Authors: Michelle Woodward
The wedding proposal was issued underneath a crap apple tree in that very same park where they had taken their first carriage ride. India felt delivered, for finally she was being offered what Robert Cooper never would—a social approximation of what belonging was actually like. As she gazed down into the sweet brown eyes of Richard, she knew that she had one last hurdle to clear before she could accept his proposal.
“Richard, darling, what do you know of my family?”
Richard laughed. “India, dear, you almost keeled me over. I was beginning to think you would not accept my proposal. I know all about your background. You poor thing, your mother leaving you all alone to fend off the tiger matrons by yourself.”
“Richard, you are aware that my father is not, in fact, Lord Davenport.”
A dark shadow crossed his handsome face. “Please elaborate, darling.”
She hesitated. How many people could she truly entrust her secret to, after all? But the fact of the matter was that she could not imagine having a union so similar to that of her parents; how could she keep a lifelong secret as to where she came from? She breathed out and told him the abbreviated version—her mother, a young innocent, had fallen prey to the burning Indian sun and carried on a swift dalliance with a native boy.
A look passed over Richard's face that unsettled India when he heard the news. It was the same look that many a lord had given her during her coming-out ball, one that mixed the sentiment of “Don't hurt me, you little exotic thing” with a sort of understated perversion, as if being the daughter of a subjugated nation opened India up to a smutty kind of willingness. It passed as quickly as a cloud on a sunny day, however, replaced by the same mirth that usually lit up Richard's face. “So that is where you get those fantastic green eyes from!” he exclaimed.
“So it does not bother you?” she queried, heart beating fast.
He laughed again and grasped one of her hands in his. “India, love, if anything, it makes you even more wonderful than I first imagined. Now, you have not told me the most important thing.”
“What is that?”
“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She hedged her final bet. “Yes, Richard, I will.”
He rose and kissed her, and she shoved all thoughts of a certain blue-eyed duke far from her mind.
India Augustina considered the trajectory of that particular courtship against what had occurred between her and Robert. She did not want to think about him, but he appeared to be seared across her memory. Never mind, she would do her best to eradicate him and replace him with the new life she was heading into with a man who accepted her just exactly the way that she was and would offer her the kind of social salvation she had never dreamed she would one day require for her soul.
The modiste had the dress and veil delivered a week before the wedding was to take place. It was of the finest fabrics, king royal cloth, and India had decided on a modest cut. She was going to be the lady of two estates now, and she did not need to show off anything that would lend itself to wagging tongues. She circled the gown and decided to try on the veil. Looking at herself in the mirror, she found she could not get a clear picture of what her wedding day would look like. She recalled a trick her ama had taught her whenever she had difficulty planning out her wardrobe. She closed her eyes and imagined herself walking down the aisle towards the broad back of a groom who waited for her.
When he turned around to greet his bride, his face was that of Robert Cooper.
India opened her eyes and found her heart racing. What would she have to do to rid herself of the man? Who cared if she could still imagine what his tongue felt against her nether regions or had not once felt as safe with Richard as she had in Robert's arms as he held her? What did it matter? She needed to move on with her life, and Richard would give her the kind of family she craved.
A knock at her door snapped her out of her reverie. “Come in,” she called out, still looking at herself in the mirror.
Her ama entered softly. “Lord Loxloston is here to see you, India.”
She slid the veil loose from her hair and walked downstairs to the front entry room. Her handsome and tall fiancé was waiting for her with a package in his hands.
“Darling,” she greeted him, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I know this is highly irregular, but I simply could not wait to see you before the wedding. Especially not when I have such an incredible surprise for you,” he said, eyes sparking and bright. India regarded him warily. He was not one prone to much spontaneity, despite his general genial nature, and despite herself, India found herself growing the slightest bit nervous. He handed her the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string and sat on the edge of her bed. India could hear her ama pacing nervously outside of her bedchamber, and felt comforted by the fact that the woman had a lifelong habit of keeping a broom handy when men were about.
The fabric inside was of the softest, richest red fabric India had ever seen. She pulled it free, and the yards of fabric spilled out like a red waterfall, falling down over her knees and ankles all the way down to the floor. It was embossed with gold thread that India knew was real; it was a display of opulence the likes of which she had not expected from Richard. “How beautiful!” she cried. “What is this, Richard?”
“It's a saree. I have not been able to stop thinking about what you told me the day I proposed to you, about your heritage.”
India felt pierced through with a bolt of anger, but stomped it down into submission. “What exactly do you mean?”
Richard stood and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but there was something in his face that made India feel slightly as if she had been riding very fast on a horse that was going out of control. “It's a gift, India, do not be angry with me! This is what they wear in Assam. I tried to speak to your ama about what was traditional to wear on a wedding day in India—”
“You spoke to my ama about this?” Her ama was in for quite a talk once Richard left.
He shook his head mournfully. “Unfortunately, that woman is as tight-lipped as the caves in old stories.”
“That woman raised me.” India's voice was terse.
A befuddled expression entered Richard's face. “India, darling, are you upset with me? I meant this for a lark, as a bit of a wedding present. I thought that with your lovely eyes and skin, it would look positively marvelous on you.”
She felt herself soften, although reclaiming her so-called heritage in this particular manner felt oddly enforced, as if Richard wanted her to reclaim a part of herself she was not yet comfortable accepting. Still, she had to admit the fabric was indeed a delight, soft and delicate, and the red hue positively glowed against her arms as she held it. “You are right, Richard, it is a beautiful gift. You don't want me to put it on, do you, though?” She hated the pleading in her voice, but this was her life now; she belonged to him, a man who thought such a gift the day before the wedding was appropriate. All she wanted to do was put the past behind her.
He looked hurt. “You do not have to if you do not wish it so, but it did take quite a long time to arrive here.”
Reluctantly, she gave in. “There is a lot of fabric here. I will go to my ama, and perhaps she can help me wrap it around myself.”
“Or I could.” He attempted to make his voice light and teasing, but what India saw in her fiance's eyes troubled her; had she let him, she saw, he would have gladly undressed her right there and then under the guise of draping the saree around her. She gathered all the fabric in her arms and went to find her ama.
“I do not like it, Lady India,” grumbled the old woman with wrinkled arms as she tucked and tucked. “Did you have to tell him your secret?”
India sighed deeply and attempted to tuck in the folds of the saree where it was refusing to stay put. “I could not enter a lifelong commitment with a gentleman and keep this to myself. You remember how my mother and father treated each other. I do not want their silence.”
Her ama said nothing, but kept up her muttering all throughout adorning India. Her charge took a deep breath and entered the bedchamber where her eager fiancé sat in waiting.
When she entered the room, a fold of the saree over her head, Richard stood straight up like a man stunned. “I-India,” he said, sweeping her over from head to toe with his eyes, “you look—you look—” That was all he managed to sputter out before purposefully crossing the room and grabbing her in his arms.
The kiss was far more forceful than anything they had shared before. India felt the breath being knocked out of her from the sheer impact of being pressed against his hard chest. Rather than feeling like a loving gesture, the kiss felt like something Richard could not control, something inside of him that was bubbling out and invading the world of their shared reality. As she tried to melt into it, the thought crossed her mind that pasty English gentlemen, according to all accounts, did not simply grab their brides to be in such a rough manner. Certainly, she had heard the stories of some grooms who simply ripped off their new wives' clothing on the wedding night, but she had always laughed at the silly gossip of the virginal girls. Suddenly, as Richard's hands closed roughly around the curve of her bottom, it did not seem quite so humorous anymore.
“Richard, what are you doing?” she cried, attempting to push his hands away.
“Come now, darling, I know how you native girls like it,” he muttered into her hair, pressing her even closer and squeezing her with even more force.
India felt her blood run cold. “What did you just say to me?” Her tone was as icy as she could make it, considering the vast amount of fear she was experiencing in that moment.
“Oh, India, you are always so serious!” he cried, smiling down at her. There was something tight about that smile, and something feverish about his face. India felt a trickle of fear slide all the way into her belly and down her back. She was beginning to strongly suspect that her husband-to-be had not purchased this particular costume on a lark; there was something about the way his grip was tightening around her that made her remember a creature her mother had told her about years ago—the python, who, once he had his prey in his grasp, would tighten around it the harder it struggled, squeezing all the life out of it.
“Richard, you are making most nervous. Please conduct yourself appropriately; we are not yet wed,” she told him, as firmly as she could.
He suddenly let go of her. “You are quite right. I was simply hoping for a bit of a joke here,” he told her.
Shaking slightly, she slipped away from him as far as she could go. “Thank you,” she said, going over to her vanity and adjusting the fold of the saree that had slipped down from her head. Although Lord Richard was halfway across the room from her, she felt she could not get enough distance from him. She was just reaching for a pin to tame the unruliness of her hair when an iron grip came down on her wrist.
“Play with me, India,” said Richard, and there was no teasing in his voice this time.
“Richard, that is quite enough,” she said evenly. His reflection behind her in the mirror loomed, and for the first time, she became acutely aware of how much larger he was than she.
“It will be enough when I say it is enough,” he told her, and twisted her arm so that she was forced to face him. “Now get on your knees and pray to your many gods.”
“What are you talking about?” She was shaking fairly hard now.
He dragged her up so that her face was close enough to his that his spittle landed on her as he hissed. “Come on. Be a good little Indian trollop.” He mashed his mouth down on her and filled his had with her breast, nearly squeezing it off her chest.
India whimpered uncontrollably. She felt her body twist away from him and willed her knees to support her. At the very least, she would not go down without a battle. How had she not recognized the sickness in this man long before? In a moment where he thought he had her entirely in his power, Richard Loxloston let her loose and she let out a yell. She regretted it the instant he struck her across the face. “Native girls do not yell when they are being pleasured,” he told her, and then the world went black.
When she came to, the world above her was in complete upheaval. Her ama, armed with her militant and ancient guardian weapon, the broom, was beating Richard over the head with it. To her horror, Richard managed to grasp the old woman's arms and push her down on the ground before their burly butler choked him into a stronghold and bodily wrested him out of the room. Collecting herself with a far more nimble maneuver than she might have thought possible in that moment, India entrusted her enraged ama into the care of the housekeeper and closed the door to her bedchamber to collapse onto the chair in front of her vanity.