His jaw tightened. “The Dutch and French, and the Portuguese before them, had banned the practice in their territories. But the Honourable East India Company has not seen fit to follow suit—yet. There are efforts underway to pressure the Company to ban the act.”
She shook her head. “As you said once before, there is much one could disdain of India—as with any country, I imagine, for surely we have practices considered barbaric to others. Still, I would be no less curious to visit her.”
Still appraising her, he stretched his long legs out before him and leaned back against his elbow. “Most women would aspire to riches, love, or beauty. You dream of traveling to India?”
“When I was small, my father had a client who spent time in India. The gentleman gifted me a small tapestry. It was of a little Indian girl beside a peacock and lagoon. It was a most remarkable picture.”
“The reality of India is harsher than your vision.”
“No doubt. I cannot fathom this horror called sati. Poor Bhadra. You will forgive me, I hope, when I say I find it rather dishonorable that the Company has not outlawed the practice.”
“Is it the place of the Company to interfere with native practices?”
“With governance comes responsibility.”
“It is not so simple.”
Her eyes flared. “Are you defending—you would allow the practice of sati?”
Her anger made her oddly appealing, and he could not resist fanning the flames a little. “There is much at stake. The Company is better off not increasing tensions with the Indians.”
“I see. Greed trumps duty to your fellow man.”
“And if we began imposing our traditions, enforcing British customs, you would as easily accuse us of being superior and overbearing.”
She folded her arms. “Too late for that. You have earned those epithets already.”
He suppressed a grin. The blood in his groin had already warmed during the previous topic. Now his cock was at stiff attention.
“Come hither, Miss Herwood.”
Chapter Eight
STILL CONTEMPLATING HIS DIRECTIVE, Miss Herwood made no move. Halsten could tell she was still vexed with him.
“For what purpose?” she asked.
“The purpose matters not,” he replied. “It suits me to have you come here.”
“Are you unable to bear a little criticism of your precious Company?”
He helped himself to the strawberries to improve his patience and resist reaching over the food and wine to manhandle her. “Not at all, and it is not my Company.”
“Are you not a shareholder?”
“One of many.”
“I understand your family to have been quite involved with the Company.”
She seemed proud to demonstrate that she, like he, could acquire knowledge of the other party.
“The third Baron Rockwell helped to set up the trading posts and factory in Surat nearly two hundred years ago,” he acknowledged.
“You cannot abdicate responsibility simply because you are ‘one of many.’”
He had humored her detour long enough. “Were you a troublesome little girl, Miss Herwood? You seem unable to obey orders.”
She, too, turned to the strawberries for distraction. “Particularly from men who presume to play the role of guardian.”