with you. Melbourne is a singularly uncooperative sort of single gentleman: a widower who loved his wife. And aside from that, Melbourne…is England. The Griffins have been landowners and nobles here since they came from Rome eighteen hundred years ago. And no Griffin has ever married outside of England since then.” She chuckled again. “He’s literally more English than Prinny and the rest of the royal family.”

No Griffin has ever married outside of England.
“That seems a bit stuffy of them,” Sarala returned lightly, smoothing her skirt and throttling the urge to touch her lips again. As she’d suspected, Charlemagne’s kiss had been a strategic maneuver. Lady Gerard’s comments confirmed it. “I suppose, though, that with the best of England’s females to choose from, they’ve never needed to look elsewhere.”

“You don’t seem disappointed to hear your poor prospects of marrying the duke,” the baroness noted.

“I’ve only seen him twice, and have certainly never spoken to him.” She smiled, warming even further to the elderly woman in the dark green muslin gown. “Actually, I’ve barely spoken to anyone Mama’s friends have mentioned. At least all the chaos should afford me the opportunity to meet more people.”

“You are a practical lass, aren’t you?”

“I attempt to be. I’ve learned to lead with my mind rather than my heart, at any rate.”

Lady Gerard took a sip of tea, eyeing her from over the rim of the cup. “How old are you?”

“Two-and-twenty.”

“That’s a hard lesson to be learned by one as young as you are.”

Sarala forced a laugh. As if she had
any
intention of telling anyone how she’d learned that particular lesson. But it was another reason she’d never marry anyone as well known as the Duke of Melbourne. “It’s something that makes sense,” she offered instead. “After all, I’ve been in London for less than a fortnight, and already my name’s been changed and my mother’s trying to marry me to a granite figurehead to whom I’ve never even been introduced. If I were a silly girl, I could well be overset by now.”

The baroness burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the other ladies in the room. “What’s so amusing over there?” Lady Allendale asked, furrowing her thin, straight brows. “You must include us in your jests.”

“That would overset
her,
” Lady Gerard whispered. “Oh, it was nothing,” she continued in a louder voice. “Merely an agreement on the sad weather we’re having this year.”

“It is sad, indeed.” Lady Allendale took Lady Hanover’s hand. “You weren’t here, but this past winter the Thames nearly froze over. All the young people made a huge game of the weather, but I thought it was dreadful. Dreadful and cold.”

“Please, ladies, we must keep our eyes on the target,” Mrs. Wendon broke in. “Namely on how Lady Sarah is to attract Epping’s attention.”

“You mean Lord John Tundle.”

“I most certainly meant Epping.”

“This is exciting,” Sarala’s mother chortled. “Do you think it could actually work? And I haven’t ruled out Melbourne, yet.”

“Our task is to make it work. Now, as I was saying…”

Charlemagne frowned, accepting the folded missive from his personal London residence and trying not to get it wet. “It’s from Oswald.” He glanced at Stanton’s carefully blank face. “I’ll be in the billiards room. I’d appreciate if you’d have Cook send up some hot soup. Chicken, preferably.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler turned for the servants’ hall, then hesitated. “Do you wish me to send Caine up to tend you? If I may be so bold, you appear to be rather…damp.”

“Soaked to the skin, actually. Yes, have Caine meet me in my bedchamber.”

“I’ll see to it at once, my lord.”

Still dripping from his hair and boots, Charlemagne climbed the Griffin House stairs to his trio of private rooms at the back of the house. Stanton’s litany of the location of family members used to take much longer, but now with first Eleanor and then Zachary married and living elsewhere, the butler’s task had become a little easier.

His own hadn’t, however. And that was why he should never have kissed Sarala once, much less twice. Flirtations and the occasional lover were one thing, but whatever it was about Sarala that had confounded him so, didn’t feel casual or something to be pursued on slow evenings. And she tasted like cinnamon, though that might have been his imagination.

Shaking out his hair and attempting to clear his waterlogged brain at the same time, Shay set aside the Gaston House butler’s note and shed his jacket and cravat. Business and the Griffin family and ancient artifacts and writings. Those were his interests, though not necessarily in that order. Playing about at getting those silks back wasn’t precisely good business, but at least he could honestly declare that it was somewhat business-related.

Kissing Sarala, though—he couldn’t categorize, justify, or clarify anything about it. She could claim he’d done it to coerce her, and at least that explanation made some sort of sense. Otherwise he would just have to admit he’d been seized by an odd and hopefully temporary madness.

Caine scratched at the door, thankfully rousing him from his pointless reverie. “Enter,” he called, going to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Stanton said you were caught in the rain, m’lord,” the valet said, his Irish accent deepening in obvious amusement.

“Yes. My own fault—I decided to walk home.”

“No worries, m’lord. I’ve already sent for the coach, and we’ll have you to White’s in good time.”

Charlemagne frowned. “White’s?”

Nodding, Caine pulled a folded paper from his pocket as a brief look of concern crossed his narrow face. “I always make a note of all your appointments, since I admit to my shame that my memory’s not as solid as yours.” He unfolded the paper and glanced at the numerous chicken scratches. “Yes. Last week you said you’d moved your monthly meeting with your brother the duke to—”

“—to one o’clock today at White’s,” Shay finished. “Damnation. I forgot.”

“It’s no matter, m’lord. You’ll be there on time.”

“Thank you, Caine. And please tell Cook I won’t be needing the soup.”

“Of course, m’lord.”

As Charlemagne dried himself off and dressed in a dark brown jacket with light gray waistcoat and dark gray trousers, his frown deepened. He knew better than anyone how unusual it was for him to forget an appointment. Even worse, he and Sebastian met for luncheon monthly—their chance to discuss business and family without siblings or nieces or distractions other than fellow diners who felt they had to stop by and say hello.

What the devil was wrong with him? He and Melbourne had made their monthly meetings a five-year-long tradition. Charlemagne checked the knot of his cravat, nodded at Caine, then at the last minute remembered Oswald’s note and crammed it into his pocket to read in the coach as he went downstairs. Stanton had found a dry greatcoat for him, and with another nod he headed outside to the coach. In a moment he was rumbling down the street on the way to White’s.