“My company is far too interesting for your purposes. Syrine is the perfect choice.” The wind pushed her brightly patterned scarf in front of her face. She tucked it away and frowned. “Although she insists on going by Lady Sara.”

“How very English of her. Why did you name her Syrine?”

He turned to lean his back against the railing and the wind ruffled his hair, disheveling it even more than usual. The dark curls he’d inherited from his mother were unruly even when cut short, but he’d done his best to make himself into a proper gentleman. Appearances were important when dealing with foreign royalty.

Lady Fulton looked over the water, her face sad for a moment. “I’ve always had a fondness for the exotic, and I’d hoped to have a daughter who shared that sentiment.”

“Syrine is a lovely name.”

“So is Sara.” She cleared her throat. “And Lady Sara has never once overstepped the bounds of propriety. She and her aunt will do an excellent job of steering you through the shoals of Society’s expectations.”

A prick of unease went through Tarek. “You’re not abandoning me to them?”

“No.” She gave him a reassuring glance. “I’ll attend a few events with you—a ball, and perhaps the opera. But it’s best if I’m not seen overmuch in your company.”

He nodded, just as the ship’s whistle blew. They were coming into port, and he turned around again to watch the pewter water reach toward the shore.

“Don’t lose your heart to some English girl,” his mother had said as she bade him farewell. “Are you not staying beneath the same roof as Lady Fulton’s daughter?”

He’d laughed at her. “I’ve never even mislaid my heart, let alone lost it. Don’t fret, omi. I’ll be back from England safe and sound before you know it.”

“I hope so. The last thing we need is more foreigners marrying into the Bey’s family.”

“You’re the one who wed a Frenchman!” He’d shaken his head.

“Yes, and it is difficult, trying to find a balance between two worlds.” She’d given him a pensive look. “You manage it well, but you should marry a local girl. Fatima is very sweet.”

“I’m not marrying Fatima—or anyone. We can discuss this after I return.”

Not that he wanted to do so. He couldn’t envision finding someone he would want as his companion for life. And even if he did, she would certainly not be some starched and staid English lady. He was quite certain Lady Sara Ashton posed no danger to his emotions whatsoever.

***

Sitting in her favorite wingback chair in the front parlor, Sara pretended to read the latest Lady’s Gazette. Every clatter of carriage wheels over the brick streets of Mayfair made her glance up. Mama was arriving today, with her Tunisian paramour.

Nervous anticipation fluttered in Sara’s stomach. Much as she tried to deny it, she missed her mother. Aunt Eugenie was never able to fill the void left in Sara’s heart each time Mama went away.

But it was foolish to still feel like a little girl, watching out the window as her mother set off once more—especially as Mama was arriving, not leaving.

In fact, there was the carriage now, the Fulton coat of arms emblazoned across the doors. Sara tossed the Gazette on the side table and jumped up from her chair. Going to the window, she flicked the lace inner curtain aside so that she could watch Mama and the mysterious Comte du Lac disembark.

The footman handed Lady Fulton down, and Sara could not help thinking that Mama hadn’t aged a bit. Her auburn curls still gleamed in the fitful sunlight, and her smile was charming as ever.

Then a man exited the carriage, and Sara leaned forward, trying to get a better view. Goodness, he was young! She tried not to be shocked at Mama, but really, the Comte du Lac looked to be only a few years older than herself.

He was well turned out in a brown coat and top hat, with a blue silk tie about his neck. A tousle of thick, dark curls that would make any woman envious framed his face, and his eyes were a startling shade of amber in a very sun-bronzed face.

His figure was trim and tall, his gesture when he held his arm out to Lady Fulton assured. In truth, the Comte du Lac was the sort of gentleman that would set all the ladies atwitter. Handsome, a touch exotic, and no doubt possessed of a most delicious accent.

Sara clenched her jaw. She’d been prepared for an older gentleman to accompany Mama. This fellow was nothing like she’d envisioned, and certainly spelled trouble for them all.

“Are they here?” Aunt Eugenie hurried into the parlor. “You were supposed to ring for me when the carriage arrived.”

“My apologies.” Somehow, Sara could not stop watching as Mama and the Comte du Lac ascended the stairs to the front door. “I was… distracted.”

“Luckily, Mr. Carlisle alerted me.” Her aunt gave her a disapproving look. “Come now, paste on a smile for your mother.”

The front door opened and Sara heard Mama’s voice, and lower tones that must be the comte.

“Aunt, I should warn you—”

“The Marchioness of Fulton has arrived,” Mr. Carlisle announced, appearing in the hallway outside the parlor door. “And her… guest, the Comte du Lac.”

“See them in,” Aunt Eugenie said. “And let Sally know to bring the tea trolley.”

“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed, then stood back to admit Lady Fulton.

“Margaret, how good to see you again,” Aunt Eugenie said, moving forward with her hands outstretched.

Then the Comte du Lac stepped through the door, and Aunt Eugenie froze. Her expression rather resembled a fish for a moment—bulging eyes and a pursed mouth—before she was able to gather herself and complete the greeting.

For her part, Sara was equally affected by his presence, though she hoped she did not appear quite as trout-like as her aunt. In person, the Comte du Lac radiated a contained energy that made it difficult to look away from him. With his even features, aquiline nose, and intense gold-colored eyes, she could see why Mama had taken up with the man. He was quite compelling.

As if aware of her stare, he glanced at her and winked.

Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly dropped her gaze to the vine-patterned carpet beneath their feet. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mama smiling.

“Welcome to England,” Aunt Eugenie said, sounding almost as though she meant it. “You must be the Comte du Lac.”

“I am.” His voice was deep and melodious, with the expected accent. Sara couldn’t decide if it were French or something more exotic. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“This is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Ashford,” Mama said. “And my daughter Lady Sy—” She checked herself. “Lady Sara.”

“A pleasure.” The comte stepped forward and took Sara’s hand, bowing over it.

The touch of his skin against hers sent a warm shiver through her.

How dreadful, to find herself so affected by the man! Not only was he Mama’s paramour, he was the type of fellow people would not be able to stop gossiping about. Thank heavens she would be leaving London next week. Guests or not, she must attend Lord Whitley’s house party.

Until that time, she would just have to pretend the Comte du Lac was no more attractive than a lump of coal.

“It’s good to be back in London,” Mama said. “I apologize for the short notice, and for bringing along an unexpected guest. You’ll find that Tarek is good company.” She slanted a smile at the comte.

Aunt Eugenie cleared her throat. “I’m certain it’s no trouble to have Lord du Lac here.”

The comte let out a laugh. “There is no need for such formality, surely? I’m not used to being addressed by such a name.”

Aunt Eugenie gave him her most frigid stare. “You are in England now, my lord. Here, we observe the proprieties.”

“I’m afraid you must become accustomed to your title.” Mama set her fingers lightly on his arm. “Lord du Lac has a certain ring to it, you must admit.”

“I suppose.” His lips twitched up into a wry smile. “Still, will you all indulge me within these walls, and call me Tarek? It will help me feel more comfortable.”

Aunt Eugenie let out a huff from her pinched nostrils. Sara did not know how to respond. It was ungentlemanly of him to ask for such an intimate form of address—but clearly he was unused to their customs. And he was their guest.

Sally bustled in with the tea trolley, breaking the awkward silence.

“Come, sit.” Aunt Eugenie gestured toward the chairs and sofa.

Sara took her usual wingback. Unfortunately, it placed her directly across from the comte, who settled next to Mama on the green-striped sofa.

“Sara, why don’t you pour out?” her aunt suggested.

It was partially to showcase her skills as a hostess, Sara knew, but also so that her aunt might interrogate Mama and the comte without needing to pause to discuss lumps of sugar and amounts of milk.

Of course, the only person Sara needed to converse with about such matters was the comte himself. She knew that Mama preferred her tea black with a tiny bit of sugar, while Aunt Eugenie liked copious amounts of milk and two sugar cubes per cup.

Sara served the ladies. Then, empty cup in one hand, silver teapot in the other, she looked at their guest.

“How do you take your tea, sir?” she asked.

From the twinkle in his eye, she feared he was going to give her some improper answer, but he paused a moment, perhaps thinking better of it.

“With lemon,” he answered.

It surprised her—firstly that he even knew it was an option, and secondly because that was how she preferred her tea. Heavens, she hoped he would not think she was mimicking him when she made up her own cup.

Aunt Eugenie noticed, however, and left off questioning Mama for a moment.

“I don’t understand some tastes,” her aunt said. “Sara enjoys her the same way, but I’ve always found lemon too tart to put into my cup. Now, Margaret, tell me more about your plans while you’re in London.”