Authors: Suzanne Enoch
“Him, over there. Lord Purdey.”
Reluctantly Sarala looked in the direction her mother indicated. “The one in the scarlet vest? Oh, Mama, he’s hideous and ridiculous.”
“Hush, before he hears you. Mrs. Westerley says he has four thousand a year, and a grand estate in Suffolk.”
“His eyes are crossed, and he’s drooling on his own boots. Besides, I daresay you know nothing about him but the state of his finances.”
“What else is there to know? He’s unmarried, and wealthy.”
“Does he read? Does he like the theater? Is he able to carry on an intelligent conversation? Between bouts of drooling, of course.”
Lady Hanover eyed her. “You certainly have an odd idea of courting.”
“You can’t even settle on one name for me—how am I supposed to be able to settle on a potential husband?”
“Enough of that nonsense. Go over to the dessert table and smile, or you’ll end up with no one on your dance card again.”
Swallowing a sudden surge of nerves, Sarala smiled and attempted to stroll nonchalantly to the crowded food tables. Wearing the perfectly tasteful peach and gold gown her mother had recommended, her hair in a stylish upswept bun and a trace of rouge on her cheeks, she suited her new perfectly ordinary, perfectly English name. The rich, deep palette of colors she’d grown up around made everything she saw now seem pale and flat and plain in comparison. Apparently that was the way in which the proper young ladies of Society wished to be seen.
And apparently now she’d become one of the dull multitudes. No one but she had even batted an eye when the Mantz-Dilling butler had announced her as Lady Sarah Carlisle. Her mother seemed assured that not standing out would gain her the interest of every single gentleman in the room, but she had her doubts.
“I’ve brought you something,” a low, masculine voice said.
Her heart jumped as she turned around. “Five thousand pounds?” she suggested, looking up into the gray eyes of Charlemagne Griffin.
“Hardly.” For a moment he gazed at her. Then, taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. As he released her, he slipped a small velvet bag into her fingers. “Put it in your reticule,” he instructed in a low voice, “and look at it later.”
She closed her fingers around it. “I won’t be bribed, you know.”
The twinkle in his eyes matched the glitter of the onyx pin stuck through his starched white cravat. “How do you know it’s a bribe? Perhaps it’s a threat. A dead toad, or a piece of coal or something.”
Her lips curved upward despite her best efforts. “So many wondrous possibilities.”
“I suppose I could tell you what it is. The curiosity of females is rather notorious.”
“Don’t you mean the curiosity of felines? I believe it was a cat that curiosity killed. I’m of a different persuasion, and if it suits your strategy for me to look, then I won’t do so.”
She couldn’t read the quick expression that passed behind his eyes, but she thought it might have been appreciation. “Are you certain you’re not curious?” he pursued, handing her a glass of Madeira and taking one for himself.
“Let’s say I’m equal parts curious and cautious.” Setting down the glass for a moment, she slipped the small bundle into her reticule. Very well, so she
was
curious—excessively so—but she had no intention of letting him know he’d surprised her. In business it was always very bad form to show surprise.
“Shay!”
With a slight start he turned his head to view a small cluster of gentlemen at the far end of the table. “Damned Willits,” he muttered, and faced her again. “I need to speak with him. Will you forgive me?”
“Unless he’s terribly evil or a spy, I don’t believe you have anything to apologize for. I—”
“Give me your dance card,” he interrupted, holding out his hand.
“You might ask me, rather than demanding.”
He smiled, the expression doing remarkably handsome things to his face and some more complicated ones to her insides. “If I asked, you might refuse. Your dance card, my lady.”
With what she hoped looked like an exasperated frown, Sarala handed the thing over. “There. I thought we were business rivals. Not dancing partners.”
“Perhaps we’re both.” His brows lowered. “This says ‘Sarah.’”
She flushed. “My parents’ idea. It doesn’t signify.”
“They altered your name?”
Sarala gave an irritated sigh. “Not that it’s any of your affair, but they thought I would have an easier time being accepted into English Society if I had a more English name.”
He gazed at her speculatively. “Now that you mention it, tonight you do look almost…English.”
It probably wasn’t meant to be an insult, but it almost felt like one. “I
am
English,” she stated, because her mother would expect her to, “whatever my name is. Why should I not appear to be so?”
“Shay!”
“In a moment,” he barked back, then took a step closer to her. “So between you and me, do I call you Sarah, or Sarala?”
“Sarala,” she answered, refusing to be moved by his intimate tone. Gifts, a kiss, private conversations—whatever he might claim, every move he made was designed to take him closer to his goal of getting the silks.
He found a pencil and wrote his name on her card. “Very good then, Sarala,” he murmured, handing it back to her. “And try the raspberry tarts here. I think they’ll suit you.”
As he left her for the group of noblemen, Sarala turned over the card. He’d selected the evening’s only waltz. And apparently if raspberry tarts suited her, she had a sour interior and a sweet outside. She took one and bit into it, sweet and tart mingling in her mouth. Delicious.
Someone tugged on her sleeve. She started, nearly dropping both the Madeira and the sweet tart. “Yes?”
The man in front of her was actually an inch or so shorter than she was, so that she had a splendid view of his round, balding pate. He sketched a deep bow, bringing into her sight the thinning hair on the back of his head, as well.
“Francis Henning,” he said as he straightened. “You’re the girl from India. Lady Sarah.”
So someone
had
noticed her name tonight. “I am,” she answered, watching as he bobbed his head again.
“Grand. I saw Lord Shay taking a dance from you, and thought I might do so as well.”
“Oh. That’s very generous of you, Mr. Henning, but not necess—”
“Perfectly fine,” he continued, snatching the card from where she’d partially tucked it into her reticule and scribbling on it. “Good enough for a Griffin, can’t be higher or mightier than that.”
“Uh…Thank you,” she said, gingerly retrieving the card and just managing not to spill anything.
After that, the men present seemed either to assume that she had Lord Charlemagne’s approval, or that if she would dance with Mr. Henning she would dance with anyone. At any rate, within five minutes her dance card was full, and for the first time since she’d left India she had a partner for every soiree. In part the developments pleased her, because she did love to dance, but on the other hand her mother would now claim that the evening had turned out so well because of her name change.
She’d sort it out later. At the moment her attention stayed on the only waltz of the evening and on one sneaky, arrogant business rival who apparently thought she could be seduced into selling to him.
Charlemagne at his brother’s elbow took a large swallow of Madeira and silently counted to five. “That’s a bit drastic, wouldn’t you say?” he drawled. “Nothing beats a horse and wagon for short trips, but a boat on a canal can carry five times the load over longer distances. The population of London keeps growing, and if we can’t keep the citizens supplied,
they’ll
be eating our horses.” He forced a grin he didn’t feel. “And I’m rather fond of my horse.”
Willits chuckled. “I’ve learned never to count Melbourne wrong, but this all seems too progressive to me.”
“I think it’s a question of whether you’d rather be considered ahead of your time or be left behind.” In the guise of gesturing for another drink, Charlemagne stole a glance over his shoulder at Lady Sarala. She’d stood up for every dance so far this evening, a far cry from her exotic solitude of two nights before. Apparently the gentlemen of London found her more acceptable tonight, though whatever she chose to wear or whatever her name, she couldn’t disguise the warm glow of her skin, the quiet grace of her movement, or the cinnamon scent of her hair. All that and a damned sharp wit, too. Hell, she’d outwitted him, and that
never
happened.
“—multitude of investors?”
Charlemagne blinked, not having the faintest idea what Willits was talking about. “Beg pardon?” he asked, glancing at Melbourne for a hint. His brother sent him a faint frown.
“We’re never adverse to partnerships,” the duke said smoothly, “but I think we have a bit more research to do on the project first. What’s important at this early point is the support of Parliament.”
Of course Willits wanted to invest; Griffin projects rarely ended up being less than profitable. And no wonder Melbourne appeared somewhat annoyed. The “more research” speech generally came from Charlemagne.
“Apologies,” Charlemagne muttered, as Sebastian made their excuses and gestured him toward the gaming rooms.
“No matter.” The duke took a slow breath. “Are you feeling well?”
“Me? Of course.” Charlemagne stopped in the doorway. He usually enjoyed a game or two of wits and billiards, but tonight he found himself reluctant to leave the ballroom. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem…distracted.”
“My mind did drift a bit for a moment.” Charlemagne pasted a carefree expression on his face. “Maybe I was hoping that by now damned Willits could have carried on that entire conversation by himself.”
With a rare smile, Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. “That will never happen. However, I suppose hope does spring eternal, etcetera, etcetera.”
“I suppose so.” As the duke vanished into the smoky gaming room, Charlemagne finished off his second drink of the evening. As usual, his older brother knew what he was talking about. Aside from money, one thing they’d never lacked for was hangers-on.
And Melbourne was right about something else, too. He
had
been distracted earlier, and it hadn’t been merely for a moment. In his defense, it did have to do with business—seven hundred and fifty guineas’ worth, or five thousand pounds if he listened to the painfully overwrought price named by Sarala Carlisle.
Lines began to form for a country dance, and once more the Indian princess took to the dance floor. Every gentleman with whom she danced could be a potential silk buyer, or worse, someone to whom she could brag about the way she’d outfoxed one of the Griffins. Straightening, Charlemagne strolled over to the gaggle of hopeful debutantes who blocked the path to the best desserts.
“Miss Allen?” he said, matching a face with a vague memory of an introduction.
A narrow-faced blonde with a shy, engaging smile curtsied almost in half. “Yes, my Lord Charlemagne?”
“If you’re not spoken for, may I have this dance?”
“It would be my pleasure, my lord.”
He took the chit’s hand and guided her to their place in line. Two couples down, Zachary lifted an eyebrow at him. Charlemagne ignored his brother. Perhaps he didn’t dance very often, but he did take the floor on occasion, after all.
As the music began, the facing lines of couples bowed and curtsied to one another, and then alternate numbers stepped forward to weave around the neighboring dancers. Charlemagne moved with the others, waiting until he touched Lady Sarala’s hand and stepped around behind her. “You haven’t peeked, have you?” he whispered.
She circled him. “Peeked at what?”
Charlemagne hid his frown. “The bag in your reticule.” They moved away from each other, and he had to wait until the dance drew them together again. “Well?”
“I’d nearly forgotten it was there.” Circle, turn, dip. “So no, I haven’t peeked.”
“You didn’t forget anything,” he returned softly.
A blush crept along her cheekbones, but she swirled away before she could answer—if she intended to answer. He knew she was curious, though, whatever she might claim. He wished there was a way to see her face when she opened it, but a Griffin couldn’t give a gift to an unattached young lady without causing a scandal—even if their connection was purely business. And however much he wanted the silks back, he wouldn’t ruin her to accomplish that. Quite simply, it would be cheating.
The dance ended, and he returned Miss Allen to her friends, who immediately surrounded her with giggles and whispers. He could pick another one for the next dance, he assumed, but it was a quadrille and he didn’t see the point.
“Miss Allen?” Zachary muttered, throwing an arm across Charlemagne’s shoulders.
“I thought it was nice,” Caroline put in, taking Shay’s free arm. “I don’t imagine she gets much opportunity to dance. You’ve rendered her the chance now. So don’t tease him, Zachary.”
“Hm. I remain unscathed,” Charlemagne returned, lifting a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman. He wouldn’t drink it—two glasses was his limit at most soirees—but it gave him a moment. “It is good to see that you’ve finally found someone who’s willing to tolerate your rhythmless plodding, Zach.” He looked over at his brother’s wife. “That’s why he married you, I’m afraid. Because you don’t mind getting your feet tromped on.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you be,” his younger brother conceded, releasing him. “Just don’t enlighten Caro about any more of my faults she hasn’t already discovered.”
Caroline chuckled. “I know them all, Zachary.”
Her husband moved around to kiss her lightly on the lips. “Such great skill with a brush, and such poor taste in men.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she whispered back, smiling.
“Good God, go home and stop subjecting me to such unfiltered sweetness.” With a grin Charlemagne shifted Caroline’s hand from his arm to Zachary’s.
“That, Shay, is a very good idea. Give our good nights to Melbourne, will you?”
“Anything. Just go.”
Whispering to each other, his brother and sister-in-law slipped out of the ballroom. For a brief moment he allowed himself to envy their happiness and contentment, then squared his shoulders and dove back into the mass of political and social intrigue. The younger two Griffin siblings had married, and they were welcome to it, but he felt no need to enter into matrimony. Melbourne needed a strong right arm to see to the multitude of businesses owned by the family, and almost from the moment Shay had entered Oxford, he’d fallen into that role. He relished it, the nuances and complexities, the reading of opponents and matching tactics to character.
That was his present problem with Sarala Carlisle. He hadn’t quite figured out her character, yet. He’d tried several strategies, up to and including that very…pleasurable kiss, but she still hadn’t lowered her idiotic price a whit. Hence his gift. Her reaction to it should give him the additional information and insight he required.
By the time the waltz came about, Charlemagne had regained his usual practical equilibrium. It had been quite a couple of days of surprises, after all, not the least of which being that he had a very attractive opponent for what was supposed to have been a quick, simple transaction. But for God’s sake, he’d charmed females out of their clothes; charming this one out of a stack of Chinese silks would have to be easier than that.
Lady Sarala stood beside an older woman who wore a stylish gown of the latest style. They had similar features, and Charlemagne assumed this to be Lady Hanover, Sarala’s mother. Odd that the mother could look so English while the daughter, wearing clothes of the same fashion, looked so exotic.
“Lady Sarala,” he said, reaching her side and perfectly aware that the marchioness was the one trying to change Sarala’s name.
The daughter curtsied, a slight upturn of her lips the only clue that she’d noted his choice of address. Who in their right mind could assign her the name Sarah after she’d grown up as Sarala? Ridiculous. Criminal, almost. Like calling a peacock a pigeon. Everyone knew the quality of the bird, regardless of the name.
“My lord,” she said, straightening again. “Have you met my mother, Lady Hanover? Mama, Lord Charlemagne Griffin.”
The marchioness curtsied, as well. “My lord. Thank you for dancing with our
Sarah
evening before last.”
So her mother, at least, didn’t know he’d stopped by Carlisle House yesterday. If she did, she would have considered that more significant than a dance. “No need to thank me, my lady. Dancing with Lady
Sarala
is a pleasure I mean to repeat—at this very moment, in fact.”
Lady Hanover fluffed one of her daughter’s peach-colored lace sleeves. “
Sarah
has danced every dance tonight. So many interested gentlemen.”
“Mama,” Sarala said in a low voice.
“How could any gentleman not be interested in such a charming young thing as Lady
Sarala
?” Charlemagne broke in, beginning to worry that they would miss the dance. “With your permission, Lady Hanover?”
“Oh, of course, my lord. Go on,
Sarah.
”
Charlemagne took Sarala’s hand, leading the way across the crowded dance floor. Last time he’d danced with her, he’d thought her attractive and naive. Tonight, his heart beat faster. Tonight wasn’t going to be about him boasting and her making admiring comments. And she couldn’t make some dismissive comment and send him away—not without making a spectacle of herself.
“While I appreciate your support of my name, you shouldn’t have said that other,” Sarala commented as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Said what other?”
“Said that any gentleman would be interested in me. Now my mother will think you mean to court me.”
He smiled into her eyes. “Who’s to say I don’t mean to court you?”
“We both know that the only thing you’re courting is my five hundred bolts of silk.”
True, but at the same time he’d never conducted a business negotiation remotely like this in his life. And he’d told Zachary that business was one thing, and pleasure another. Apparently he hadn’t learned everything. “Why don’t you return the silks to me, and we’ll see if I ask you to dance again?” Charlemagne pulled her a little closer. “Because I can almost guarantee you that I will.”
“We are speaking of silks. Nothing else. And I have offered to sell them to you.”
“For an outrageous price.”
“Considering that I have no obligation to sell you anything, you can accept my price, make me a reasonable counter offer, or walk away.” She looked at him from beneath her long, dark lashes. “And admit defeat, of course.”
“I do love a challenge,” he murmured back at her. “And considering that this negotiation is far from finished, I have no reason to admit defeat.”
“Call it what you will, then, but I am not going to hold on to the shipment indefinitely while you play at claiming it. I am going to sell it to whoever is willing to meet my price—whether that is you or someone else.”
“Oh, you’ll sell to me,” Charlemagne returned, for the first time wondering if perhaps she did have another buyer dangling on the line. Did she speak to this mystery opponent in the same sharp, amusing way? He had more than a hunch that was not the case. “I suggest we meet at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning at the eastern end of Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, I do. I hardly think it’s the place for business, however.” Her green gaze met his speculatively.
“You’d be surprised where business takes place in London. And pleasure, for that matter.”
For a moment she waltzed silently in his arms, lithe and light as moonlight. “Why tomorrow, then? Why not conclude our negotiations tonight?”
Because the negotiations he wanted to engage in with her tonight had nothing to do with the price of a bolt of silk.
“Because if we are seen chatting after a waltz, people
will
think I’m in pursuit of you, rather than a shipment of silks.” He grinned, every muscle in his body feeling electric and alive. “Besides, when we meet tomorrow you’ll be able to tell me what you think of your surprise.”
“Unless the surprise is five thousand pounds, it won’t make the least bit of difference.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t, but Charlemagne still wanted to know what she would think of it. And as for its worth, he would leave it to her to guess. This wasn’t about money; this was about winning—the bolts of cloth, of course.