Something Sinful (3 page)

She glanced over her shoulder once more as she slipped through the front door and into the house’s cold, dim interior. In the weeks since they’d left India she’d given up the hope of ever being truly warm again, but she couldn’t help wishing for just one day of true heat here in London. And this was summer; even the idea of winter filled her with foreboding.

And so did her last sight of Lord Charlemagne Griffin. Obviously he hadn’t expected to see her at Blackfriar’s pier. But for heaven’s sake, business was business, and he should have known better than to tell a stranger all the details of a lucrative transaction he’d barely begun, much less completed.

She had no idea what he would have done if she hadn’t told the driver to leave. He’d looked angry enough to reach through the window to strangle her. The memory of his expression made her shiver. And even that was nothing close to the shivers he’d given her last night when he’d told her his plans to nab the silk—or when he’d kissed her knuckles.

“There you are, child,” her mother said from the depths of the morning room. “Where on earth have you been?”

With a sigh Sarala backtracked down the hall and stopped in the morning room doorway. “I had a little business to attend to. Is Pita still in his office?”

“‘Papa,’ you mean,” Helen Carlisle, Lady Hanover, corrected, lowering her embroidery to frown. “Or ‘Father.’”

“I like ‘Papa’ better,” Sarala returned with a pained smile. For heaven’s sake, she’d just forgotten for a moment. She’d called her father Pita for twenty-two years, after all.

“Then use ‘Papa,’” her mother said unsympathetically. “And what do you mean, you had business? Ladies don’t conduct business.”

“I helped Pi—Papa with affairs in Delhi all the time. You know that.”

“What I know is that we’re not in Delhi any longer. We’re in London, and thank goodness for that. Another year or two in India and I daresay you would have forgotten how to speak English altogether.”

“Yes,
Mama
,” Sarala intoned, declining to note that since the majority of her father’s business had been with Indians, it had been a solid business decision for the two of them to learn to speak Hindi. “Is
Father
in his office?”

“He’s back early from Parliament, so I imagine that he is. Don’t keep him long. He’s reviewing our finances.”

“I won’t.” Pushing away from the doorframe, Sarala turned down the hallway again.

“Sarala.”

Closing her eyes for just a moment as she felt the remains of her brief satisfaction of the morning ebbing, she returned to the morning room. “Yes, Mama?”

“This business to which you attended. Please tell me you didn’t go alone.”

“I met Mr. Warrick. He actually conducted the business. I waited in the coach with my maid.”
And hated every blasted minute of that nonsense.

“Good. Go see your father, then.” The marchioness sighed, lifting her embroidery again. “You two are as alike as peas in a pod, anyway. I don’t know how I manage.”

Pretending she couldn’t hear her mama’s muttering, Sarala hurried to the marquis’s small office at the back of the house. “Pita,” she whispered, rapping on the door and opening it a crack, “I’m back.”

“Sarala, my
ladakii,
” Howard Carlisle, the new Marquis of Hanover, said, rising from behind his mahogany desk to kiss her cheek as she entered the room. “How did we do?”

Sarala handed him the leather binder she’d clutched all the way home, half convinced Lord Charlemagne would appear, wrench open the coach door, and take it from her. “You are now the proud owner of five hundred bolts of very fine Chinese silk. Warrick is putting it into storage as we speak.”

“Ha, ha! Excellent.” Seating himself again, he opened the binder to pull out the contents. “One guinea apiece. Not bad at all,
ladakii.
”

Sarala grinned, appeased again. “I had to send Warrick back to the table twice to get that price. He would have settled at a guinea, ten shillings.”

“I don’t doubt it. He knows numbers, but he hasn’t much of a backbone.”

“And I should warn you not to call me
ladakii
any longer,” Sarala continued. “I’ve already been reprimanded for referring to you as Pita.”

“So I suppose that henceforth I should settle for calling you ‘daughter.’ Ah, well. Your mama’s only trying to help us fit in. We should be more appreciative.”

“But I don’t want to fit in. All I’ve heard since we left the ship is what proper English ladies
don’t
do. And they apparently don’t do anything except shop and gossip. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the way things are, Sarala.” He glanced at the open ledger books before him. “And I’m afraid we’re here to stay. We’ll have to adapt, you and I.” The marquis cleared his throat. “Any difficulties at all? What about that fellow who told you about the shipment?”

Sarala shrugged, keeping her expression carefully bland. “He arrived late to the table. His loss. Our gain.” She doubted the Duke of Melbourne’s brother would describe the venture that way, but if he was half the businessman rumor made him out to be, he would realize that he’d erred and would give up his claim on the silks. Her last glimpse of his expression made her secretly doubt that, but if he didn’t appear, then she wasn’t going to say anything about it.

“How was luncheon?”

Starting, he looked up from tearing off his gloves and throwing them into the hat that Stanton the butler held silently for him. “What?”

“I asked how your meeting went,” Sebastian said from the top of the Griffin House stairs. “Not well, I presume, judging from your expression.”

“I thought you had Parliament.”

“I did. We adjourned early. How did you think Polk and Shipley managed to meet with you if we hadn’t recessed?”

“Some people skip sessions.”

“I don’t.” The duke waved a hand at Stanton, who instantly vanished down the hallway. “I know the idiots disagree with our stand that negotiations would serve us better than war, but that’s hardly a surprise to you.”

“Ha. Shipley still thinks America will return to the fold, the halfwit. He’s worse than Liverpool, calling the Yanks traitors.”

“What has your hackles up, then?”

“Nothing.” Charlemagne started up the stairs, only refraining from taking them two at a time because Melbourne was watching him. “I’m only here to change my jacket. I’ve another appointment.”

“With whom?”

With a damned Indian princess who owed him five hundred bolts of fine Chinese silk.
“No one you know.”

“I doubt that. I know everyone. You took care of your silk shipment this morning, so…” The duke gave him an intent look and paused.

Damn it, Sebastian couldn’t read minds, and Charlemagne wasn’t about to inform his older brother voluntarily about
anything
that had transpired this morning. “So?” he prompted.

“So I’m assuming your appointment is of a more personal nature. Whoever she is, Shay, if she makes you this angry I suggest you look elsewhere.”

“It’s business, not pleasure,” Shay grunted, passing his brother and heading for his bedchamber. “And I’m not angry. I’m…focused.”

“Ah,” the duke said from behind him. “I see.”

Actually he was feeling extremely unfocused. It was all so damned odd, and he didn’t appreciate the sensation or the circumstances one bloody little bit.

By the time he reached Carlisle House his brain had begun to sort things out rationally, and he was able to resist the urge to pound on the door and smash the pots of ferns on the front portico. The chit obviously ran wild, so he wouldn’t deal with her. Business was business, and business was for men.

A large, gray-clothed man opened the door. “Yes?”

“Charlemagne Griffin, here to see Lord Hanover.”

The butler blinked. Someone in the household knew him by name, at least. He stepped back, gesturing Charlemagne to follow him inside. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, I shall fetch him.”

The morning room was small, tasteful, and, unless he was mistaken, smelled of cinnamon. The scent forcibly reminded him of the chit who’d bested him. And considering what she’d been doing with him in his dreams, it almost felt like a double loss on his part. And he didn’t like to lose.

Before the butler could finish closing him into the room, he heard a rush of footsteps and a hurried, muttered conversation. A second later the door swung open again, and the lady herself practically skidded into the room. She wore a frilled dressing gown, one sleeve hanging to reveal a tantalizing view of smooth collarbone and shoulder. That black hair was everywhere, half up and tumbled down, caressing her cheek and sagging into an unfinished knot at the back.

The angry comment Charlemagne had been about to make vanished back into his throat, making him cough a little. Glory.

Belatedly she tugged up her sleeve. “Lord Charlemagne.”

Mentally he shook himself.
Business, man. Business.
“You stole my silks.”

“I did no such thing. You informed me of a potentially lucrative business opportunity, and I acted on that information.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I discussed my business with you because I was under the impression that you were an admirer—not a rival.”

She snorted. “Then you made two mistakes.”

Charlemagne took a step closer. “Where’s your father? I came to speak with him, to discuss the return of my property in a rational manner.”

Lady Sarala gave what might have been a brief frown, then lifted her chin. “This is
my
affair, and you will discuss it with me, or not at all.”

Good God, she had some nerve. And her sleeve had sagged again, so that he could see the pulse at her throat and the quick lift of her breast. “Then return my property,” he said, returning his gaze to her soft mouth.

“It’s not your property. But for a price, I will let you have every stitch.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What price, then?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

His jaw fell open, then clamped shut. “
Five thousand pounds?
So you would steal from me and then overcharge me to recover my own goods?”

She looked him right in the eye. “Once again, I did not steal anything from you, or from anyone else. Make me a counter offer, or bid me good day and leave.”

Incredulous, he shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Where’s the liquor?”

“Over there.” Lady Sarala pointed toward the cabinet beneath the window.

Her fingers shook, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her up against him. “You’re not frightened of me, are you?” he murmured.

“Is that your intent? I’d heard you were a fearsome opponent, but you seem to be harping on one point of contention, which does neither of us any good. Make me a counter offer, my lord.”

He lowered his head and kissed her upturned mouth. Sensation flooded through him, all the way to his cock. He didn’t know how to describe what she tasted like—sunshine, warm summer breezes, heat, desire.

When she began to kiss him back, he forced himself to lift his face away again. “How was that?” he drawled.

Sarala cleared her throat, belatedly recovering her hand and backing away. “Fair. But hardly worth five thousand pounds.”

Mm-hm. She knew how to play the game; he could concede that. But no one played it as well as he did. “You have a rare focus, Lady Sarala. I’ll give you that. And I’ll acknowledge that you are the owner of something which was meant to be mine.”

Her eyes widened. “You admit it?”

“I just did. What did you actually pay for them, since we both know it wasn’t five thousand pounds?”

“Something less than that. I acquired them, however, in order to make a profit, as I assume you meant to do. I have yet to hear a counter offer.”

His gaze lowered to her mouth again. “Very well. Since you won’t tell me, I’ll assume you managed a fair price, which would be what, a guinea and a half per bolt? That’s the exact amount I will compensate you for them.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have seen it. “Where, then, is my profit?” she demanded.

“Your profit is in learning not to cross a man simply because he deigns to dance with you.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t say you deigned as much as begged to dance with me over my objections,” she countered. “Five thousand pounds.”

Charlemagne took a slow breath. This afternoon had gone nothing like he’d imagined. And at the moment he wouldn’t describe that as a bad thing. “No.”

“Then I believe we are finished here. Good day, my lord.”

He caught her arm again as she began to turn away. “I have contacts who would appreciate the quality of these silks and pay me what they’re worth. You’ve been in London for eleven days now, according to what you told me last night. I would assume, given that fact, that your plan is to sell the bolts off one by one to dress shops and seamstresses.”

Lady Sarala delayed a moment before removing her arm from his loose grip. “What I plan for the silks is my own business, and certainly none of yours. And since I don’t believe you’ve offered me anything I want,” she returned in the same low voice, “I’ll tell you good day once again. But do keep in mind that any negotiations are to be conducted with me—not my father. Unless you can’t match wits with a female.” She went to the door, and the butler practically fell into the room as she opened it.

It wasn’t wits he wanted to match with her, but something much more physical and intimate. “Very well.” Charlemagne shoved away his more heated thoughts in favor of a few that might leave him some dignity, and went into the hallway to collect his hat and gloves. “I hope you don’t think this is over, Lady Sarala,” he said, facing her again as the butler opened the front door. “I want my silks back.” Unable to resist, he lowered his gaze once more to her sensuous mouth. “But I do have something you may want in return. We’ll merely have to discover what that something might be.”

Before she could reply, he left to collect Jaunty. This was one negotiation he had no intention of losing.