India was stunned. No one had ever told her she looked beautiful in her Turkish trousers. None of the eunuchs, nor any of the ladies of the harem, and certainly not the sultan. The idea that she might look beautiful in the costume they’d forced her to wear, in the costume she hated, had never occurred to her. “Truly?”
“Truly.” Jonathan transferred both reins to one hand so he could make the sign of the cross over his heart. “My fondest dream is that I may see you in them again one day.”
“Then I shall save them to wear for you on special occasions.”
Jonathan pulled the gig to a halt before a beautifully decorated shop window. This wasn’t the best place for a lengthy conversation. It was early, and they still ran the risk of being seen, but India was a stranger in London and would be devilishly hard to recognize swathed as she was in an ocean of black muslin. “India . . .”
“I’m not innocent,” she said. “I’ve been trained in myriad ways to please a man—ways I never dreamed existed—”
“India . . .”
“I know I’m ruined because I’ve spent dozens of nights in the sultan’s bed,” she confided. “And I’ve no right to expect marriage to a gentleman who deserves the best, but I want you to know that while I was forced to pleasure the sultan, he was only intimate with me once.”
“What?”
“He took my maidenhead because he felt he was obligated to do so. But he never spilled his seed in me again. That honor was reserved for his kadins. And although everyone thought I was one of his favorites, I was greatly relieved not to be. So, if you want me as your concubine, I’d be honored to share your bed.” She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. “But only if you want me. Rescuing me from Mustafa doesn’t obligate you in any way—”
“Obligate?” Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. “My dear sweet love, I was worried that you might feel obligated to offer because I rescued you from Mustafa—”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “I offered because I can’t imagine life without you. I know it’s sudden, but Jonathan . . .”
“India . . .”
“I love you,” they said simultaneously.
“What do we do now?” she asked, suddenly nervous.
“I can think of dozens of things,” Jonathan said. “And all of them involve you, a bed, those Turkish trousers, and solving the mystery of what keeps that sapphire in your navel.”
India beamed at him. “It’s—”
Jonathan cut her off by placing a finger against her lips. “Don’t tell me,” he begged. “I spent a good part of this morning wondering, and I’d like to solve the riddle myself. But not with my concubine. With my wife.”
India looked crestfallen. “But, Jonathan, I’m disgraced. Think of your reputation. . . .”
“Hang my reputation!” he exclaimed. “If it doesn’t survive my marriage to an honorable young lady, then what good is it anyway? I love you, India, and nothing has made me happier than to learn the sultan was only intimate with you once, but if he’d been intimate with you dozens of times, it would make no difference so long as you survived to marry me.”
“Oh, Jonathan!” India flung her arms around his neck and began covering his face with kisses.
Jonathan responded by pulling her onto his lap and kissing her back quite thoroughly in front of Madam Racine’s Dressmaking Shop.
An early riser, Madam Racine had been about to go down the street to the coffeehouse for her morning coffee and a cinnamon pastry, when she opened the door and saw a gentleman and a lady kissing. She was astonished to discover that gentleman was none other than the dashingly handsome Earl of Barclay. The lady was a mystery.
Feeling it was her duty to intervene, Madam Racine stepped up to the gig and touched Lord Barclay’s shoulder. “Lord Barclay? What are you doing? Here? At this time of morning?”
India buried her face against Jonathan’s shirt as he broke the kiss and looked up at woman standing beside the gig. “Ah, Madam Racine, just the lady we’ve come to see. We need your help.”
“How may I be of assistance, my lord?” she asked.
“The young lady is in desperate need of a dress.”
Madam Racine gasped. “You don’t mean that she is . . .”
“Oh no,” he hurried to reassure the dressmaker. “She’s fully clothed beneath her cape, but her garments are not the garments of an English lady.” He turned the full force of his charm on the seamstress. “Would it be asking too much of you to open your establishment so that we might dress my companion in the manner befitting an English lady?”
The dressmaker glanced down the street at the coffeehouse. “I was just about to break my fast with coffee and a pastry.”
“I’ll make this favor worth your while,” Jonathan promised. “And once you and the young lady are safely inside selecting dresses and discussing fashion plates and fabrics, I’ll fetch us coffee and an assortment of pastries.”