Home > The Princess Stakes(10)

The Princess Stakes(10)
Author: Amalie Howard

   She asked her houseboy Tej to deliver the note in secret to Sanjay at the Flying Elephant, in the event that it would get to Rhystan. It was short and precise, conveying nothing of her inner heartbreak.

   Commander Huntley,

   I am to marry an earl, a peer of the realm, at my father’s behest. Please understand that this is my duty. I wish you peace upon your return to your home. Be happy, Rhystan.

   Sincerely, Sarani Rao, Princess of Joor

   She agonized about how to sign it. Yours had come to mind. But she wasn’t his. She didn’t even belong to herself.

   She belonged to Joor.

 

 

Four


   Hullo, Rhystan.

   Two whispered words that felt like lead ballast and shot him five years into the past reverberated in his whisky-soaked head. The melodious hum of her voice prickling over his skin hadn’t changed. Nor had its effect on him, clearly. Her jasmine-scented skin was pure opium, threatening to suck him down into its dark, sultry depths. Rhystan knew where that road led—he’d been there, and it had nearly destroyed him. He fought the pull with everything in him.

   What the devil is the bloody Princess of Joor doing here?

   “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” she said. Dimly, he debated whether he’d bellowed the question. He lifted an eyebrow in expectant silence, and she ducked beneath his arm to put some space between them. “I’m Lady Lockhart, you see.”

   He blinked, turning. “Lady who?”

   “Lockhart. My manservant came to see you yesterday. About passage to England?”

   Fighting past the fog in his brain, Rhystan recalled the boy who had offered him money. He distinctly recalled telling both Thornton and the servant no in no uncertain terms.

   “I told Thornton and your servant that I would not take any passengers.”

   She cleared her elegant throat, those high cheekbones staining rose. “Yes, well. There was a misunderstanding. You will be compensated, of course.”

   Rhystan’s eyes narrowed and he pushed off the door. He didn’t miss her flinch or the fact that she’d moved to insert the desk between them. “I also made it clear that no amount of money would sway me.”

   His mocking gaze swept her trim form. Sleek tendrils of ebony hair escaped the loose knot of her coiffure to toy with the perfect oval of her face. Her beauty had not dimmed with time. He did not let his gaze drop to the decadent, dusky bow of her lips, knowing they’d always been his undoing.

   Instead, he let his mouth curl into a slow, derisive smirk. “I assume then that you have some other form of compensation in mind?” The insinuation was far from veiled.

   “You are a brute.”

   “And you are a beautiful woman, despite everything.”

   “You hate me, remember?” she tossed back. “Or have you forgotten your correspondence outlining my transgressions in such foul detail?”

   His face tightened. He hadn’t forgotten the response he’d sent from Bombay after receiving her thin excuse for a letter, delivered by Markham himself, but he hadn’t waited around to find out whether she’d received his reply. Had she spoken to the tavern owner? Heard about the wretched state in which he’d been beaten and taken? Or gotten one of her lackeys to report back on what had happened to poor, naive, heartsore Commander Huntley?

   She and whichever bootlicking earl she’d married had probably had a good laugh at his expense. His letter was the least of what she deserved.

   “Everything above my waist does,” he said with a pointed look. “Doesn’t mean my cock agrees. Ask any of the men on this ship. Holes are holes.”

   Her face flushed red. “You are—”

   “Yes, yes, a brute.” Rhystan waved a careless arm. “We’ve already established that, Princess Sarani or Lady Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is.”

   Ignoring her flinch at his oath, he sauntered to the near side of the desk while swiping the half-full bottle of whisky from the floor and taking a liberal swallow. Leaning on the edge of the desk, he crossed one foot over his ankle. The casual stance belied the latent rage coursing through his veins.

   “So shall I call you Countess or Princess?” he drawled. “Which title is worth more, do you think?”

   Her mouth tightened imperceptibly, her spine going stiff. “I should think duke trumps both of those, Your Grace.”

   Rhystan laughed without mirth. “Ah, the trap springs. You wish to set your sights on a loftier peer. I hate to disappoint you, my clever stowaway, but I’m not in the market for a wife.” His mouth turned into a smirk. “Or a shipboard doxy.”

   “What happened to you?” she blurted out, a slender hand going to her throat.

   His brows cinched in disbelief. “You have to ask?”

   “Rhystan—”

   “As you have so cleverly discerned, Countess, might I remind you that the appropriate form of address is ‘Duke’ or ‘Captain.’ And you were about to tell me what you were doing on my ship.” His frown deepened. “Are you alone?”

   “No, of course not,” she said.

   He pushed off the desk, rolling his shoulders. “Please don’t tell me that Lord Liverhart is somewhere on this ship, or I will be forced to ferret him out and cast him overboard.”

   His unwelcome guest worried the corner of her mouth between her teeth in a gesture that made him desperate to kiss her once upon a time. Now, it only made him want to throttle something. He chose the bottle instead and lifted it to his lips to take another long swig. He then turned to lean over the desk, narrowing the distance between them.

   Her eyes lowered to his bare chest and jerked away as if scorched.

   “For heaven’s sake, can’t you put on a shirt?” Her cheeks flamed with bright spots of color. “You’re indecent.”

   “You are in my cabin, Sarani dearest, on my ship.” He smiled and flexed his pectoral muscles. He’d fantasized for years about how he’d receive her if their paths ever crossed, and while this wasn’t one of the creative ways he’d imagined, he still took perverse delight in her maidenly discomfort. “And I was sleeping until you decided to climb into my bed.”

   “I didn’t climb into your bed. I simply mistook the cabins because your men were outside,” she snapped. “And it’s Sara now.”

   “What?”

   “My name is Sara.”

   He smirked. “So English. So tepid. Decided to deny your heritage, have you, Countess?”

   “Desperate times,” she said flatly.

   Something in her voice made his eyes clash with hers, but he didn’t care enough to delve further. At least, that was what he told himself. He was curious why she was running from India, but he would rather castrate himself than ask.

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