“How do you have this?” she’d asked him, sifting through the red and gold-embossed volume and wrinkling her nose. “Or better yet, why?”

Rhystan’s stare had been measured, impossible to read. “When I became duke, my mother insisted that I refresh myself on my peers, meaning those worthy of a duke’s attention, of course. It was a gift. She still hopes that I could aspire to be the sort of duke my father was.” His tone had left little doubt of what he thought of the gift as well as walking in the shoes of the former duke.

“Things did not improve with the duke?” she’d asked, recalling the little he’d told her of him. She’d never even known he had siblings.

“No.” The reply had been terse.

“And your mother?”

His face had tightened. “She has always wanted what was best for her children.”

Even with such a vague answer, Sarani hoped to make a good first impression on the Dowager Duchess of Embry. It did not sound like it would be easy—who gave their son a copy of Debrett’s as light reading?—but maybe she was overthinking it.

At Asha’s insistence, Sarani was now careful to wear proper gowns and avail herself of an annoying parasol while on deck since her skin was wont to tan in the sun without too much effort. Though she loved when her skin deepened with color, in England, she knew from her mother and French governess that western ladies valued their porcelain complexions. And looking like a sunburned, freckled hoyden would not earn her any favors, not with a haughty duchess thwarted in her plan to marry off her son to a pretty English rose of her choosing.

Still, it didn’t stop her grumbling to Asha when she had held out the parasol.

“I’ll look sallow,” she’d complained. “Using this won’t make me any paler. This is silly.”

Asha had set her jaw. “It’s what English ladies do.”

“English ladies would envy a corpse!”

“Better than being an actual corpse if Vikram gets his hands on you.”

Sarani had buttoned her lips and taken the dratted parasol, resisting the urge to crack it over her knee. At first, Red had laughed himself silly…until she’d produced her kukri blades from the hidden pockets sewn into her skirts and told him to laugh again. Wisely, he had refrained.

Asha and Tej had both taken the news of her impending engagement in stride, agreeing that it was for the best. She personally might not need a man to survive…but in the world of English aristocracy, society decreed that she did. A woman needed a husband to have value.