Sarani wrinkled her nose. She hated the stuff, though blending in was the point, wasn’t it? But when her gaze slid to the translucent dust in its decorative dish, everything inside of her suddenly choked. Did blending in mean becoming invisible? The parasol was one thing, but this was one more step of erasure.

“No, not tonight.” Not ever. She lowered her voice, glancing over to where the undermaids were bustling about the antechamber. “And it’s ‘my lady,’ don’t forget. And remember, you are to play the role of my companion as well, so you must act accordingly.”

Asha nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

After donning a bottle-green gown from her portmanteau, Sarani gave herself one last look. A tepid English rose stared back at her. Perfectly coiffed hair, freshly scrubbed skin, and elegant clothing combined to groom her into the future Duchess of Embry.

All except for her eyes, which blazed. They burned with fire, defiance, and pure, unadulterated ferocity. As if to say: How dare you give in? How dare you become this parody? How dare you?

Sarani gulped, her throat tightening, and lowered her lids. Now was not the time for her inner tigress to come out fighting, claws first. It was a matter of necessity if she was to survive. There were rules that had to be heeded, modesty that needed to be minded. She had to be perfect.

“Ask His Grace’s valet about an available modiste,” she said to Asha. “I will require a full wardrobe befitting a future duchess. Money is no object.” It would not be, with a raja’s fortune in gems in her carpetbag. “And ask Gideon to look into how I can sell some of my jewels.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sarani inhaled and exhaled, risking a final peek at her eyes. The fierce gleam there had calmed, thank heavens. Eyes could reveal so much about a person if one knew how to read them. She’d learned that as a girl in her father’s court. They often gave away when a man was lying or revealed what he truly desired. Smiles, expressions, and words could be easily faked, but the eyes rarely lied.

Markham’s disdain beneath his official bearing had been obvious. Talbot’s lust had shone through his gentlemanly reserve. The ladies of the court had envied her while they derided her. Back then, even Rhystan had been transparent, his affection shimmering in those blue-gray eyes. Now, not so much. These days, he was near impossible to read between the irregular bursts of anger and desire, which meant that she had to tread carefully.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young maid said at the door, “but His Grace is inquiring whether you are ready to depart for Huntley House.”

Canting her head, she stood and smiled graciously at the maid. “Thank you. You may inform His Grace that I’ll be down shortly.”