Ravenna spread out the Times and pointed to a ridiculous caricature of galloping women on a racecourse. “They’ve likened it to the Gold Cup during Ascot week. See here. Lady Penny is two leagues ahead of Lady Margaret. They’re the two favorites and have the best odds.” She’d jabbed at the drawing, nearly poking a hole in the paper. “And here’s Lady Clara. Sadly, she’s at the very back of the pack with no hope unless a miracle happens. She’s my friend and not interested in the Duke of Disbelonging in the least, but her mother is making her. She’s on her second season with no prospects.”

“Duke of Disbelonging?” Sarani had snorted. “That’s not a word.”

Her grin had turned impish. “Do you prefer Duke of Dashing Desire?”

“Hardly,” Sarani had protested.

Ravenna had giggled and waggled her eyebrows. “When Rhystan isn’t looking, you stare at him like he’s a juicy plum pudding you can’t wait to dig your spoon into and get to the warm fruity, gooey center.”

Sarani’s face had heated to boiling, though she’d be a liar to deny it. Seeing the man sweep through ballrooms like a disguised predator made her faithless heart kick up a notch. Something about him polished to perfection and dressed in formal wear made him seem more dangerous, as though he were a wild, savage beast in a crowd of house-trained pets waiting to pounce. Sarani couldn’t deny that she stared her fill of him…whenever he was not aware, of course. The fact that Ravenna had noticed her staring, however, filled her with alarm.

“You’re sorely mistaken. I loathe plum pudding,” Sarani had said and steered the subject away. “And you, have you had a season?”

“This was meant to be my first.” The girl had tried to hide the flash of disappointment behind careless bravado. “But after mourning for so long for Papa and my brothers, Mama wished to wait until Rhystan returned. I suppose she knew he’d be back this season, because I was presented to the queen after Easter along with a hundred other girls, so I’m officially out. But who needs parties anyway? All you get are stuffy ballrooms, silly smelly sirs, and warm lemonade.”

Sarani had blinked, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place. So the dowager duchess had intended her son to return. The timing of Ravenna’s presentation at court as well as the interviews of potential brides were part of a meticulous scheme to see the Duke of Embry settled. After all, any enviable match of a duke would only help his unmarried younger sister. An odd feeling had squeezed against Sarani’s ribs.

Was it pity? For Rhystan, Ravenna, or herself?

“Silly smelly sirs?” she’d asked, shaking off the strange reaction.