Even Lord Talbot had reminded her on more than one occasion that he was doing her a grand service by offering her marriage. Oh, he’d desired her badly. Sarani had known it from the way he’d slavered over her body, his eyes wild with lust, but he had lorded his privileged male superiority over her like a cudgel. His close friend Markham had made no attempt to mask his contempt, and others had followed suit.

Especially the ladies; they’d been worse than the men.

It made her think of Thackeray’s words that it was a great compliment to any woman to be despised by her sex. She still wasn’t able to find it in her heart to agree. Women should lift each other up, given the barriers they faced on account of their sex alone and not having the same power as men. It had been what her mother had taught her and what her father had bolstered by allowing her to be raised as a son would be. Perhaps even to be esteemed as one would.

Until he’d traded her off like a goat, that was.

Marriage—the sole thing any highborn woman was good for. At least she and other Englishwomen had that in common. And here she was…crumbling like a house of straw at the duke’s offer, because it had to be a joke. The memory of her broken heart was her undoing, the prospect of wedlock to him twisting her into painful knots. Marriage to Talbot would have been intolerable. Marriage to Rhystan would be the end of her.

“This is the answer for both of us,” Rhystan said.

With the barest flinch, Sarani closed her eyes. “No. Not for me. I’d sooner go back to Joor.”

Rhystan narrowed his eyes, tracking her like a hound scenting a fox. “You’re telling me that you’d rather face your father’s murderer than become engaged to me?”

In a heartbeat.

Nodding fervently, Sarani retreated several more steps until the cabin door pressed into the backs of her shoulders, halting her flight. It was by far the lesser of two evils. By a long shot. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her throat closing as buried memories surfaced, reminding her of what came with wanting too much. And the price that accompanied such arrogance. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

It had been drilled into her by men like Markham and Talbot: Someone like her did not belong with men like him. Sons of dukes, brothers of dukes, or dukes themselves.

She let out an agonized breath.

“Sarani.” Her given name was a caress upon his lips, but his next words were a ruthless arrow to her heart. “Hear me out. You owe me that much.”