The deadliness in Rhystan’s words sent shivers down Sarani’s spine. Talbot released her so quickly that she stumbled backward, nearly crashing into the duke. He moved to intercept the earl, but Sarani put a hand on his chest, stalling him. “He’s not worth it.”

His gaze burned with rage. “But you are.”

The words filled her with both happiness and sadness. She knew he meant them, but words were empty unless they were backed by action. He could declare it in front of a snake like Talbot but not anyone else. Not the duchess. Not the ton.

She straightened her spine. “I am, and I know I am. Will you please escort me back inside, Your Grace?”

Rhystan nodded with reluctance, his fist clenched at his sides, but offered her his arm. As they walked back up the terrace, Sarani did not look back. That was her mistake, she supposed. Because she wasn’t prepared for the wild-eyed earl who’d followed them, crashing into the ballroom like a bull gone mad.

“You stupid, worthless creature.”

Music cut off, and voices went silent. Sarani’s heart climbed into her throat, though there was nothing she could do but watch the train wreck of her life finally derail.

“She’s nothing but a filthy mongrel, Embry!” Talbot shouted. “Daughter of a native and a disowned countess. Lady Lisbeth? Everyone knows what a harlot she was, running after that Indian like a bitch in heat. Even Beckforth wrote her out of his will.”

Sarani whirled. “Don’t you dare speak about my mother!”

“That’s your future duchess?” Talbot sneered at the Duke of Embry. “Lady Mulatto?”

She glanced at the duke, whose face had gone rigid with fury. She recognized that deadly look—she’d seen it on the Belonging. A thousand men could not hold him back, much less Sarani. She did not even try. With one fist, he flattened the earl, knocking him out cold. Screams cut through the ballroom, chatter climbing to the rafters. Rhystan had silenced the man, but the damage had been done.

She caught the horrified eyes of the dowager duchess, the sympathetic ones of Ravenna, and the triumphant glare of Penelope. But mostly, people stared at her with disdain and mistrust, as though she were an impostor who would run off with the silver or contaminate them with some malodorous disease. The whispers grew around her—native, duchess, scandal—until nothing else could be heard.

There, the truth was out.

Everyone knew.

Twenty-Five

The scandal sheets the next day were far from kind. Rhystan had expected it. They were calling him the Disgraced Duke, though Lord knew why he should be disgraced in any way, beyond engaging in fisticuffs in the middle of a ballroom to defend a lady’s honor. As though that had never happened in the history of the aristocracy.