The coach door opened then, and he took the opportunity to hop out, his soles making a clapping sound against the cobblestones. Sarani looked like she had more to say, but as her eyes swept outward at the exterior of the ducal residence, apprehension flooded them.

Taking his hand, she stepped down and took in a clipped breath at the bottom of the stairs. Oddly, Rhystan wanted to comfort her, but he buried the impulse. She would not welcome it, and he would not open himself up to being spurned in the middle of the street.

Inside the foyer, the duchess’s butler took their outer trappings, and Rhystan scanned the familiar space. Not much had changed despite their apparent astronomical decline in fortune. The furniture was polished, the marble floors shone, and familiar paintings hung on the mahogany-paneled walls. He half expected to hear his father’s and brother’s baritones in low conversation. A knot of emotion formed inside him.

“Rhyssie!” The high-pitched screech was the only warning he got before a whirling devil in skirts crashed headlong into him. He braced as a pair of wiry arms wound around him with no regard for propriety, squeezed, and then released. Despite being a good foot shorter than he was, his baby sister scrutinized him down the length of her pert nose. “Good Lord but you’ve turned into a mountain! And your arms are like slabs of granite.”

“Ravenna,” he said with a fond grin. “You’ve grown, too.”

And she had. The last time he’d seen her for the funeral, she hadn’t been so tall. Or so pretty. It’d only been two years, and she’d gone from girl to woman in a blink. Coiled loops of auburn hair framed a narrow, heart-shaped face, and there was a distinct look of coquettishness in her eyes.

Rhystan frowned. Wasn’t she still twelve or some such? Eighteen, a voice in his head reminded him. He scowled at the revealing bodice on her gown but was saved from growling his displeasure when his sister turned an appraising gaze to Sarani, who was standing quietly at his side.

“Who’s this, then?”

He touched Sarani’s elbow, keeping the fond smile on his lips firmly in place. “Allow me to present Lady Sara Lockhart,” he said. “My fiancée.”

“Your what?” Her shriek could probably be heard all the way to Piccadilly.

“You heard me,” he said with an exasperated look. “Lady Sara, this is my apparent hellion of a sister, Lady Ravenna, who evidently has forgotten her manners and not to scream like a banshee indoors.”