Rogue Grooms (27 page)

Meena closed her eyes with a small sigh. Suddenly, she looked all of her years and more. “Thank you, my dearest grandson.
Lokhi mei
.”

David went to her and pressed a kiss to her brow. He did not tell her that he had known all along where the Star was to be found—with Emily Kenton’s family.

 

“Papa, Papa! Here you are at last!” Anjali dashed across the nursery floor to throw her arms around David’s waist. “You were gone a very long time.”

“I went to see your great-grandmother. She had a great many instructions for our journey.” David lifted Anjali up against his shoulder, even though, at nine years old, she was almost too big for him to do so. She was a tall girl, as her mother had been—tall for a Bengali female, with slender arms and long legs, and a warm, honey-colored complexion. Her hair was the same shining raven black as David’s was, as Rupasri’s had been, falling to her waist in a shimmering curtain. Yet her eyes were green, as green as emeralds or the English countryside in spring. Those she had gotten from David’s own father.

Anjali stepped back from him, a tiny frown puckering her brow at the mention of their voyage. “Yes. My ayah and I have been packing my trunks today, but I don’t know what I should bring. What will I need in England, Papa?”

“You may bring anything you like,
shona-moni,”
he answered. “Your books and dolls and clothes—everything.”

“Ayah says that England is always cold and damp,” Anjali said, her tone full of doubt. “I don’t think any of my clothes are right. Will you look at what we have packed and tell me? I don’t want anyone to laugh at me for not being right.”

“No one will laugh at you, sweetest. And of course I will look at your luggage.” David took her small hand in his and let her lead him to the trunks arrayed next to the whitewashed wall. They knelt down together on the pink and pale blue carpet, and he watched as she took out and displayed garments and toys for his inspection.

He saw that Anjali was right—few of her clothes would be suitable for an English spring, which was when they would arrive in London. He had always seen to it that she wore English frocks, high-waisted gowns trimmed with ribbons and embroidery, except on very special occasions when she visited her great-grandmother and wore silk saris. But her dresses were all made of light muslins, with tiny puffed sleeves. There were no sturdy wools and tweeds, no cloaks, and only one cashmere shawl. Her shoes were all thin kid and silk. What would protect his girl from the brisk sea breezes they would encounter on the voyage, let alone the winds and rains of England?

He was woefully unprepared to be the sole parent of a little daughter. He realized this as he turned a small slipper over in his hand. Before, his inadequacies had been covered by the advice of his great-grandmother, his female cousins, and Anjali’s ayahs. He was a man—he had no idea what wardrobe requirements Anjali might have, what qualities he should look for in hiring an English governess, even what she ate for dinner.

Once they boarded the ship and turned toward Europe, his daughter would be completely dependent on
him.

“Ayah says I will catch my death of cold in England,” Anjali said fearfully.

David felt a deep surge of anger toward Anjali’s ayah. This change was hard enough for the girl; how could the woman make it worse by filling her with fears? Anjali was a very sensitive child, and took such things very much to heart. He placed the slipper back in the trunk and turned to give his daughter a reassuring smile. “Ayah is wrong. England is not as cold as all that, though it
is
cooler than Calcutta, to be sure. We will buy you a whole new wardrobe in London, one that is the very height of fashion. You will like that, won’t you, my Anjali?”

She gave him a flicker of a smile, and cradled her favorite porcelain doll closer against her shoulder. “May I have a
pink
gown, Papa?”

“You may have as many pink gowns as you like. And a red velvet cloak trimmed with fur, and a bonnet with feathers. Once we are settled at Combe Lodge, we will see about finding you a pony, too, and teaching you to ride. All fine English ladies ride.”

“So, I will be a fine English lady? Like Lady MacGregor at Government House?”

David laughed at her doubtful moue, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Lady MacGregor is not the
only
English lady in the world, you know! You will be far finer than her. Though you are a very
small
English lady, to be sure.”

Anjali laughed, and he reveled in the sweet, sweet sound. Her laughter was too rare since her mother died. “I think I
would
like a pony, Papa.”

“I know that this change is not easy, Anjali,” he told her. “But England is not such a very frightening place. It has many beauties, and there will be much for you to learn and enjoy there. And you will never be alone. I will always be with you, and you must be sure to tell me if there are things you dislike or do not understand.”

“Of course, Papa.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but then she closed it again, her gaze sliding away from his.

“What is it, Anjali?” he asked her.

“I just—Ayah says that you are going back to England to find me a new mama, because none of the Indian ladies suit you. Is that true?”

Now, where would the woman have heard such a things?
David thought wryly. He remembered his grandmother pressing him about marrying again, remembered the lists of eligible ladies his cousins devised. Why would they all think he
must
have a wife? It was maddening!

Then he recalled his utter confusion in the matter of Anjali’s clothes. Once they were settled at Combe Lodge, there would surely be other things he knew nothing of, such as housekeeping and meals and hiring proper servants. As Anjali grew older, there would be Seasons to plan, gowns needed, suitable suitors found.

Perhaps a wife would have advantages, then. A comfortable home and a properly raised daughter were no small matters. But—and perhaps this was foolish of him—he did hope for more. He cared very much for Rupasri; she had been a fine lady, and excellent mother to Anjali, accomplished in all the arts of a Bengali lady. Yet their match had been an arranged one, undertaken for the benefit of their families when they were very young. If he married again, he wanted it to be from his own desire only.

But that was a romantic hope, a distant possibility. He had other, more pressing duties to think of. And his life would be theirs for a very long time to come.

David drew Anjali close to his side, doll and all, and said, “We are going to England to see about your grandfather’s properties, and so that you can learn more about that side of your family. We have duties and obligations there. That is all.” And also to retrieve the Star from the Kenton family. But Anjali did not need to know that. She had never even heard of the Star of India.

“So, I will not have a new mama waiting there?”

“No,
shona-moni.
No new mama waiting at the dock. One day I might marry again. But not soon, and only to a lady who would be a very fine mama indeed. Very well?”

Anjali nodded. “Very well, Papa. Now, will you look at these books? May I take them all with me?”

David watched as she pulled a pile of leather-bound books from one of the trunks, yet he did not truly see them. For the second time that day, he was lost in the mists of the past.

Anjali was nine years old now, very nearly the same age Emily Kenton had been when they parted so long ago. But the two girls were so very different. Anjali was quiet and studious, shy and uncertain, where Emily had been full of vibrant energy and life, always dashing about, always laughing.

Emily would be twenty-two now. Once again, he wondered if she was married, if she had grown into the beautiful, glorious woman she promised to be. A lady like that would be an exemplary example for Anjali, an exemplary, passionate wife for any man.

Would they ever come to meet again?

 

Anjali settled back for her nap after her father left her, watching the shadows of the punkah move against her ceiling. She bit her lip as she recalled her papa’s answers when she asked him about a new mama. He was truthful, she was sure—her papa was always truthful. But she was unsure, nonetheless.

She remembered all the dark-eyed beauties of the town, all the pale English ladies with their bonnets and parasols. Their eyes, whether dark and kohl-rimmed or lightest blue, were wide with sympathy as they looked at Anjali, their lips, some carmine and some shell pink, pursed in coos and murmurs. They patted her head and gave her sweetmeats, whispering all the while, “The poor
lokhi mei
. Her mother has been gone so very long, and she has no lady to teach her proper behavior!”

Several of those ladies, so soft and fluttering in their silks and muslins, had their eyes on her papa. They watched him from under their parasols or behind their ivory screens. They were always trying to gain favor with Anjali’s great-grandmother, or even with Anjali herself. But none of them had ever been right for her papa.

Truth to tell, Anjali had never much missed having a mama. Her own mother had died when Anjali was only little, and she remembered her more as a lovely dream than a real person, a vision of gleaming black hair, a whiff of jasmine perfume, a soft voice calling her a
gulpoola mei
. For as long as she could truly remember, her papa had been her only parent, and that was fine. Better than fine—it was perfect.

And she never wanted it to change.

 

H
er mother always admonished Emily not to eavesdrop, always said she would not hear anything to her own advantage.

The dowager duchess was a very sensible woman, Emily knew that and often took her sage advice. But not in this. After all, how else was she to learn anything, advantageous or not? No one told her anything directly. Eavesdropping had often served her well since childhood.

It served her now, as she leaned against the closed breakfast room door, unabashedly listening to the conversation of her brother Alexander and her sister-in-law, Georgina.

Emily
had
been about to open the door and join them in their meal. Then she heard her name, and paused with one hand on the painted porcelain knob.

“I am worried about Emily, my darling,” Georgina said.

“Worried about Em?” There was a sharp click of silver on china, as if Alex had abruptly set down his fork. “Why? Is she ill?”

“No, no, nothing like that. At least not that I am aware of.”

“Good. I did not think a lady could be ill and still attend two balls, a musicale, and a Venetian breakfast in a twenty-four-hour period.”

“Perhaps that is what I am worried about,” Georgina murmured.

“Whatever do you mean, Georgie? Do you suspect she is unhappy about something?”

There was a soft rustle of silk; Emily imagined Georgina shrugging her shoulders. “She does not appear to be so. She delves into the social whirl of Town with every appearance of enjoyment. But there is something—something not quite right.”

“Georgie, my love, we have been married for years now, yet I confess I still do not always rightly understand you. Emily dances and smiles, and appears for all the world to be a happy young lady. Yet you are worried,” Alex said, his voice full of fond exasperation.

Georgina gave a little laugh. “Oh, darling, sometimes I do not rightly understand
myself!
But I do worry about Emily. This is nearly the end of her third Season, and she has not yet found someone she can esteem enough to marry.”

“Yes. I sometimes worry about that myself, yet truly, I do not think we have cause for concern at present. You and I were not exactly callow youths when we wed. She has time. And I would not want to see her married to someone she cannot truly love, just because he is suitable or it seems like the proper time.”

Amen to that
, Emily thought fervently. She remembered the parade of suitors over the past three years. Their number had not been insubstantial—her family title was an old one, after all, and she was well-dowered thanks to the fortune Georgina had brought with her to the family. But most of those men were too old or too young, gambling fortune-hunters, merchants seeking a title, widowers wanting a mother for their twelve children.

There had never been one among them with whom she could make a home and family, whom she could truly love. Love as her mother and father had possessed, or as Alex loved Georgina.

Sometimes Emily watched them as they danced together at a ball, or walked in the garden. They had eyes for no one else, and were always holding hands or linking arms, completely uncaring that it was not the done thing for married couples to be
in love
. She watched them as they played with their children, always laughing together. Emily was happy for her brother—truly she was. He deserved his happiness after long years at war, and Georgina had never been anything but the best of sisters to Emily.

Yet sometimes—only sometimes!—her heart would ache with envy at their romance. When would she find love like that? Would she ever? Or did it not truly exist, except in books and for a fortunate few? If she did find it, would she be brave enough to embrace it, or would she run?

But she had thought no one noticed these thoughts. She tried so hard to hide those pangs behind the merriment of the Season, filling her time with shopping and soirees. Emily forgot that Georgina was an artist, that her sharp eyes saw even things that were veiled.

“I would not want to see her wed to someone she does not love, either!” Georgina protested. “I love Emily as my own sister, and I want only to see her happy. If the single life suited her, I would be glad for her to live with us at Fair Oak forever. But I cannot be so selfish. Emily has so much love in her heart. And you have seen daily how wonderful she is with the children.”