As if his thoughts had conjured her, Sarani—blast, he had to stop thinking of her by that name now that they were in town—Lady Sara Lockhart strolled from belowdecks, her two servants in tow. Rhystan blinked. Unlike him with his unkempt appearance, she was the picture of perfect aristocratic elegance, dressed in a modest but stylish mauve gown trimmed in lace, with her rich, dark hair coiled into a low bun and loose ringlets framing her exquisite face. A fetching, feathered bonnet completed the picture.

Lord but she stole his breath.

Rhystan sucked in a sudden gulp of air. He was not the only one so affected. Several of his crew gaped openly, and even stoic Gideon wore a slightly bemused expression. Rhystan didn’t know which version of Sarani he preferred more—but whether she wore boy’s clothing or a fashionable dress, she captivated.

“Your Grace,” she said, approaching him and dipping into an effortless curtsy.

Inclining his head, he cleared his tight throat. “My lady, you look well.”

“I’ve a part to play, don’t I,” she said, the words soft and only for his ears. “And if London is anything like my court in Joor, we can be sure that curious eyes and inquisitive minds are already reporting on the prodigal Duke of Embry’s arrival, as well as the unexpected female passenger on his ship. Believe me, gossip will fly faster than a winter squall.”

He almost smiled at the choice of words. She was right, of course.

In retrospect, Rhystan would not put it past his mother to have made some grand announcement in the newssheets about her son’s anticipated return. Though she would not have known about Sarani or the fact that he would be arriving with a fiancée. The gratifying thought almost made him smile. A gleeful part of him could not wait to see his mother’s face.

Speaking of, he’d better make haste before she found her way to him before he was properly groomed and attired…before the Duke of Embry’s own costume was securely in place. His gaze scanned the clogged docks packed with dockworkers, wagons, coaches, and then traveled in reverse to stop on a handsome coach emblazoned with his ducal crest that was waiting a short distance away. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Even with an early arrival, his very efficient servants would have had someone watching for his appearance.

With a deep breath, he offered his arm to his future bride. “Shall we, then?”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she replied, slipping a gloved hand onto his forearm.