was deeply aware of his duty. He would need an heir.
And even though the idea of a tigress-hearted daughter with jet-black hair and fierce hazel eyes made his pulse leap, it was out of the question. Though a fake engagement and even a fake marriage were easy prospects, there was no way he would have a child with a woman he could never trust.
And Sarani Rao had broken his heart once.
He would never open himself to the possibility again.
Thirteen
It was astounding what a full bath, a shave and trim by a devoted valet, and a wardrobe full of expensive, fashionable clothing could do. Despite the prevailing preference for facial whiskers—and the ton’s laughable notion of masculinity and vigor—Rhystan chose to be clean-shaven, though he did keep his hair on the longer side. The only way the thick curls could be tamed out of sea-blown wildness was with some length to them.
Within the hour, the Duke of Embry, brushed, groomed, and buttoned to within an inch of his life, was officially in residence at his house in Mayfair, and judging by the stacks of invitations he’d seen on the mantelpiece in the foyer, just about everyone knew it, too.
Ignoring his valet’s long-suffering look, he tugged at the narrow band of his necktie knotted and held in place with a diamond stickpin. “Must it be so tight, Harlowe?”
Giving one last look in the mirror and barely recognizing himself, he peered at his brother’s old valet. Harlowe had come into his employ after Roland’s death. Rhystan hadn’t had the heart to dismiss the man after he’d been in service for so many decades to the Huntley family. He’d known the man as a boy, and his dedication to the family had never wavered. He’d been tasked with nothing but waiting for the new duke to return to London.
“It must, Your Grace.” Harlowe squinted. “Unless you prefer a bow.”
Rhystan scowled. “The stickpin will do.”
The valet bowed. “Might I say how good it is to see you again and to have you home at last. The years at sea have been kind. You…” His voice broke as he fought to compose himself, the breach in decorum quite abnormal for a valet of Harlowe’s competence. “You look so much like him.”
It took Rhystan a moment to realize that the valet meant his brother, though he might well have meant the former duke, since both brothers favored their father in looks. He and Roland had resembled each other with their tawny hair and blue eyes, while Richard and Ravenna had taken the auburn hair and fair coloring of their mother.
With a trimmed beard and short-clipped hair, he would have been his father’s mirror image. Hence the shave and the overlong mane. He’d much rather look like a dockworker with his sun-streaked hair than see the face of his dead father in the mirror. Not that he didn’t hear the man’s voice in his head, condemning his son’s chosen lifestyle on a daily basis. It was a simple enough act of defiance, he supposed, now that he was the Duke of Embry. The old tyrant had finally gotten his way—Rhystan was well and truly in the ducal fold.
“Where is Lady Sara?” he asked Harlowe.
“She is in the gold room in the north wing, Your Grace.”
Rhystan shot the valet a blank look. Was he supposed to know where or what that was? He assumed a bedchamber, but it’d been years since he’d spent any length of time at this residence. He’d bought the house years ago, once he’d had his first financial windfall in shipping, with the idea that he’d never have to set foot in Huntley House—his family’s London home—or be forced to deal with the duke’s everlasting displeasure.
Even now, he could feel the man’s disappointment from the grave. Roland had been the heir, Richard, the spare, and Rhystan, ever the duke’s despair. The rebellious son who would never fit the mold of what his father wanted, never abide by the rules of an aristocracy he deemed backward and insular.
“The lady’s companion is in the adjacent blue room, Your Grace,” Harlowe went on, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of Rhystan’s morning coat.
“Very good.”
For the sake of propriety—inasmuch as they could stretch the truth—Sarani’s lady’s maid would also serve as her companion. Despite their engagement, fake or otherwise, a woman could not remain in her fiancé’s residence overnight without a proper chaperone, and there was no way Rhystan was abandoning Sarani to the duchess at