“Now, let us try that kiss again,” he said.

Before she could protest, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down upon the couch, covering her mouth with his. It was worse than before, and her heart fluttered with incipient panic. She tried to push him off, but he was too heavy.

She could not speak, could scarcely breathe, but somehow she must stop him. She felt as though she were being smothered by an excruciatingly warm, fleshy blanket.

Then his hand rose to cover one of her breasts, and she let out a squeak of shock. This was completely unacceptable. She could not push him away, but she had to do something.

The statue, in the corner. Could she reach it?

She wriggled along the couch, which Lord Whitley seemed to take as further encouragement, as he redoubled the motion of his lips against hers.

Sara stretched out her arm, and her fingers met the cool, smooth torso of the replica Venus de Milo. It took another suffocating moment before she could wrap her hand about it, but as soon as she did, she brought it across Lord Whitley’s temple with a thunk.

Lord Whitley groaned and toppled off her, to lie motionless on the carpet.

“Oh no!” she cried.

Gasping for breath, she set the statue down and went to her knees beside him. Had she killed him?

“Sara!” someone called, and then a man leaped into the gazebo.

Not just any man, however, but Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac.

Her heart stuttered, then burst into flame.

Chapter 10

Tarek raced into the gazebo, his pulse thundering. From the path, he’d caught a glimpse of the viscount lying atop Sara, and red rage had engulfed him. Before he could reach her, however, she’d bashed Lord Whitley over the head.

He admired her greatly for that quick-witted use of a statue. It had the added benefit of keeping him from murdering the man outright.

Now she knelt before the downed viscount, her face pale. As Tarek burst in, she glanced up at him, her eyes wide. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she rose and was somehow in his arms.

“Tarek.” Her voice was muffled by his coat. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.” He held her close and breathed in the sweet smell of her hair as his fury subsided. “I should never have let you go.”

At least not without telling her how he felt. The past four days had been excruciating, as he’d come to realize the depth of his emotions. Despite everything, he had found the woman he wanted to share his life with.

Only to lie awake in the dark of night, fearing he’d lost her to that lout, Lord Whitley. He was very glad the man in question now lay prone on the carpet at their feet.

“I’ve killed Lord Whitley.” Her voice trembled. “Whatever am I going to do?”

Tarek glanced down. “He’s still breathing.” Unfortunately. “I expect at any moment he’ll come to.”

She sagged against him in relief, and Tarek tightened his embrace, glad beyond words to shelter her in his arms. But was she there only because she was afraid she’d killed the viscount? Would any acquaintance have done, for a bit of comfort?

He did not know, and his pulse beat faster with apprehension. He’d come to find her, ready to bare his heart and pray she would not trample it into the mud.

But he must take that risk.

Lord Whitley groaned, and Sara pulled out of Tarek’s embrace. With effort, he kept himself from snatching her back and whisking her away—beyond the gazebo, beyond London, beyond even the inflexible and clammy shores of England.

That was not his choice to make, however. It was hers.

“Are you all right, Lord Whitley?” she asked, kneeling on the carpet again and giving the viscount a concerned look.

Tarek hoped he’d remain unconscious for a long while. When Whitley finished waking up, he’d only want to flatten the man again.

Regrettably, the viscount opened his eyes. “What the devil? Lady Sara, did you knock me over?”

A blush turned her cheeks a dusky rose. “I’m afraid I did.”

He levered himself to sitting and felt gingerly at his head. “If you didn’t like my attentions, you could’ve said something! Good gad, woman—I even asked you if you wanted to continue.”

Tarek’s temper flared. “Why would Lady Sara Ashton, a paragon of propriety, want to dally with you?”

The viscount blinked at him. “It did seem a bit unlikely at first, but she kept telling me she was interested, and that a fellow like myself was in need of companionship. What was I to think? I’m not the type to turn a willing and pretty woman away.”

Tarek made a fist and was already drawing back his arm, when Sara rose and caught it.

“I believe Lord Whitley has been pummeled enough,” she said to him in a low voice.

“I disagree.” Still, he let her hold him back.

“Well, Lady Sara.” The viscount rose unsteadily to his feet. “Have you any explanation for this disaster of an afternoon?”

“I thought…” She glanced out the door and took a steadying breath. “That is, I believed you were going to propose to me.”

“Propose?” Lord Whitley let out a short laugh, then winced. “Whatever gave you that notion? I’ve no intention of marrying anyone. At least, not for a good long while.”

“Here they are!” Sara’s aunt called from the path.

“I see now that I was dreadfully mistaken,” Sara said. Her fingers tightened on Tarek’s arm.

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Ashford drew up short at the doorway of the gazebo.

Another woman—very pretty, with blonde hair—came up behind Sara’s aunt and peered over her shoulder.

“I see Lord du Lac arrived in time,” the blonde said. “Lady Sara, are you unharmed?”

“Yes.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “But what are you doing here, Lady Blackwell?”

“It’s a complicated tale. The short version is that I was beginning to fear for your virtue.”

Tarek growled, then subsided when Sara shot him a look.

“I never—” Lord Whitley sputtered. “Had I known they were unwanted, I wouldn’t have pressed my attentions. I’m not that sort of fellow.”

“I know that,” Lady Blackwell said. “But when I saw Mrs. Ashford attempting to sneak out to the gardens this afternoon, I stopped her, and learned that you and Lady Sara were meeting for two entirely different reasons. And we both know you tend to get carried away in the heat of passion, my dear.”

Sara’s aunt coughed. “We were just coming to fetch you, when the comte suddenly arrived. As soon as he heard what was going on, he dashed off to your rescue. It seems he succeeded.”

“In truth, I was the one—” Sara began, but the viscount overrode her.

“Yes, Lord du Lac delivers quite a punch,” Lord Whitley said, in an obvious effort to save face.

“Almost as effective as Lady Sara’s,” Tarek said. The ladies could make of that what they may.

Lady Blackwell went to lend Lord Whitley her arm. As she stepped over the marble statue lying on the carpet, a speculative gleam filled her eyes, and she nodded at Sara.

“I must say, we won’t be a burden upon your hospitality any further, Lord Whitley,” Mrs. Ashford said. “Lady Sara and I shall depart as soon as possible.”

“It’s rather late to be setting out for London.” Lady Blackwell glanced out at the afternoon sky. “Once your luggage is ready and the coach packed up, it will be nearly dark.”

“As to that,” Tarek said, “the Marchioness of Fulton and I are staying a short distance away, at the Neatherlins’ estate. I’m certain Lady Sara and her aunt would be more than welcome there.”

“So that is whom she went to visit,” Sara’s aunt said under her breath. “I should have guessed.”

“How fortuitous that you are nearby.” Lady Blackwell sent him a sweet smile.

Fortune had nothing to do with it, of course. Lady Fulton had scolded him for moping about for three days and then hauled him off to visit her friends—who just so happened to own the estate next to Lord Whitley’s. When he’d questioned her about that convenient coincidence, she’d only arched a brow and told him he ought to take charge of his future and go speak with Sara at his soonest possible convenience. In other words, immediately.

He was only sorry he hadn’t run after her coach as it left London—but it had taken him those few days to realize how very important she was to him.

He’d arrived at the viscount’s estate that afternoon just in time to catch sight of Sara’s aunt in the garden. Though it was a breach of protocol, he’d detoured from the front of the house in order to say hello—and to inquire after Sara. The moment he’d learned she was meeting with Lord Whitley in the gazebo, he’d dashed to her rescue.

“If you must be off,” the viscount said, his tone making it clear their departure was the most preferable outcome, “then I wish you all safe travels.”

“Goodbye, Lord Whitley,” Sara said. “I’m truly sorry for all that transpired between us.”

“As am I.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding.”

Misunderstanding? He’d almost ruined Sara. Tarek narrowed his eyes, and noticed that Sara’s aunt was giving Lord Whitley an equally vicious look.

“I trust that there will be no gossip on this score,” Mrs. Ashford said. “It would be unfortunate if Lord Whitley were named as a rakehell.”

“And equally unfortunate if your niece’s reputation were sullied,” Lady Blackwell said. “I think we all understand that silence is the best course in this matter.”

She gave the viscount a discreet jab to the ribs, and he cleared his throat. “Indeed. Not a word. I believe I must have tripped on the gazebo stairs.”

“We’d best get you back to the house,” Lady Blackwell said. “There’s a lump forming on your forehead that should be seen to. Good day, everyone.”