“Thank you,” she said primly. “I’ll wait here, beside the balustrade.”

He searched her expression. There was no sign of the woman who’d returned his passionate embrace. Her command that he keep his distance smarted—especially as he knew she’d been moved by their kiss. The way her lips had parted, the softness in her eyes, the beating of her heart, fast as wild bird’s—it was indisputable.

Yet she denied it.

Feeling as though he’d swallowed a stone, Tarek made her a bow, then turned on his heel and strode into the ballroom.

When he returned, a fresh cup of punch in hand, he nearly growled to see some other gentleman standing beside her. Even worse, she laughed at something he said, and touched him on the arm.

Tarek stalked up and almost thrust the cup of punch into her hand. At the last second, he mastered his emotions.

“Here you are, Lady Sara.” He gently held the cup out to her. “I hope you find it satisfactory.”

Since she clearly found him unsatisfactory.

“Lord du Lac,” she said, “allow me to introduce you to Viscount Whitley. You might recall that he is hosting the house party Aunt Eugenie and I are planning to attend in two days’ time.”

Tarek’s irritation with the fellow flared higher.

“Pleasure, to be sure,” Lord Whitley said. “A Frenchie, are you?”

“Something like that.” Not only was the man rude, his hair was thinning. “Lady Sara is looking forward to your party. I’m certain you and your wife will be excellent hosts.”

“Haha!” Lord Whitley nudged Sara with one pointy elbow. “Needs to study his Debrett’s. You see, du Lac, I’m unmarried.”

Sara smiled at the man. “A state I’m certain you could remedy at any point, if you so chose. You are considered a catch, Lord Whitley.”

Tarek couldn’t see why. The fellow seemed a complete boor. But perhaps being an English lord excused his behavior. French comtes were given no such leeway.

“Being unmarried has its perquisites, I must say. I’m sure du Lac here knows whereof I speak.” He gave Tarek a wink meant to convey a wealth of manly information having to do with freedom and the ability to seduce women.

Tarek curled his fingers into fists. He couldn’t believe Sara actually desired to spend time in Whitley’s company. Had he been that mistaken about her character, after all?

“Yet being married must hold many benefits, in turn.” Sara seemed oblivious to Lord Whitley’s insinuations. “How pleasant it would be to have someone to look after your household and help arrange social events. Not to mention the companionship.”

Lord Whitley’s gaze came to rest on the low neckline of her gown, where the soft shadows between her breasts were almost visible.

“Yes,” he said, a note of lust in his voice. “Companionship.”

Tarek was sorry he’d handed Sara her cup of punch. He wanted nothing more than to dash it into the English lord’s face. Followed by a quick uppercut to the jaw.

With effort, he held himself still. He was due to meet with Queen Victoria’s advisors in two days. Somehow, he did not think beating Viscount Whitley senseless on Lord Severn’s terrace would endear him to the gentry, or do anything to advance his case with the queen.

“Lady Sara,” he said, “would you care to dance again?”

He wanted her away from Lord Whitley—and in his arms again.

She let out a forced laugh. “Lord du Lac, it’s kind of you to ask, but a second dance with me so soon is out of the question. One wouldn’t want to imply there is any special connection between us.” She turned to the viscount. “The comte is newly come to England, and is a little confused as to our customs.”

Tarek clenched his jaw.

“Nice of you to try and help the fellow.” Lord Whitley pulled his gaze up from her chest to focus on her face. “I say, we haven’t danced yet, have we?”

“I don’t believe we have,” Sara said, with an encouraging smile—an expression Tarek was certain would never be turned upon him.

“Then we must.” The viscount held out his arm. “May I claim the next dance?”

“I’d be delighted,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm.

He immediately covered her hand with his own, and Tarek leaned forward, balanced on the balls of his feet. It would be so easy to flatten the man.

“Comte du Lac, would you be so kind as to take this?” She held her full cup out to him.

Temper flashed through Tarek, the blood of his Berber pirate ancestors burning hotly through his veins. For a moment he indulged the thought of smashing the cup to pieces, punching Lord Whitley in his leering face, and then throwing Sara over his shoulder and disappearing into the night.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes and took the cut-glass cup from her. It was not until she and Lord Whitley reached the ballroom windows that he let it slip from his fingers to shatter on the flagstones below.

Chapter 6

Sara heard the crash of breaking glass behind her, and forced herself not to turn around. The back of her neck prickled with the intensity of the comte’s stare, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of looking. She knew exactly what had happened, and, judging from the smolder in Tarek’s eyes, Lord Whitley was lucky to have escaped without bodily injury.

The viscount, oblivious, led her onto the dance floor.

The next dance was a mazurka, and only a few moments into the music she discovered that Lord Whitley was an indifferent dancer, at best. Her traitorous heart was glad she wouldn’t have to endure a waltz with him.

Then, realizing her thoughts were ranging far too widely, she yanked them back. It didn’t matter if her husband was a highly accomplished dancer. Only that he was acceptable. Besides, anyone could improve. If dancing was that important to her, she was certain the viscount would do his best to develop his skills in that arena.

Though really, life consisted of so much more than dancing. It was a trivial concern.

“Do you like to ride, my lord?” she asked as they navigated around a nearby couple.

“Riding?” The viscount seemed to ponder her words, and they nearly collided with the other dancers.

Sara resolved to save further questions until after they left the dance floor.

“I suppose I like riding well enough,” Lord Whitley finally said. “When it’s not raining. I do enjoy playing cards, even more. Do you gamble, Lady Sara?”

“Heavens, no.” Seeing his disappointed look, she modified her answer. “That is, I have not previously gambled. Perhaps you can teach me at your house party.”

He brightened immediately. “There’s so much I’d like to teach you. We can play all sorts of games.”

“That sounds delightful,” she said, though a tendril of doubt wound through her. Surely the viscount was not suggesting anything improper? After all, he was a gentleman.

Not like some people she could name. One in particular, who stood against the wall, arms crossed, glaring as she and Lord Whitley spun about the dance floor.

Really, Tarek—the Comte du Lac—was behaving like a petulant child whose sweet had been snatched away.

The implication being that Sara was that sweet. The notion equally pleased and discomfited her. He had no claim on her, beyond the kindness she would owe any guest. Despite the fact he’d kissed her.

It meant nothing, of course. If they both pretended it had never happened, then all would be well.

The mazurka came to an end, and Lord Whitley had only stepped on Sara’s toes once. He kept his arm about her waist a moment, and squeezed her close.

“I look forward to hosting you at Whitley Manor,” he said, his breath hot upon her cheek. “I only wish my house party was commencing tomorrow.”

“I feel the same,” she said. Her interactions with Tarek would be understandably strained for the next two days, and it would be a relief to depart London.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the comte loomed over Lord Whitley’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but Lady Sara’s mother is asking for her.”

“A pity.” Lord Whitley let her go, with a wink. “Until we meet again, my dear.”

Tarek glowered at him.

“Enjoy the rest of your visit,” the viscount said, giving Tarek a cordial nod.

“I intend to,” Tarek replied, making it sound like a threat.

Really, the man was impossible.

Luckily, they’d spent enough time at the ball that they could now depart without appearing rude. Aunt Eugenie would certainly agree.

As soon as Lord Whitley moved away, Tarek took Sara’s arm and escorted her in the opposite direction.

“What does Mama want?” she asked as they stepped off the dance floor.

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t spoken with her.”

“But you said—”

“I couldn’t stand seeing that man pawing you a moment longer.” Tarek bared his teeth in a look far too fierce to be called a smile.

“We were dancing,” she said indignantly. “And it’s not your place to dictate who I can and cannot spend time with.”

“I understand that you’re going to his house party. But I certainly don’t understand why.”

To escape you, she almost said. But that would be too unkind.

“Aunt Eugenie and I were specifically invited and said yes, long before we knew Mama was coming for a visit. Or that she was bringing you.”

“You could always cry off,” Tarek said. “Even I grasp enough of your precious rules of conduct to know that family takes precedence over mere acquaintances.”

“There are other reasons to attend the house party,” Sara said.

She didn’t intend to explain herself further. Her hopes for the rest of her life were none of the Comte du Lac’s concern.

“Such as?”

“Look, there’s Aunt Eugenie.” She towed him toward the grouping of chairs where her aunt was seated, conversing with some acquaintances. “We need only find Mama, and we can take our leave.”