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‘Anusha, listen to me.’ Nick caught her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. ‘With the dowry Sir George will give and the influence he wields, there will be no problem in finding you a suitable husband, one you will like. A leading merchant, a promising army officer, the younger son of a noble house—that sort of gentleman.’
A promising army officer, the younger son of a noble house... She shot Nick a fulminating glance. Did he mean himself? Marriage to her would make him the son and male heir of the man he regarded as his father. It would give him more money, more standing to help him build what was obviously a promising career. Had that been what his kisses and his kindness had been about—careful first steps in seducing a bride?
If Nick married her, he would march off as soon as he had planted a child in her and go to whatever exciting and interesting things he spent his life doing and she would be left with the corsets and the babies and the memsahibs with their disapproving mouths, and she would never belong and never be free.
‘I see.’ She felt strangely calm all of a sudden. She had been moved from the gilded, luxurious cage of the court to another cage, not so gilded, not so luxurious. And, she could see already, not so secure. ‘He chooses some men, parades them in front of me, I say no, he finds some more... How long does this go on?’
‘Until you find someone you like.’ Nick watched her face with the patience she had grown accustomed to. It was the implacable patience of the hunter and, worst of all, there was pity deep in the green eyes. ‘Anusha, I am sorry I had to deceive you, but you have no idea how dangerous it is out there for a gently reared lady alone—you would not have lasted a day.’
How innocent she had been, how romantic, to think that this alien warrior would be her friend or perhaps, in those half-waking dreams around dawn, more than her friend.
At the court, if she had refused a match and her uncle had insisted, she would have been shut up in her room until she submitted. Here, it seemed, there would be no physical coercion so it would be a game of cunning to escape. And she knew she was cunning—court life taught you how to be that.
‘I understand.’ She turned from him in case he saw the calculation in her eyes. ‘And who will teach me to be an English lady that these desirable men will want to marry? Or would they marry anyone to secure my father’s money and patronage?’
‘They will want you for yourself, Anusha. How could they not when they come to know you?’ Yes? I know already that you will tell me any lies if it suits you. ‘And Lady Hoskins will take you under her wing. She lives three houses further along this street. She is married to Sir Joshua Hoskins, a colleague of your father, and they have a daughter who married last year and a son of seventeen.’
An experienced matron, one who would not be easy to deceive. Best to begin now to disarm suspicion. ‘I see I will have to make the best of it,’ she said with a shrug. It would not do to seem too ready to accept her fate.
‘Come and have dinner, then. Take your mind off your troubles by wrestling with the silverware.’
‘I am certain I will have no problem.’ She stalked out of the door in front of Nick. ‘After all, I have had the benefit of your lessons.’
* * *
Anusha was angry with him, her nose was severely out of joint and she was, however well she was hiding it, deeply uneasy in this house, uprooted from everything she knew and understood. Nick followed on her heels into the dining room, worry and sympathy warring in his breast. On their journey, however difficult and dangerous it had been, they had been in her world and she had been the raja’s niece.
Now she did not know who she was, only that she was with the father she believed had rejected her, and a man who had lied to her and lured her into coming here.
A servant held her chair for her at the foot of the table and she sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, chin up. Nick took his own place, halfway along the board between Anusha and Sir George at the head, as servants began to bring in the dishes that made up a typical Anglo-Indian dinner.
The way the table was arranged mirrored the Indian style of setting out an array of dishes all at once, but the dishes themselves were a hotchpotch of Indian curries, chutneys and rice and English roasts, soups and vegetables. ‘May I help you to anything?’ Nick offered. ‘A slice of lamb or chicken?’
‘Thank you. Chicken.’ She eyed the vegetables, then extended her right hand towards the rice and snatched it back, lips pursed in embarrassment as she found the serving spoon and used that. The servant poured wine into her glass.
