Sarani pasted a demure smile on her lips and clasped gloved hands together at her waist, channeling the many lessons her mother and her stalwart governess had imparted about English high society. Such lessons of comportment were also part and parcel of being a princess, but what was needed of her now as Rhystan’s future bride would require a strategic touch. She elongated her spine, angled her chin a smidgen downward, and held herself with impeccable poise.

A line from Rumi’s poetry struck her: “Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am,” and she let a serene smile touch her lips.

Time to be the rose.

Fourteen

Huntley House wasn’t more than a few streets away, but the duke had insisted on taking the carriage. Restlessly, Sarani twined her fingers into her fine skirts, her nerves on edge. She would have preferred to walk—at least to get rid of some of the tension coiling in her limbs.

But apparently, walking was out of the question, at least for the distinguished Duke of Embry and his betrothed. It’d been on the tip of her tongue to quip that London made a man weak in the knees. But delicate, well-bred ladies did not mention parts of men’s bodies. Nor did they tease gentlemen, nor poke at their masculinity. They sat and simpered, smiled when they were spoken to, and pretended to be objects of voiceless decoration.

Sarani had never been any good at sitting still or staying quiet. Words were powerful, and she had no intention of being cheated of hers. Not by anyone, not even the man pretending to be her future husband.

Despite being born in Joor and honoring the traditions of her people, Sarani had also been raised by a strong half-Scottish mother whose opinions did not match those of her peers, which was why she’d eloped with the love of her life in the first place. She’d taught her daughter to think for herself and to be resilient and relentless in her goals. That unusual approach had given Sarani an outlook unlike any other woman of her acquaintance.

Unlike proper English ladies.

Then again, most proper girls probably would not have leaped like a freedom fighter into the trenches…spied for a militia, lied through their teeth to avoid an arranged marriage to a jackal, and sent all their pin money to fund their best friend Manu’s efforts against the British.

Maybe that was why Vikram was coming for her.

Treason was punishable by death, wasn’t it?

Sucking in a breath, she lifted her surreptitious gaze to the somber man sitting opposite, wondering for the dozenth time whether she was out of her mind for putting her faith in him. Rhystan wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t even an acquaintance. He was just someone she’d known once, perhaps loved in the most innocent of ways. Someone she might have married under different circumstances.