golden flecks of light, reminding him of the tigers of India. She had also acquired the lovely honey-gold skin that no longer looked quite English, yet could never be termed foreign. In fact, she seemed to radiate a feminine perfection, with all the qualities he most admired. Her soft pink lips were tantalising and gracefully curved, full and simply begged to be kissed—in fact, he’d come within a whisker of kissing them already today, but kissing a young woman before being properly introduced was simply not good form.
A flush of colour rose into Lisette’s cheeks, embarrassed as this man studied her with such cool and speculative interest.
‘So you have just returned from India.’
‘Yes. My mistress has instructed me to look for a conveyance. Her husband, Mr Arbuthnot, has recently retired as a factor from the Company.’
‘I see. And you are?’
‘Lisette Napier. I am lady’s maid to Mrs Arbuthnot.’
‘And where is home, Lisette Napier?’ Ross was intrigued and he wondered why, for he didn’t often make conversation with maids.
‘Wherever I happen to be—with my work, you understand.’ Her voice was low and somewhat strained. ‘Before that I lived with my parents in India since I was a small child. But after India—well …’
She felt his interest quicken. Ross bent his head to look into her face. ‘Yes?’
‘Well—it will be … different here in London.’
His teeth flashed in a sudden infectious grin. ‘You will find it very different indeed from India’s hot clime.’
‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to let herself sound too regretful.
‘And your employer? Does she live in London?’
She nodded. ‘Somewhere in Chelsea, I believe.’
He grinned. ‘You will find it dull in comparison to India.’ Ross knew he should take his horse and move on but he was curiously reluctant to do so. Goodness, what was wrong with him, standing here talking to a servant girl when he had things to do. Again his horse nudged the girl’s pocket and with a laugh she produced another sweet, her hand stroking his neck to the horse’s evident delight.
‘You’ll spoil the beast,’ Ross found himself saying.
Lisette saw that in the place of idle amusement was a look of awakened concentration. As their eyes met she shivered with an involuntary surge of excitement. She felt that this was the moment when she should remind him of their previous encounter, and with a multitude of ways of doing so on the tip of her tongue, thought better of it and bit back the words. Explaining her reasons for travelling to Bombay dressed as an Indian girl might prove difficult and tedious, and since they were unlikely to meet again there was nothing to be gained by doing so.
‘He deserves to be made a fuss of after enduring such a long journey. I knew someone who had a similar horse once. She …’
Her voice trailed away. Ross waited for her to speak, to tell him more, but she didn’t. She merely stared into the distance as though she were alone, or he were no more important than his horse. Less so, for she evidently loved horses. He felt a strange sensation come over him and he could hardly believe it himself when he realised he was affronted because she was unconcerned whether he moved on or stayed.
He tried again. ‘How long have you been a lady’s maid?’ he asked, doing his best to be patient, though it was not really in his nature. He had her attention again and she smiled.
‘Oh—long enough,’ she replied, studying him covertly, her gaze sliding over him.
Ross felt the touch of her gaze, felt the hunter within him rise in response to that artless glance. He almost groaned. ‘And is it your intention to always be a lady’s maid? Would you not like to return to India?’
A glow appeared in her eyes. ‘Oh, yes—and perhaps I will, one day, but I have to make my own way in the world, sir …’
‘Colonel. Colonel Ross Montague.’
Ross studied her for a moment, frowning. She was looking at him, silent and unblinking, in the same way the dark-eyed Indian women stared in that unfathomable way. Having lived there for some considerable time, he suspected it was something she had developed almost unconsciously over the years, through her association with some of those doe-eyed women.
Spending many years in India had shaped Ross’s ideal of feminine beauty. He was no great admirer of European standards—the pink and white belles who had begun to invade India, accompanying parents attached in some form to the East India Company. With their insipid colouring, their simpering ways and carefully arranged ringlets, they set their caps at him, attracting him not one whit.
Ross sought his pleasures with the dusky, dark-eyed maidens, who offered a chance of escape from the stifling rounds of British social life, although there had been singularly few of late. This, it may be added, was not from lack of opportunity. Ross Montague was no celibate, but two things obsessed him—India, with its beauty and glamour and its cruel mystery, and the East India Company, with its precious collection of merchant traders from London who were conquering a subcontinent and maintained their own army administering justice and laws to the Indians.
In India fortune had done nothing but smile on Ross. Young men with ambition and ability could go far. He had served with distinction; working his way up through the ranks he had now been rewarded with a promotion to colonel. But on receiving a letter from home, he had felt the sands of his good fortune were running out.
One of his cousins had been killed in the bloody shambles of the battle at Waterloo and another of his cousins, the heir to the Montague dukedom, had been listed as missing somewhere in Spain. Bound by the ties of present and future relationships to the house of Montague, Ross had returned to England at a time when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his relatives there.
But India held his heart and imagination and he had little time for anything else—and certainly not marriage. He hadn’t wanted a wife before he’d joined the army. Nothing had changed.
‘How old are you?’ he inquired abruptly.
The unexpectedness of the question appeared to take Lisette by surprise, and she answered in unconscious obedience to the authority in his voice. ‘Twenty,’ she replied, having reached that age as the ship sailed round the Cape of Africa.
He raised an intrigued eyebrow, choosing to ignore her awkward response. ‘And you have a place.’
Her mouth quivered, but then she looked away, rather awkwardly. She felt her heart tighten. ‘Not beyond three weeks. Now my employer’s husband has retired from the Company he is to move his family to Brighton where they have a full complement of staff already. I have been told I must seek another situation.’
As she stood there she looked vulnerable for the first time. Her air of impregnable self-sufficiency vanished and Ross saw her troubled and rather desperate. ‘You have references?’
‘Oh, yes—well, just the one. I can only hope it will secure me another position—even that of a scullery maid would be better than nothing at all.’
‘Even though it would be a blow to your pride?’
‘I’m
