The notion sent an uncomfortable shiver through Sara. “I really don’t—”

“I assure you, Lady Sara, I’m a quick study,” the comte said, his amber-colored eyes holding a spark of laughter. “And I promise not to step on your feet.”

“I didn’t meant to imply any lack of grace on your part,” she said. “I’m sure my dancing slippers are in no danger.”

Her equilibrium, however, was another matter entirely.

***

Tarek stepped into the ballroom of Fulton House at precisely two o’clock the next afternoon. Lady Sara was already there, standing beside the pianoforte and consulting with the maid who’d brought them tea the day before.

He paused a moment to study the marchioness’s daughter.

Her face, though often too serious for his tastes, was pretty enough, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. Hints of auburn laced her brown hair, and she had green eyes like her mother’s, the color of new olive leaves.

She wore a brown silk dress with a sharply pointed bodice that flattered her figure. The full skirts contained enough fabric to make an entire Tunisian garment. For a moment, he imagined Lady Sara garbed in the looser, more comfortable clothing of his homeland, with her wavy hair down about her shoulders, wrists adorned with silver Berber bracelets, and a necklace dripping with semiprecious stones.

Such an exotic creature would certainly be Syrine, then, and not the formidably proper Lady Sara.

She glanced up and saw him. He caught a flash of uncertainty in her eyes, and then she straightened and gave him a polite smile.

“Good afternoon, Lord du Lac. Are you ready for your dancing lesson?”

“Only if you stop calling me by that stuffy English title.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I cannot use your given name. It’s simply not proper.”

The maid, seated at the piano, nodded in agreement. “It’s true, milord. What if she became accustomed to it, and accidentally called you by it in a social situation? Oh, the gossip would be fierce.”

Tarek folded his arms. It was against his nature to give up without an argument, but the maid had a point.

“What about Bayefendi Zafir?” he asked

Lady Sara’s eyes widened, and he had to swallow his smile. There was no question she would refuse to call him by his Tunisian title, and her next words proved him right.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“Monsieur Remy?” It was the name he’d gone by in France, before inheriting his father’s title.

“Too informal.” She gave him an exasperated look. “You are one of the aristocracy here, my lord. Do not mock our ways.”

A stab of guilt went through him. His mother was always scolding him for his lack of seriousness. In fact, she’d argued against his coming to London as the Bey’s unofficial ambassador for that very reason.

“Tarek has too much mischief in him,” she’d said. “Send another man as your envoy.”

But Lady Fulton had insisted he come. Since the Bey was partial to the English marchioness, he’d ultimately agreed.

“My apologies.” Tarek strode forward and took Lady Sara’s hand, bowing over it. “I see I’ve distressed you over this matter. We shall speak no more of it.”

“Thank you.” She gazed at him a moment. “Tarek.”

The maid drew in an audible breath, but that was nothing compared to the extraordinary jolt that went through him upon hearing Lady Sara speak his name.

Not only that, she’d given it the proper pronunciation, rolling the “r” off her tongue and putting a light emphasis on the second syllable.

“That was the only time you’ll hear me say it,” she added, a blush coloring her cheeks.

“If you insist.” In truth, he’d give almost anything to have her say his name again.

She looked down, and he belatedly realized he was still holding her hand. Instead of releasing her, he drew her over the polished golden wood of the dance floor until they reached the center of the ballroom.

“Shall we begin?” he asked.

She gave him a slightly flustered look, which he found endearing. It was entirely too gratifying, teasing Lady Sara and seeing glimpses of her true self hidden beneath that cool exterior.

Be careful. It was his mother’s voice, whispering in his ear. He ignored it.

The maid began to play, the dance tune a bit halting but adequate to their needs.

“You are familiar with the standard quadrille?” Lady Sara asked.

“I am. I presume the Lancer Gavotte is danced in a set of four couples?”

“Yes. The figure begins with a lead-around.” She glanced down at their joined hands. “I ought to have worn my gloves.”

He was glad she hadn’t, as he was enjoying the feel of her warm palm against in his. “You fret too much. Certainly it’s permissible to dance with a houseguest without observing an entire rulebook of proprieties.”

A hint of rose dusted her cheeks once again, but she met his gaze. “I suppose, since I’ve called you by name, we may dispense with gloves for the time being. Now, the ladies cross over.”

She guided him through the dance, which was not that difficult. When they turned and spun as a couple, he resisted the urge to gather her closer. He’d already pushed the boundaries far enough for one day.

“You are a fine dancer,” he said, as they waited for the imaginary couples on either side of them to trade places.

It was not flattery, but fact. Lady Sara was light on her feet, with an excellent sense of balance. He guessed she was a skilled horsewoman, too.

“Allow me to return the compliment,” she said. “I think we will only need this one practice.”

Tarek inwardly cursed himself. The past hour dancing with Lady Sara had been one of the most enjoyable times he’d had in recent memory. He’d been a fool to learn the gavotte so quickly.

“I disagree,” he said. “We ought to meet again tomorrow. After all, you don’t want me to be an embarrassment on the dance floor. I ought to brush up on my other dances, while we’re at it.”

The waltz, in particular—not that he would mention it to her. There was something addictive about taking Lady Sara in his arms and swooping with her about the ballroom. Their practice had only given him a small taste of that pleasure, and he suddenly burned for more.

She shot him a sideways glance, clearly suspecting him of teasing her again. “Are you certain? You don’t seem in need of further instruction.”

“I am in need, I assure you.”

He was being sincere, though not quite in the way she thought. What was this strange spell Lady Sara Ashford had cast over him, that he suddenly craved so much time in her company?

“Then, if you are so set upon it, we shall have another dancing lesson tomorrow afternoon. Now, let us try the Lancer Gavotte from the beginning.”

Chapter 4

That night, Sara could not fall asleep. She lay wide awake in her bed long after silence had descended upon the house. Her room was too bright, despite the drawn curtains, which for some reason were doing a very poor job of filtering out the light of the nearly full moon.

Every time she closed her eyes, she recalled dancing with Tarek—no, no, the Comte du Lac. Drat the man! Against her better judgment, she’d been moved by the shadow of hurt in his eyes when she refused to call him by his given name, and had indulged him just that once.

Now, though, the wall of formality had been breached, and she could not stop thinking of him as Tarek.

She huffed out a sigh and turned on her side. That afternoon, time had flown as she taught him the steps to the Lancer Gavotte. Even Sally’s faltering piano playing couldn’t detract from the enjoyment she felt dancing with Tare—with the comte.

She must admit, she’d never had such a well-matched dancing partner. There had been no awkward moments where she turned one direction and he another. No stumbles as he took a step across her line of travel, or the reverse.

She shouldn’t have agreed to dance again with him on the morrow—but how could she refuse? Beyond the fact that he was their guest, she had to admit that she was, just possibly, the tiniest bit enamored with him.

In addition to his handsome face and bearing, he’d proven to be good company. That was, when he wasn’t bent on teasing her out of what he clearly considered her stuffy English manners.

Sara turned over again, this time facing the wall. The gold stripes of the wallpaper shone faintly in the moonlight seeping through the curtains.

 It was unwise of her to succumb to his charms, she cautioned herself. Not only was he a threat to her carefully cultivated reputation, there was absolutely no point in carrying on a flirtation with a half-French, half-Tunisian aristocrat who was only in London for a clandestine meeting with the queen.

Although she would like to visit France, one day. And Mama’s descriptions of Tunis were quite engaging—

Stop that at once. The internal voice sounded a bit like Aunt Eugenie, and reminded Sara there was absolutely no point in imagining travel to exotic locales.

She was in pursuit of a much different future. A solid, respectable life as the wife of a solid, respectable English lord. It was all she’d ever wanted.

Mama brought more than enough excitement to the family. One scandalous Ashford was, frankly, one too many.

Sara flopped onto her back and stared up at dimly lit draperies over her bed. Oh, this was a tangle—but one that would be unraveled soon enough. She would go off to the viscount’s house party, Tarek would meet with the queen and then return home, and she would never see him again.

The thought should have brought a sense of relief, not the bittersweet melancholy sifting through her. She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, willing herself to fall asleep. Willing herself to stop recalling the feel of his arm about her waist, the flash of his smile, the sound of his laugh.