the cushions, while the Englishmen around him in their starched, formal evening dress crouched down awkwardly.
She had laughed to herself in wonder that no one else seemed able to see that he was so obviously a long-lost prince.
But she had not had time to do anything more than smile her pleasure back at him, because her uncle led her by, determined to see her amongst the company set—carrying her away into the whirl of officers and company officials. Into the closed circle of pleasant, clubby chitchat.
And she had not objected when her uncle introduced her to gentlemen, nor when her aunt had introduced her to the ladies. She was grateful and unfailingly polite to the Mrs. Carstairs and the Miss Fieldings and the Mrs. Cowpers of their world. She set herself diligently to remembering their husband’s names and ranks and positions, determined to be accommodating, and useful and gracious.
She would have been better served to step back, and open her eyes and unstop her ears. She would have been better off to take heed of the treacherous undercurrents flowing around her. She would have been better prepared to utilize her well-honed Scots skepticism to take a more critical, sharp-eyed look at those around her. If she had, she might have better recognized the malice that hung like incense in the sultry, perfumed air.
It had not been her first encounter with perfidy, that night in Saharanpur. But it certainly had proved the most instructive. And the most lasting.
But what was done, was done. There could be no turning back, no chance of reliving the moment, of making different choices. No chance of redemption.
Catriona recalled herself to the present, to the inconvenient task that awaited her at Wimbourne and steeled herself to speak to Lady Jeffrey one more time. “My lady, please understand. It is impossible. You see, Mr. Thomas Jellicoe did not mistake me for another.”
“No,” her inconvenient prince said from the doorway. “I never have.”
Chapter Seven
And he wasn’t mistaking her now. He could feel the tense readiness, the watchful thinking, emanating from Cat in waves. She meant to leave. Without him.
He could see her knowledge in her eyes—see the determination, that absolute conviction he had once admired. The steely purpose beneath the prim, starched exterior.
It had always been there, that well-honed sense of surety. Miss Anne Cates’s face might look as impassive and stoic as the Himalaya , frozen and unmoving as she sat so calmly by the unnecessary fire, but he did not for one moment think she was unfeeling. No. She felt. But like the remote, timeless mountains, Catriona Rowan was alive beneath the heavy covering of snow, shifting slowly, merely biding her time. She could not hide herself so thoroughly from him, though she gazed at him with all the calm certainty of a queen—in the world, but not of it.
And he, who knew everything of masks and keeping his thoughts from his face, was impressed by her resolve and her control. He had seen it before.
He had first seen it that night in Saharanpur, at the party Colonel Balfour had carefully orchestrated to try and bring the new resident commissioner into some greater knowledge and appreciation of Hind and its richly varied peoples and cultures.
That night Thomas had scrubbed all traces of the horseman from his hands, and dressed himself in silks and satins, and wrapped his long hair in a fine white turban. All the while thinking only of her. Keeping his mind conveniently blank as to his true motives. Telling himself he was only playing a little game.
But it had not been a game, the way he had watched her, his northern flame-gold goddess.
Watching was what Tanvir Singh was good at—observing people, noticing the little things they did not know they did, finding the ways their hands or their eyes gave the lie to the words they spoke.
And that was what had made Miss Catriona Rowan so very interesting, and so very, very different. In the
She had laughed to herself in wonder that no one else seemed able to see that he was so obviously a long-lost prince.
But she had not had time to do anything more than smile her pleasure back at him, because her uncle led her by, determined to see her amongst the company set—carrying her away into the whirl of officers and company officials. Into the closed circle of pleasant, clubby chitchat.
And she had not objected when her uncle introduced her to gentlemen, nor when her aunt had introduced her to the ladies. She was grateful and unfailingly polite to the Mrs. Carstairs and the Miss Fieldings and the Mrs. Cowpers of their world. She set herself diligently to remembering their husband’s names and ranks and positions, determined to be accommodating, and useful and gracious.
She would have been better served to step back, and open her eyes and unstop her ears. She would have been better off to take heed of the treacherous undercurrents flowing around her. She would have been better prepared to utilize her well-honed Scots skepticism to take a more critical, sharp-eyed look at those around her. If she had, she might have better recognized the malice that hung like incense in the sultry, perfumed air.
It had not been her first encounter with perfidy, that night in Saharanpur. But it certainly had proved the most instructive. And the most lasting.
But what was done, was done. There could be no turning back, no chance of reliving the moment, of making different choices. No chance of redemption.
Catriona recalled herself to the present, to the inconvenient task that awaited her at Wimbourne and steeled herself to speak to Lady Jeffrey one more time. “My lady, please understand. It is impossible. You see, Mr. Thomas Jellicoe did not mistake me for another.”
“No,” her inconvenient prince said from the doorway. “I never have.”
Chapter Seven
And he wasn’t mistaking her now. He could feel the tense readiness, the watchful thinking, emanating from Cat in waves. She meant to leave. Without him.
He could see her knowledge in her eyes—see the determination, that absolute conviction he had once admired. The steely purpose beneath the prim, starched exterior.
It had always been there, that well-honed sense of surety. Miss Anne Cates’s face might look as impassive and stoic as the Himalaya , frozen and unmoving as she sat so calmly by the unnecessary fire, but he did not for one moment think she was unfeeling. No. She felt. But like the remote, timeless mountains, Catriona Rowan was alive beneath the heavy covering of snow, shifting slowly, merely biding her time. She could not hide herself so thoroughly from him, though she gazed at him with all the calm certainty of a queen—in the world, but not of it.
And he, who knew everything of masks and keeping his thoughts from his face, was impressed by her resolve and her control. He had seen it before.
He had first seen it that night in Saharanpur, at the party Colonel Balfour had carefully orchestrated to try and bring the new resident commissioner into some greater knowledge and appreciation of Hind and its richly varied peoples and cultures.
That night Thomas had scrubbed all traces of the horseman from his hands, and dressed himself in silks and satins, and wrapped his long hair in a fine white turban. All the while thinking only of her. Keeping his mind conveniently blank as to his true motives. Telling himself he was only playing a little game.
But it had not been a game, the way he had watched her, his northern flame-gold goddess.
Watching was what Tanvir Singh was good at—observing people, noticing the little things they did not know they did, finding the ways their hands or their eyes gave the lie to the words they spoke.
And that was what had made Miss Catriona Rowan so very interesting, and so very, very different. In the
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