“We’re leaving?” He gave her a close look. “I thought you enjoyed dancing.”

“Our purpose here has been accomplished.”

And the sooner they left, the better, before any further situations developed. She did not trust Tarek, and could not say what would happen were he to have another run-in with Lord Whitley. For some reason, he seemed to have taken an intense disliking to the man.

Aunt Eugenie agreed they might depart the ball, and took her leave of her matronly companions. After some searching, Tarek discovered the Marchioness of Fulton in the card room and fetched her out, much to Sara’s embarrassment.

“Don’t scowl, love,” Mama said as they waited in Lord Severn’s foyer for the driver to bring round their coach. “I’ve a reputation to uphold, after all.”

“All of us do,” Aunt Eugenie said, giving her an arch look. “Some reputations are, of course, more pristine than others. But I’m happy to say we’ve escaped the ball unscathed. Wouldn’t you agree, Sara?”

Sara ignored Tarek’s glance, and summoned up a proper smile. “Yes. It was a perfectly unremarkable evening.”

As long as one did not count the kiss that had scorched her down to her toes. Even now she fought to push back the warm, sparkling heat that filled her at the thought.

Blast Tarek. He was entirely too improper.

He was still thinking of it, too, by the look in his eyes as he handed her into the carriage, and the way his hand lingered on her arm.

Two days.

In two days she would be gone to Hampshire. In the meantime, she would busy herself with shopping expeditions and social calls. Anything to keep her out of the comte’s path and away from the intensity of his golden eyes.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they said. She clung to that thought with all her strength, praying it would prove true.

Chapter 7

Over the next two days, Tarek’s mood went from gray to deepest black.

Sara was clearly avoiding him, the weather had settled into a murky drizzle, and to top matters off, Queen Victoria’s advisors had just turned him away from meeting with the queen. Tarek slogged back to Fulton House, the most miserable he’d been in years.

“My goodness,” the marchioness said when he came in. “You look half-drowned. Give Mr. Carlisle your things, and then come into the parlor and we’ll have some tea. On second thought, perhaps something stronger. Cognac?”

“Cognac would be most welcome.” He shed his sodden greatcoat and hat and handed them to the butler. “Where are Lady Sara and her aunt?”

“Off running some final errands before their departure this afternoon. A pity they insist upon leaving—it’s most inhospitable of them. Now, sit and tell me about your meeting.”

“May I take off my boots?” He grimaced down at his footwear. “I went through a few puddles on the way back to Mayfair.”

Lady Fulton raised an eyebrow. “You are determined to be wretched, I see. You could have taken a cab.”

He shrugged and followed her into the parlor. “I needed the walk. The queen’s cabinet told me she’s currently indisposed and not meeting with foreign dignitaries for at least three weeks.”

He stood, his feet uncomfortably damp, and waited for Lady Fulton to fetch two glasses of cognac from the sideboard. Despite Sara’s opinion of him, he was too much a gentleman to take a seat before his hostess had done so.

Lady Fulton handed him a glass, then settled in one of the two chairs positioned before the fire. “Sit down and dry out your feet, Tarek. So, they turned you away and told you to come back in a few weeks. That is curious.”

“My behavior hasn’t been out of bounds—at least I don’t think so. Have I unknowingly crossed some social line?”

“No. You’ve been remarkably well behaved. For the most part. And you’ve certainly done nothing to make the queen reluctant to see you.” She tapped her lips with one finger. “I wonder… Did they seem a bit uncomfortable when they told you the queen was not currently in the best of health?”

“Now that you mention it, there was a bit of hemming and hawing, yes.”

“Ah.” She smiled and took a sip of cognac. “The timing would be right, considering that the youngest princess is now over a year old.”

“What timing?” He bent and stripped off his boots, then gratefully stretched his damp, sock-covered toes toward the coals burning on the hearth.

A half-smile curved Lady Fulton’s mouth. “I believe Queen Victoria may be suffering from the sickness many women are prone to during the early stages of pregnancy. If that’s the case, she will certainly be paring her appointments down to the bare minimum during this time.”

He sat back and took a sweet, burning swallow of his cognac. “That’s a relief, if it’s true.”

“I imagine it is. They did not single you out in particular, but said all foreign dignitaries, correct?”

He nodded, the tightness constricting his lungs easing a bit. Perhaps his time here would not be an utter failure, after all. If he hadn’t offended the queen, then he still had a good chance at gaining her tacit support for the independent government of Tunisia.

“What am I to do in the meantime?” he asked. “Sara and Mrs. Fulton won’t be here to lend their formidable respectability to Fulton House, and it’s probably unwise for you and I to rattle about here, alone together.”

“Let me think on it. This is an interesting development.” She took another sip of her drink, a calculating look in her eyes.

A commotion in the entryway signaled the arrival of Sara and her aunt. Tarek hastily pulled his boots back on, grimacing as the clammy leather embraced his feet. Sitting about the parlor in his sock feet would certainly be frowned upon. Despite everything, he didn’t want to give Sara any more reasons to think poorly of him.

Though she had already made her opinion of him quite clear. He took another drink of cognac, trying to blunt the edges of that thought.

It shouldn’t matter that she despised him. And it shouldn’t matter that she was blithely leaving London that afternoon to spend a fortnight in the odious Lord Whitley’s company.

She and her aunt paused in the parlor doorway.

“Good morning, Mama,” Sara said. “Lord du Lac.”

Her gaze skimmed over him, and Tarek clenched his jaw.

“Cognac, at this hour?” Mrs. Ashford said. “How irregular.”

“It’s after eleven o’clock.” The marchioness raised her glass in salute. “Would you care to join us?”

Mrs. Ashford’s expression grew even more pinched. “No, thank you. Sara and I must prepare for our departure. The coach is leaving promptly at one. Heavens, I hate to think what mischief the two of you will get up to while we’re gone.”

“Utter calamity,” Lady Fulton said. “I can’t imagine the house will still be standing upon your return.”

Mrs. Fulton sniffed loudly, then turned to Sara. “Come, my dear. We must ensure the packing is going smoothly, and that the kitchen has put together a suitable picnic lunch for our travels.”

Sara shot her mother an exasperated look. “Do be good, Mama. And keep the comte out of trouble.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” the marchioness said. Sara’s eyes widened, and her mother laughed. “Oh, don’t fret. I’m considering taking Tarek out of London altogether, to go visit some friends of mine.”

“You still have acquaintances in the country?” Mrs. Ashford asked, her tone disbelieving. “After all these years?”

“I do.” There was a note of mischief in Lady Fulton’s voice. “Now, run along. I wouldn’t want to delay your trip. We’ll meet you here to say our farewells at one o’clock.”

Tarek hoped it was not his imagination that Sara looked a bit downcast at the thought. For his part, he hated the idea of saying goodbye to her forever. But what other choice did he have? She’d made it clear she wanted as little to do with him as possible.

Even though he burned for her, that fire would eventually die down. It must.

***

As the grandfather clock on the landing struck the hour, Sara finished pinning on her dark blue hat—the one with a jaunty feather. If she was not feeling particularly cheerful, she could at least put up a good front.

It’s only because I’m saying goodbye to Mama. There was no other reason for her melancholy frame of mind. She was well shut of Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac, and about to embark upon a most desirable future.

“I think we have everything,” her maid said.

“Everything, and more.” The footmen had already taken down two trunks, half a dozen hatboxes, and assorted smaller luggage.

It was imperative that Sara look her best for the next two weeks, of course. Lord Whitley must be dazzled by her.

“I’ll see you in the coach,” Sara said.

“Very good, milady.” Her maid curtseyed and then hurried off to fetch her own last-minute items.

Sara turned away from the mirror and surveyed her room one last time. When she next returned, her life would be entirely changed. For the better. Of course.

Trying to muster up her excitement, she stepped into the hallway. When she was halfway down the stairs, she could hear Mama and Aunt Eugenie’s voices drifting from the parlor.

“Do keep a close watch on my daughter,” Mama was saying. “Especially around that Lord Whitley.”

“Margaret, that is the entire point of the visit. I didn’t think you were so obtuse.”

“I’m not. I just don’t believe that Syrine—” Mama lowered her voice, and Sara was unable to hear what, precisely, her mother’s opinion of her was.

“Lady Sara,” Tarek said from behind her.

She spun about, nearly losing her balance. He leaped forward and caught her around the waist, steadying her against him.

“Careful,” he said, his eyes staring into hers. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She forgot to breathe, lost in the golden fire of his gaze. Their bodies pressed warmly together and they stood there for a moment, frozen, the air filled only with the ticking of the clock. The answering beat of their two hearts. His eyes moved to her mouth, and she could feel the memory of their kiss vibrating in the air between them.