Chapter 2: Threads of Temptation

The morning sun scorched Calcutta’s streets as Lord James Ashbourne strode back to the Desai compound, the silk sample from Anaya’s stall tucked into his pocket like a talisman—or a torment. Two days had passed since their charged meeting, each hour stretching his restraint thinner. He’d canceled a luncheon with colonial officials and barked at servants, his mind endlessly replaying the deliberate graze of her thumb on his palm, those smoky black eyes flickering with unspoken promise.

“Conquest,” he’d insisted to the mirror that dawn, but his body knew better, rigid with need at the mere thought of her petite form draped in maroon silk.

Ned had tried one last warning over breakfast. “She’s playing you like a sitar, Jim. Walk into that viper’s nest, and you’ll emerge leg-shackled.”

Jim had waved him off, pulse hammering. Today, he would break her cool facade.

Anaya Desai paced her private workroom, a smaller chamber off the main storage area, its walls hung with half-finished looms and sketches of fusion designs—paisley twisted with English florals, bold enough to tempt the London ton. Her father’s insistence rang in her ears: “Secure the Ravenswood contract, beta. Their exhibition means entrée to Europe.”

But it was Jim’s face that haunted her—those aristocratic blue eyes hungry yet vulnerable, stirring a heat she cursed as weakness. At eighteen, educated in Paris salons where she’d parried lecherous counts with wit, she’d mastered men as tools for ambition. Yet this duke’s touch lingered like fever, threatening to fracture her carefully laid plan: charm him into signing, then sever ties before her heart betrayed her status.

When the servant announced him, she smoothed her sapphire sari—cut daringly low at the back, exposing the elegant line of her spine—and steeled her smoky gaze. Let him come begging.

Jim entered alone, heat-flushed, filling the doorway with broad shoulders straining against his linen shirt.

“Miss Desai.” His voice was rough, eyes raking over her from bindi to hennaed feet, darkening at the sway of silk against her slender hips. “I’ve reviewed your terms. Exclusive rights, your oversight in London—agreed, with adjustments.”

Anaya inclined her head, suppressing a thrill. “Wise, my lord.” She gestured to the low divan piled with cushions. “Tea first, then details?”

She poured, seating him carefully, her movements deliberate—brushing past close enough for him to catch the scent of jasmine and her natural warmth. Business papers spread between them, but the air crackled with everything unspoken.

“Sign here,” she said, leaning across to point. The movement caused her choli to gap just enough to tease the swell of her breasts.

Jim’s pen hovered, his gaze dropping. She felt his stare like a caress, her nipples tightening traitorously beneath silk.

“But first, a lesson.” She rose, selecting a length of midnight blue chiffon, sheer as moonlight. “London buyers need to feel the fabric’s promise. Stand.”