Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (24 page)

 
Devora smoothed her hands over Rohan’s back and wondered how anyone could possibly be so narrow-minded as to categorize all Indian men together under the same prejudices. Rohan was not only unlike any Indian man she had known, but simply unlike any man.

She parted her lips under his as his hand slid behind her neck. Their tongues danced together, breath mingling in hot rushes. Arousal swept over Devora’s skin like a thousand delicious feathers, so soft and sensual that she felt as if she were entering a place she didn’t want to leave.

 
Rohan whispered something in her ear, Hindi words whose meaning escaped her but whose lyricism invaded her blood. She stroked her palm over Rohan’s strong jaw, tracing her fingertips over the coarseness of his whiskers. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples already tenting the thin material of her dress as Rohan clutched her hips in his hands pulled the skirt to her waist.

Then he gently insinuated his knee between her thighs. Devora drew in a sharp breath at the sensation of his hard thigh pressing against her sex. She pushed her body downwards, her pulse throbbing as she rubbed against his leg. The heat of Rohan’s skin burned clear through his trousers and the cotton of her panties.

Her body seemed to move of its own volition, her hips rotating with increasing frenzy. Sensations spread like fingers from her sex upwards through her pelvis, inflaming her need beyond reason. Rohan supported her lower back, bending to kiss the hollow of her throat. His tongue flickered out to taste her damp skin.

 
“Wait,” Devora gasped, tightening her fingers around the front of his jacket. “I want—”

 
She didn’t have to finish her sentence. Rohan pulled her dress and slip over her head, exposing her to his heated gaze. Devora stretched out on the bed and let him remove her panties, her excitement intensified merely by the way that he was looking at her naked body. She had never seen eyes like his, eyes that could smolder with such desire and yet also had the ability to shut him off from the world.

 
Watching her, Rohan removed his jacket and trousers, then leaned over her and pressed his palm against the apex of her thighs. The tip of his finger slipped into her tight passage, eliciting a rush of moisture in readiness for his complete penetration.

With a moan, Devora spread her legs apart and gripped his arms to urge him towards her. She splayed her hands over the muscles of his chest, twining her fingers through his thick mat of hair. She loved the way his skin and muscles felt underneath her palms, and the way the heat emanated from him to slide directly into her. His erection nudged against the fissure of her sex, pressing forward with slow strokes.

Devora opened up to him fully, wrapping her arms around him to pull him closer as his body began to intensify their sweet, hot union. As they merged together, all thought dissolved into sensations and a quiet desperation that neither of them could identify.

 
Devora woke with slow ease, lifting her arms above her head for a satisfying stretch. She took a deep breath of the clean, fresh air drifting in from the garden and opened her eyes.

Rohan stood in front of the cracked mirror, fastening his sash around his waist. Devora rolled onto her side and smoothed her hand over his pillow. She watched him for a moment, appreciating the masculine grace of his movements.

 
“Have you told anyone about us?” she murmured.

 
Rohan glanced at her in the mirror. “You think I would?”

 
Devora shrugged. “I don’t know. I was only curious.”

 
“No. I have told no one.”

 
“Neither have I.”

 
“Haven’t you? Not even Mrs. Thompson and the gossiping
memsahibs
of the club?”

 
“Heavens no. Why on earth would I tell them?” Devora propped herself up on one elbow as she watched him finish dressing. He really was a beautiful man. And so noble-looking, as if he had been raised among the regality of court. “Are you going into town now?”

 
“Yes. You require something?”

 
“Pick up some desserts, if you would. Perhaps
gulab jamun
. I enjoy that. But please make certain that it’s fresh.”

 
“Yes,
memsahib
.”

 
Devora wondered if it was customary among Indian men to continue to refer to women by formal titles even after they had been sexually intimate. She reached for her discarded dress and slipped it over her head, then patted her hair back into place. She thought about going with him into town, but decided she would much rather work on her painting of him.

 
“I will return in an hour,” Rohan said.

 
“Fine.” Devora put on her shoes and followed him outside. She went towards the veranda, while he went around to the front of the house. Devora’s heart jumped slightly as she saw Kalindi standing on the veranda, watching both her and Rohan return from the direction of his quarters.

 
“Do you want something, Kalindi?” Devora asked, putting an authoritative tone in her voice.

 
“Yes,
memsahib
. I was wondering what you would like me to prepare for lunch.” Kalindi glanced at Rohan as he disappeared around the side of the house.

 
“Is it lunch time already?” Devora hadn’t realized just how long she had been with Rohan. Nor did she like the curious look on Kalindi’s face. “Just some fruit and perhaps a chicken pie.”

 
“Very well.” Kalindi turned to go back into the kitchen, but then glanced at Devora again. “Did you discover what you wanted to know about Rohan?”

 
Devora frowned. “Yes, thank you.”

 
“He is not dismissed, is he?”

 
“No, of course not. Why on earth would he be dismissed?” Devora moved past Kalindi to go into the house. She hoped the young woman didn’t know that she had been with Rohan for at least four hours. The last thing she needed was Kalindi gossiping. “Kalindi, do get back to work. I dislike idleness.”

 
“Yes,
memsahib
.” Kalindi hurried back into the kitchen.

 
Devora returned to her painting, realizing she had left her drawings of Rohan in plain view for the servants to see. She sighed, but figured that drawings were not exactly incriminating evidence. All one had to do was look at Rohan to realize he was a perfect subject for artistic endeavors. Not to mention sexual endeavors.

 
Devora smiled. A shiver of delight skittered over her skin. No man had ever satisfied her so thoroughly, both on mental and physical levels, not even her own husband. And then there was the sheer illicitness of their relationship, which gave it a heady kind of beauty.

 
She picked up her pencil and gazed at the sketch on the canvas. After a moment, she erased the drawing and started over. Within half an hour, she had redrawn Rohan’s likeness. As she stepped back to critically examine the result, satisfaction filled her. She hadn’t consciously intended this, but she had captured his expression as it was in the moment just before he bent his head to kiss her.

***

CHAPTER TWELVE

 
“I thought you liked visiting him.” Gerald looked at Devora as he fastened his waistcoat and slipped on his jacket. “Especially with all those lunches you attended.”

 
Devora didn’t miss the sarcastic note in his voice, and she gave him a mild glare.

 
“I did enjoy visiting him,” she replied. “However, I just don’t feel up to socializing tonight.”

 
“Well, darling, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to,” Gerald said. “It’s just not good form to turn down an invitation from the maharaja.”

 
“Yes, I know.” Devora fastened on her pearl earrings and picked up her pocketbook. “Please, though, let’s come home early.”

 
“We’ll come home as soon as it’s proper.”

 
Proper. Good form
. Devora thought she had never met a group of people who were so rigidly confined by a set of rules as the British “empire-builders” were. She followed Gerald outside to the car they had borrowed to take them to the maharaja’s palace again.

 
Rohan stood by the car, his hand on the handle of the open door. “Good evening to both of you,” he said.

 
“Good evening, Rohan.” Gerald stepped aside and helped Devora into the car. She glanced quickly at Rohan as she climbed in, unsurprised by the fact that he didn’t exhibit a flicker of emotion towards her.

Once she and Gerald were settled in the backseat, Rohan got behind the wheel and headed for the palace. Devora looked out the side window at the reddish bronze landscape, wondering how anyone could live here for as long as many of the British did and yet still be so ignorant about the country and its people.

 
The entrance of the palace was lined with lights, making it stand out like a beacon through the late-afternoon air. Rohan left them at the entrance before he went to park the car alongside the other vehicles.

 
Devora took a deep breath as she and Gerald went into the palace. She hadn’t seen the maharaja since the day he had both frightened and angered her with his disregard for her feelings. She slipped her arm through Gerald’s as they stepped into the reception room that bustled with movement, silk, and voices. Devora’s fingers tightened around Gerald’s arm when she saw the maharaja approaching them.

 
Weeks had passed since their final encounter, but he looked much the same, a plump man elaborately decked out in satin and embroidery. An exotic, colorful feather bloomed from his turban.

Devora watched him approach, realizing he had lost the mystique that had so enraptured her in the beginning. He may have been a prince, but ultimately, he was a manipulative, aging man who did nothing but conspire against the British and exercise control over his court officials and harem. It made perfect sense that he would also attempt to exercise the same control over a British woman.

 
“Sir, you honor us by inviting us to your home once again.” Gerald shook the maharaja’s hand. “Thank you.”

 
“You are most welcome at any time,” the maharaja replied smoothly. His gaze went to Devora, his full lips curling into a semblance of a smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I am sorry you have been unable to come for lunch again.”

 
“I’ve been busy,” Devora replied.

 
“Yes, that is a pity. I did so enjoy our visits.”

 
“Will you gentlemen excuse me?” Devora asked. “I see Louise over there, and there is something I want to ask her.”

 
The men nodded. Devora gratefully escaped the maharaja’s presence and went to join the group of women in the corner.

 
“Devora, isn’t it wonderful to be here again?” Louise kissed Devora’s cheek in greeting. “I just love being able to visit a palace!”

 
“Yes, wonderful,” Devora murmured.

 
Adele eyed Devora with suspicion. “You don’t seem very excited. Perhaps that’s because you’ve been here much more often than we have.”

 
“Perhaps,” Devora replied absently.

 
“Now, Adele, don’t be rude,” Louise said. “I think it’s a great honor that the maharaja invited Devora to lunch with him.”

 
“Provided that’s all she did,” Adele muttered.

 
Devora chuckled. “You mean anything more would not be a great honor?”

 
Louise gasped and giggled. “Devora, really!”

 
“I’m going to find the powder room,” Devora said, realizing that being with the
memsahibs
was no less bearable than being with the maharaja. “Please excuse me.”

 
She went into the courtyard, hoping she could remember which direction to turn. The palace had such a number of rooms and corridors that her chances of getting lost were sufficiently high. She headed towards the erotic art room and found a powder room several doors down.

After using the room and fixing her cosmetics, Devora went back out onto the mezzanine. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the maharaja leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette.

 
His eyes, overly bright already from an excess of alcohol, traveled with slow insolence over her body. Devora bristled with anger.

 
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice cold.

 
“I thought I would find you here,” he replied. “I knew you would seek out my erotic room once again.”