Her Only Desire Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  PREVIEW FOR HER SECRET FANTASY

  PRAISE FOR GAELEN FOLEY

  ALSO BY GAELEN FOLEY

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a lot of people thanks for helping me to shape this book into what it needed to be, most of all my insightful editor, Charlotte Herscher, who always seems to know what’s needed, and my eagle-eyed agent, Nancy Yost, for her excellent suggestions on a few story points, as well. I would also like to thank author Meredith Bond for her gracious and unstinting help with my research on India, my dear friends and fellow authors Marjorie Allen and “Angel” Kihl-strom, and my favorite military historian, Bill Haggert, for providing me with some hard-to-find details on the Regulars in India during this period. Any mistakes that may arise are entirely my own.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  India, 1817

  B eneath a bold sky of peacock blue, the sun-baked city of Calcutta unfurled along a palm-lined meander of the Hooghly River like a living tapestry, or a rich silk shawl that billowed on a spice-laden breeze.

  Flocks of birds swirled around the curving spires of ancient Hindu temples, under whose profusely carven gateways worshipers in flower-bright robes bathed on the stone steps leading down to the water. The noisy bazaar also hugged the misty riverside, a tumult of haggling, jumbled stalls and tents offering everything from Afghan carpets to aphrodisiacs made of rhinoceros horn.

  Farther away from the crowded banks, the river bustled with all the teeming commercial activity of the British capital of India. Monopolies long held by the East India Company had just been lifted; there were fortunes to be made, and now it was anyone’s game. Merchants and traders all along the docks loaded square-rigged vessels with their goods, bound for distant worlds.

  Amid all of this chaos and exuberance, a low-slung schooner docked quietly.

  A tall, formidable Englishman stood leaning at the rails with his hands planted wide, his chiseled jaw taut. His imposing size, hawk-eyed stillness, and the gentlemanly reserve of his London attire distinguished him from the commotion as the grubby, barefoot sailors raced around behind him at their tasks, dropping anchor, taking in sails.

  Dark-haired, with stern, patrician features, his gray-green eyes gleamed with intelligence as he searched the quay-side panorama in guarded watchfulness, taking it all in, and brooding on his mission…

  Each year, by the end of September, when the torrential rains of monsoon tapered off and the skies cleared, and the churning floodwaters receded, then came the season of blood: the season of war. Even now, the drums beat; many miles away, the armies gathered.

  October had come. The drying ground would soon harden enough for caisson wheels and cavalry charges. Soon the killing would start.

  Unless he could stop it.

  Looking slowly over one broad shoulder, Ian Prescott, the Marquess of Griffith, scanned the river-boats nearby, well aware that he was being followed.

  Well, nothing new in that. He had not yet glimpsed his pursuer, but in his line of work, a man developed a sixth sense about such things or he didn’t last long. No matter. He was harder to kill than the average courtier, a fact that assassins in several foreign courts had learned, to their woe.

  Concealed inside his impeccably tailored clothes he carried a discreet arsenal of weapons; besides, the rival colonial powers in the region could not assassinate a diplomat of his rank without causing an international incident.

  Still, it would be nice to know who was tailing him.

  French? he mused. Likeliest suspects, as ever, though he could not rule out the Dutch, much aggrieved by the recent loss of Ceylon to the British. The Portuguese maintained a strong presence at Goa. No doubt all three had agents out trying to learn what the British were up to.

  If the spy had been sent by the Maharajah of Janpur, well, that was another matter, and made for a slightly more unpredictable affair. But whoever it was, if they meant to kill him, he thought, they would have tried by now.

  He’d simply have to watch his back and take it as it came.

  As the gangplank banged down onto the stone ghats leading up from the water, Ian beckoned to his trio of Indian servants, stole one last, casual glance over his shoulder, and then went ashore.

  His black boots struck the gangplank hard with his every brisk stride, small spring-bolted blades hidden inside the leather soles. His silver-handled walking stick contained a sword, and strapped beneath his muted olive morning coat he wore a loaded pistol snug against his ribs.

  He climbed the ghats with his servants in tow, but paused for a second at the top of the stairs. Facing the thronged, seething cauldron of the bazaar, he wished he’d had more time to prepare, to educate himself in depth on the country as he normally would on his assignments, but they had needed him right away.

  Though he was a recognized expert in conducting the sort of delicate negotiations soon to take place, Ian had never been to India before. He had been on holiday in Ceylon when he had been summoned, stretched out on a white-powder beach and trying very hard to escape a few private demons of his own. Trying to reason his way through or perhaps around the emptiness that had grown so deep over the past few years, leaving him in this inward state of isolation, hollow and numb.

  But with no more success than before in resolving his carefully concealed pain, he had been all too happy to volunteer his services to help sort out the unpleasantness with the Maratha Empire. Until he got his bearings, however, developed more of a feel for this place and its people, he knew he would have to tread with extreme care and meet all who crossed his path with meticulous courtesy. The worst thing any diplomat could do was to unwittingly give offense.

  Fortunately, he had a general grasp of the rules and a little of the two main languages he’d need for the mission, Bengali and Marathi, thanks to his trusty guide and interpreter, Ravi Bhim. For now, the bazaar loomed ahead. There was no way to go but through it; he moved on.

  The moment Ian stepped into the main aisle designated as the spice market, a wall of scent washed over him, pungent and intoxicating. His eyes smarted at the sharp flavors hanging thickly in the humid air: black pepper and cloves, turmeric and mustard seed, all sold atop wide, woven platters by robed men willing to haggle. Ian waved his hand, declining their bargains, and pressed on. There were sacks of cardamom, saffron, and mace; fine nutmeg by the pound, coriander, sultry cinnamon.

  He glanced behind him again and saw one of his servants dawdling. The wide-eyed coolie, balancing one of Ian’s traveling trunks on his bare back, had stopped to watch a snake charmer coaxing a deadly spectacled cobra from its basket, enchanting the serpent with the winding melody from his reedy pipe. Another turbaned man played a pair of deep-voiced drums. Their song competed with the Muslim call to prayer now echoing down from the minarets of all the mosques across the city.

  The coolie saw Ian’s raised eyebrow and blanched, hurrying after him. Soon they were in the thick of it—close heat, body odors, a clamor of polyglot voices, the motion of the place whirling around him like a dervish dance. His earnest attempt to absorb everything dissolved into a dizzying overload of sight and smell and sound.

  His senses throbbed a
s he walked down a narrow aisle lined with a delirious array of Eastern treasures. Kanchipuram silk so fine it would have made his fashionable mistress back in London moan with pleasure. Gold and silver-thread brocade; printed cotton light as feathers; gorgeous intricate carpets; bright beads and terra-cotta animals; leather sandals; dyes and powder paints; rare cypress furniture, and gilded figurines of multi-armed goddesses and blue-skinned gods.

  Moving through the market, Ian and his servants were carelessly jostled by people who were as varied as the goods they had gathered to buy and sell. Hindu ladies, rainbow-dressed and silken-scarved, bantered back and forth, their smiles beaming, the married ones marked by the distinctive red dot, or bindi, on their foreheads.

  English officers in uniform rode past the perimeter astride prancing horses worthy of Tattersall’s. Buddhist monks in saffron robes strolled by with shaved heads, almond-shaped eyes, and radiant smiles as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Certainly the peace-loving monks had no idea that another war was brewing.

  A small group of Muslim ladies covered in black from head to toe had stopped to browse at a jeweler’s stall, and one was leading her child by the hand, a small boy. The tot was eating a mango, and Ian smiled faintly, for the youngster looked about five years old, the same age as his son.

  Ignoring a vague pang in the region of his heart, he looked around to find a trinket for his heir before his mission got underway in earnest. This was a ritual he always observed no matter where in the world his work took him. There might not be time later. He chose an elephant of carved teakwood and approached the artisan.

  “Koto?” Though he was never one to haggle unless the fate of nations hung in the balance, not to protest the first stated price would have been an insult to the trader.

  And so Ian haggled to show his respect.

  Ravi looked on in amusement. With the purchase finally made and good-natured laughter all around at the English lord’s attempt to speak Bengali, Ian handed off the toy to his servant, gave the trader a farewell namaste, and then led his small band onward through the market.

  At last they emerged on the other side, where he sent Ravi off to find a carriage to take him to the Akbar Grand Hotel, which Governor General Lord Hastings had recommended in his friendly letter accompanying the communiqué explaining Ian’s assignment.

  He dispatched one of the coolies to Government House to let Lord Hastings know he had arrived and would call on him as soon as he had procured lodgings. From there he would be briefed, and would finally get to meet the two distinguished cavalry officers whom he had specifically requested for his diplomatic detail—Gabriel and Derek Knight.

  Though he had not yet met this transplanted branch of the Knight clan, ties between their two powerful families ran deep. Back in London, Ian’s closest friend since boyhood and strongest political ally was the head of that clan—Robert Knight, the Duke of Hawkscliffe, or “Hawk” to him.

  Gabriel and Derek were Hawk’s first cousins; quality was in the blood. Born and raised in India, moreover, the brothers knew the ground and the people better than he did. Ian’s show of preferment by selecting them for this mission, in turn, would help to advance their already stellar military careers. For his part, if he had to go into a hostile foreign court, he wanted men around him he could trust.

  Feeling eyes upon him again, and increasingly certain that someone was watching his every move, Ian glanced casually behind him, hoping to spot the spy, but instead he went motionless at the awesome sight of a great Bengal tiger being carried through the market in a cage.

  Suspended on long poles, the cage rested on the sun-browned shoulders of no less than eight porters. The creature must have weighed five hundred pounds. As they carried it toward the river to be shipped, no doubt, to some European nobleman’s menagerie, the beast let out a roar, terrifying its crowd of turbaned handlers and trying to slash at them through the wooden bars of its cage.

  The coolies cried out and nearly dropped the cage in their rush to clear the area. But when their overseer verified that the wooden cage would indeed hold and waved them back to work, the men let out nervous laughter and returned with all due caution, warily lifting the poles onto their shoulders again.

  Ian watched, riveted by the wild animal, and somehow wounded by its fate. Of course, if it were free, it would have destroyed everything in its path. Some beasts were better off caged.

  Didn’t he know it, too.

  “Sahib!”

  He turned as Ravi came hurrying back, bringing another Indian fellow with him—a footman of the aristocracy, in white wig and lavender livery. Ravi gestured to a luxurious black coach with four snow-white horses waiting across the street. A groom in matching livery held the leader’s head.

  “Sahib, this man says he was given orders to pick you up when you arrived.”

  Ian eyed the footman cautiously. “You are the Governor’s man?”

  “No, my lord.” He bowed. “I was sent from the home of Lord Arthur Knight.”

  “Lord Arthur?” Ian exclaimed. Derek and Gabriel’s father.

  “Yes, sir. I have been ordered here every day for a fortnight to greet you. I was told to give you this.” Reaching into his showy waistcoat, the footman withdrew a folded piece of creamy linen paper, which he presented to Ian.

  It seemed that Ian’s suspicious reaction had already been anticipated, for the note had been sealed with a red wax wafer firmly stamped with the family crest of the house of the Dukes of Hawkscliffe. The moment he saw the authentic Hawkscliffe insignia, he nearly grinned. He knew this coat of arms as well as he knew his own. He might be a stranger in a strange land here, but the familiar sight went a long way toward making him feel at home.

  Lord Arthur was Hawk’s uncle, younger brother to the previous Duke. A bit of a carousing rake in his youth, as younger sons of the nobility tended to be, Lord Arthur had been a great favorite with all the lads before he had set out some thirty years ago to make his fortune with the East India Company.

  Ian had promised to deliver salutations from the London branch of the Knight family to the scion that had taken root here, but he had not expected to make a social call until he had gotten settled in at the hotel and had taken care of preparations for his mission.

  In any case, short of Lord Arthur coming to greet him in person, the authentic Hawkscliffe crest was the best proof he could ask for to ensure that the footman’s story was genuine and not the cunning trap of some enemy agent. With that, he cracked the seal and read.

  Dear Lord Griffith,

  Welcome to India! The finest hotel in Calcutta cannot rival the hospitality of a good friend’s home, and as I hear that you are all but a member of the family back in England, you must hasten here and be our guest. We shall endeavor to see to your every comfort.

  Very truly yrs,

  Georgiana Knight.

  Well, well, well, he mused. Georgiana. Lord Arthur’s daughter. He had been trying hard not to think about her.

  It wasn’t easy, considering he had been hearing intriguing stories about the young lady from as far away as the Bay of Bengal—not just of her beauty, but of her good deeds. Though she was a leading belle of British society in Calcutta, with innumerable friends and more suitors than she could count, the bulk of her considerable energy, it seemed, went into her charitable work for the good of the Indian people.

  Rumors of an orphanage Georgiana had endowed with the proceeds of her father’s East India Company fortune were only the beginning. There was also an almshouse for old ladies, an animal hospital in the Jain tradition, a shrine she had prevented from being destroyed to make way for a new British road, and she was a major patroness of the Orientalist Society, funding the livelihoods of scholars who were dedicated to the study of ancient Sanskrit texts and all branches of Eastern thought and art.

  The villagers a hundred miles away had spoken Georgiana’s name in a reverent hush, as though invoking some divine or sainted being. But having known all abo
ut the shocking exploits of the first Georgiana, Hawk’s mother, for whom she had been named, Ian had his doubts.

  Knight women were pure trouble, born and bred for scandal.

  And yet somehow he could hardly wait to have a look at her.

  There had been talk for generations, after all, of a desire to unite their two powerful clans, the Hawkscliffe dukes and the Griffith marquesses. But it did not signify. His interest was academic only; the grand alliance would have to wait for a new generation. Perhaps one day his boy, Matthew, could marry Hawk and Bel’s new baby daughter. Himself, his married days were over.

  He had been married once. Once had been enough.

  The footman looked at him expectantly, but Ian hesitated. If he was being watched by foreign powers, he did not want to bring danger to his friends.

  On the other hand, with two military officers in the house besides himself—Gabriel and Derek, waiting to join him on his mission—any spy would think twice about coming too close. Besides, old Lord Arthur might have something useful to tell him about the renowned Maharajah of Janpur.

  His mind made up, Ian tucked the note into his breast pocket, nodding to the footman. “Thank you. I will come.”

  “This way, my lord.” But as the servant began to show him over to the carriage, a slight shift in the wind suddenly carried the strong scent of smoke to his nostrils.

  Something was burning.

  He turned to look and saw a change in the crowd’s shifting currents; the people in the market were surging toward the west.

  “What’s happened?” he asked quickly, worried a fire had broken out somewhere in the cluttered bazaar. His instant reaction was to begin looking for a way to stop pandemonium from breaking out, fearing people would get trampled if there was not a swift and orderly evacuation of the old tinderbox of a market.

  Ravi halted a passerby and asked what was happening, then turned back to Ian in relief. “It is only a funeral, sahib. Some local dignitary has died and is being cremated. His ashes will be scattered on the river.”