Sarani did not blame her for wanting to protect the family she had left. If she were a mother, she’d do the same thing.
Logic did not make the thought of what she had to do hurt any less. She let out a breath. She would start fresh, store away her memories, and treasure the time she’d had. Sarani felt a tear trek down her cheek and was grateful for the humidity of the chamber and the bathwater to disguise it. How would she ever be able to leave?
How would her body survive without its heart?
Twenty-Four
“Good gracious, this is the worst kind of crush,” Ravenna complained sotto voce. “I can barely move, and have you ever noticed how much it stinks? Underneath the oils and the perfumes, you’d think people would smell pleasant, but no, it’s sweat and grime and goodness knows what else. Honestly, if I breathe in this putrid air much longer, I might die.”
Rhystan frowned at his sister’s diatribe, but Sarani hid her smile behind her fan. “Surely, you must love Eau de Smelly Sirs by now?” she teased and then winked at Ravenna.
His sister, the very soul of indiscretion, threw back her head and laughed, drawing the attention of many in the ballroom, including their mother. He resisted the urge to tug on his collar. Being in this sweltering ballroom was torture, but it had to be done for Ravenna’s sake. The sooner she married, the quicker he could leave.
The hypocrisy weighed on him, but he shoved it down.
He cleared his throat. “Then be sure to set your attentions on the least smelly suitor. I wouldn’t want my only sister to perish because of sensitive nostrils.”
Both ladies stared at him in astonishment, Sarani pinning her lips to stop from grinning and Ravenna gaping, but their responses disappeared as his mother neared with her usual entourage. Lady Penelope, rather surprisingly, was on the arm of Lord Talbot. Rhystan did not miss the earl’s lustful stare trailing over Sarani, and he fought a spike of anger. He frowned, scanning the crowd. Would Markham dare to show his face as well?
The bastard wouldn’t be far off, and God knew that he’d been persistent in his efforts to gain another audience. He hadn’t heard from Gideon about Finn Driscoll, but it was only a matter of time. And Markham was desperate enough not to risk the bird he thought he had well in hand.
Rhystan’s gaze flicked to Sarani, but if she noticed her former betrothed with her archenemy on his arm, she did not show it. Her expression was unruffled, eyes displaying none of the sparkling humor from earlier. One wouldn’t guess that she’d been in a knife fight with an assassin just a handful of days before. Princess on the surface, warrior beneath.
He hoped she would consider maintaining a friendship, but he knew it wasn’t likely. She deserved better than a half-life with a duke who could not marry her. She deserved a chance at a loving husband, children, and a home full of laughter.
Not a man who didn’t even know who he was.
“Embry,” someone said, interrupting his thoughts.
Rhystan inclined his head to an old acquaintance, a Frenchman, who had approached with another gentleman. “Lord Marchand. Fishing for prospects on this side of the channel?”
The marquis grinned. “I cast my nets where I can, Your Grace.”
Introductions were made, including the young buck who’d been angling to meet the Huntley heiress. He watched as Ravenna and Sarani were led off by Marchand and the hopeful suitor for the start of the next dance and suppressed his groan when his mother arrived at his side where he’d walked to stand in a quieter corner of the ballroom.
“Ravenna is in good spirits tonight,” she said. “The gentleman she is dancing with is the son of an earl, and the one dancing with…”—she broke off, lip curling—“and the other is a French marquis.”
It wasn’t the time or the place, but Rhystan did not care. His blood boiled, but for civility’s sake, he kept his voice low. “What is your problem with Sarani?”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked startled for a moment at the brusque question, but her mouth firmed at his expression, eyes going wintry. “She’s…not a suitable match, Embry.”
“Why?” He resisted the urge to rake his hands through his hair. “Tell me, Duchess, what in your judicious opinion makes her unsuitable?”
“She is not fit for a duke. Everyone here knows that but you.”
Rhystan had had enough. “Everyone here? That woman has more nobility