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The relief was as strong as the bewildering disappointment.

“Just testing the waters,” Roz continued. “No sense in treading water if neither of us think we can handle getting any deeper, is there?”

Deepa had never attempted swimming into deeper waters with anyone. The risk of drowning was a messy business that had never seemed worth taking before.

“I don’t know how ready I am to dive in all the way,” she said carefully. “This is all uncharted, for me. But I might like to leave the shallows, if you don't mind going slowly.”

“None of this has been slow so far,” Roz pointed out. “You’ve been making every move like you’re in a race against time.”

Every night felt like a race with that curse nipping at her heels, mocking her lack of love.

They’d been on dates, been to bed, literally and figuratively slept together, and won her mother’s approval. Surely it wouldn’t require an actual wedding ceremony to prove that Deepa deserved her curse to be broken.

“Let’s try it,” she said decisively. “Nothing drastic. Just a trial-run at partnership to see where it takes us.”

A complicated emotion flashed over Roz's face before she bit her tongue, set her jaw, and nodded. “Alright. If you believe we can make it work, then we'll give it a go.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IN WHICH A MARRIAGE SCHEME IS CONCOCTED AT THE ROYAL ASCOT

Deepa’s first public appearance with Lyndon Appleton was at the Berkshire horse tracks on a gloriously sunny Tuesday afternoon, the best day England had seen in a week. The stands were as bright as any jungle, with the women in their enormous plumaged hats and floral dresses, and the men in their colourful ties and pocket squares and patterned sports coats. On the track, in a rainbow of silks, the jockeys warmed up their mounts, riding around in a great loop. So far away, they looked like children’s toys parading in the sunshine.

Somewhat less sunny was Appleton’s mood.

“I don’t care for horse racing,” Appleton explained, “but the equestrian world is close-knit. I can't afford not to make an appearance once or twice a year. The Royal Ascot, especially, expects me.”

“You’re an equestrian?” That would explain his impeccable posture even more than whatever peerage he claimed.

“Dressage. Do you ride?”

“Naturally. My father has a stable of a hundred Marwari horses.”

He glanced at her. “Of course. Your father, the maharajah?”

“Yes, him.” Leaning into him, Deepa added, “You never told me anything of your own family, by the way. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Mostly whether I should be calling you Lord Appleton or Your Grace.”

“Please don’t,” he said with a subtle grimace.

“But you are of the peerage, aren’t you?”

“The Earl of Hertford,” he admitted with great reluctance.

Lord Appleton it was, then.

“And I’d been hoping for a duke,” she joked. Which was true, but she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at an earl, either.

Appleton resisted scoffing or rolling his eyes, though she could tell he wanted to. Refusing to indulge her, he returned his attention and conversation to the horses. “I keep Andalusians, myself. If you ever find yourself missing your father’s horses, you're welcome to visit my estate.”

“You’re generous,” Deepa demurred. She’d never actually sat on a horse before, never mind ridden one with any competency, but then, she suspected Appleton knew that. Regardless, he seemed content to play along with her charade. It would be hypocritical not to, considering the charade they were enacting for his benefit.

Deepa was decked in the latest English fashions, from her hat to her heels, every article of clothing designed to display both wealth and taste. She swept aside the musical lilt of herhome country in order to adopt a posh English accent to match Appleton’s, blending in seamlessly with the native speakers.

Obviously, she still stood out; even besides the colour of her skin and the impressive length of her obsidian-black hair, the myriad enchantments on her dress ensured it. On stage at The Songbird, she often donned the brightly patterned saris with which she'd grown up and allowed her natural accent to carry her speech, playing into the patrons’ fantasies of exotic orientalism.