Mama began a litany of shops and museums, and Sara poured a cup of tea for their guest, complete with a thin slice of lemon.

The comte took it with a nod of thanks, then leaned toward her.

“I’ve often wondered if the amount of sugar a person puts in their tea is inversely related to the sourness of their disposition,” he said in a low voice.

She could not help smiling, though she tried to suppress it. “I’ve had that very thought myself, from time to time.”

“Aha,” he said. “So you do know how to smile.”

She straightened, her amusement gone. “If that’s an attempt to flirt with me, I consider it in rather poor taste.”

“You English are so prim.” He shook his head. “Am I supposed to pretend that I’m not seated across from an attractive young woman?”

Base flattery. Sara did her best to ignore the feathery brush of pleasure his words gave her.

“That is correct. Given the circumstances.” She could not help glancing at Mama.

He stared at her a moment, and she saw comprehension flash in his eyes. Then he set his cup down and burst into laughter.

Aunt Eugenie pursed her lips. “Gracious me. What an outburst.”

“What is it?” Mama asked, turning to regard him.

“My apologies, ladies.” The comte’s smile was very white against his dark skin. “I believe there is a misunderstanding. Lady Sara, while I admire your mother tremendously, she is a friend and a patron to me. Nothing more.”

“Oh.” Sara stared at him a moment, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

He and Mama were not lovers after all? That changed everything—and not necessarily for the better.

Mama’s eyebrows lifted and she covered her smile with her fingers. “Oh, dear. While I’m flattered by your assumptions, let me reassure you that the comte and I are not involved in a—”

“Certainly not,” Aunt Eugenie said loudly. “He’s young enough to be your son. And you would never strain our reputation in such a manner, no matter what the gossips say.”

Sara did not fall back into her chair, precisely, but her shoulders were glad of the support of the wingback. Whatever was Mama thinking, bringing such a fellow as her guest? Was she trying to undo all Sara and Aunt Eugenie’s years of hard work?

She must know how unsuitable the Comte du Lac was. French and Tunisian, possessed of an improper sense of humor, far too handsome for anyone’s peace of mind; the gentleman was a walking scandal magnet.

The next few days were going to be a trial, indeed. Thank heavens for Lord Whitley and his house party. It was imperative that Sarah escape to Hampshire before the combination of Mama and the Comte du Lac tarnished her reputation beyond repair.

***

Mirth still bubbling through him, Tarek drank his tea and listened to Lady Fulton and Mrs. Ashford speak about London. Lady Sara studiously avoided his gaze, despite his efforts to catch her eye.

What an odd lot these English were. So tightly cinched up in their clothing and opinions, their notions of what was proper and improper.

But despite her decorous appearance, he was already beginning to suspect Lady Sara of hidden depths. There was something about her smile, the flash of humor in her leaf-colored eyes, that indicated an adventurous spirit. Rather like her mother.

It was as though the young woman named Syrine was there, hiding beneath Lady Sara’s layers of decorum and respectability. Would it be possible to coax her out further? He was greatly tempted to try.

For such an outwardly prudish pair, he found it comical that Lady Sara and her aunt had assumed he and the marchioness were lovers. Lady Fulton was a marvelous woman, but the thought of conducting an affair with her had never crossed his mind.

The marchioness seemed equally amused, most likely by how uncomfortable the idea had made her sister-in-law. Mrs. Ashford seemed the sort to be offended by everything. Tarek hadn’t missed her shock when he’d, mostly in jest, asked them to call him by his given name.

Indeed, given the reaction, he thought he might insist upon it—though he expected that both Lady Sara and her aunt would go out of their way to avoid addressing him directly.

Before the journey had begun, Tarek had suggested he stay at a hotel in London instead of the Marchioness’s townhouse, but Lady Fulton would have none of that.

“They need some stirring up,” she’d said. “Besides, you’ll need Syrine—I mean Sara’s—help if you want to come up to snuff, as they say.”

“I’m considered a gentleman in both in Tunis and Paris,” he’d said, slightly offended.

Lady Fulton had waved a dismissive hand. “You and I both know that manners in Tunis are a far cry from London. And the English simultaneously admire and look down their noses at the French. No—if you want Queen Victoria to take you seriously, you must fit in with English standards of propriety.”

He’d overstepped those bounds several times already, but not out of ignorance. Lady Sara and her aunt were simply too tempting, and—at least in Mrs. Ashford’s case—too easy to shock.

Outside the walls of Fulton House, of course, he knew how to behave. Still, he had admit that his first glimpse of the rigid manners of the English had taken him aback. He hadn’t understood how very precise London rules of etiquette were, though the marchioness had tried to warn him.

It went against his nature, but he would have to curb his mischievous streak even further and clamp down upon his emotions, as a proper English lord would do. He only hoped he could gain an audience with the queen before the proprieties of England smothered him completely.

Chapter 3

“Do keep an eye on Tarek,” Mama said to Sara as they went in to dinner that evening. “You can guide him on proper fork usage.”

The comte, who was gallantly escorting Aunt Eugenie, gave them a slightly strained look but refrained from comment. Perhaps he was not as insensible to the social niceties as Sara had thought upon their first meeting.

Aunt Eugenie glanced at Mama as they fetched up at the mahogany dining table. A centerpiece of lilies sent a faint perfume into the air, and the gas chandelier shed a bright, even light over the place settings.

“Since you are the marchioness,” Aunt Eugenie said, “I believe you should occupy the head of the table.”

“Don’t you think our guest should have that honor?” Mama asked, a devilish look in her eyes.

“If you insist, I will,” the comte said. “In Tunisia it’s customary to eat with one’s fingers from a common bowl. I’m sure you’ll all be happy to follow my lead.”

Aunt Eugenie let out a strangled sound. “Perhaps we shall just go on as usual, then. I’ll take the head.”

Sara shot her mother a glance. It was unkind to bait Aunt Eugenie so, especially as the comte seemed all too ready to join in.

“Tarek, you sit here, beside Sara.” Mama practically pushed him into the chair, then rounded the table to sit across from them.

Although half the places at the long dining table remained empty, Sara had to admit it was companionable to have more than just herself and Aunt Eugenie at dinner.

“So,” Aunt Eugenie said as the soup course was being served. “Keeping in mind that Sara and I will be departing London soon, what local outings shall we plan for our guest? Boating on the Thames? A stroll in Hyde Park?”

“They sound equally exciting,” the comte said, his tone dry. “I can’t imagine choosing between the two.”

Mama laughed. “Surely there is an upcoming ball of social importance that the newly arrived Comte du Lac should be seen attending. Have you any thoughts on this, Eugenie?”

Sara’s aunt frowned. “I cannot picture the ideal circumstances for presenting Lord du Lac to Society.”

A thought teased at Sara’s memory, and she grabbed hold of it. “Lord Severn’s betrothal ball is the day after tomorrow.”

She and Aunt Eugenie had not planned on attending. There was quite a scandal surrounding Lord Severn’s fiancée, an Italian baronessa who had initially been snubbed by the ton. But the reason they’d planned to keep their distance made it an excellent opportunity to present the comte. The unusual—one might say highly improper—circumstances of Lord Severn’s betrothal would help dilute the gossip about their foreign guest.

“An excellent thought,” Aunt Eugenie said, clearly following Sara’s logic.

“It seems the ideal timing to introduce Tarek to the ton,” Mama said. “He will have been here just long enough to pique society’s interest without seeming to have snubbed them.”

“I presume he’ll be escorting Lady Sara, but is that wise?” Aunt Eugenie asked. “The gossips might fasten upon it.”

“It’s better for Tarek to attend with Sara than to be considered my companion,” Mama replied.

Her words brought heat to Sara’s cheeks, but they were correct. Sara would have to help the comte navigate the ball, ensuring that his behavior was as unremarkable as possible. And that her good name was not placed in jeopardy.

Surely she could manage to shepherd him through one evening without it ending in social disaster, however. And even if the wagtongues speculated, she would be off to Lord Whitley’s house party before any real gossip could take hold. After that, anything they said would be moot.

Aunt Eugenie turned to the comte. “Lord du Lac, do you know how to dance? I’m not certain what you are accustomed to, in terms of social events. It won’t do to have Lady Sara made a laughingstock upon the floor.”

“I can dance well enough,” he said. “The last ball I attended was in Paris, a year ago.”

“Last year?” Aunt Eugenie shook her head. “Then you don’t know the Lancer Gavotte. It’s all the rage this Season.”

“Sara can teach him,” Mama said calmly. “Tomorrow afternoon, in the ballroom here. And if the dance proves too complicated, they can have another lesson on the day of the ball.”