Lord Whitley nodded his farewell, then, leaning heavily on her arm, let Lady Blackwell lead him away.

Mrs. Ashford sniffed. “That was a dreadful scene. I only pray we can, indeed, contain the gossip, and that this does not prove to be an irrevocable blow to Lady Sara’s reputation.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tarek said.

“Of course it does!” Sara’s aunt fixed him with a scornful look. “I thought we’d given you a better sense of the proprieties than that, Lord du Lac.”

“You did.” He turned to Sara, searching her eyes, hoping to see an answering echo of the flame burning inside him. “Lady Sara Ashford, although the viscount did not propose to you after all, there is someone else who wishes to.”

Her eyes widened and she simply gazed up at him, speechless.

Mrs. Ashton drew in a sharp breath. “This is most irregular. I hardly think this is the time or the place—”

“It is precisely the time and the place.” Tarek took Sara’s hand. “Sara, I refuse to let you walk out of this gazebo before I speak my mind. I lost my chance with you once. I won’t do so again.”

“Oh.” Something stirred in her leaf-green eyes. “Very well. Though I make you no promises.”

“Fair enough.” He kept his voice steady, though his heart pounded furiously.

“Aunt Eugenie.” Sara glanced at her chaperone. “Would you do me the very great favor of stepping outside?”

“What? I shall do no such thing. After what has already transpired here, I hardly think—”

“Just for a moment, that’s all I ask. You don’t even need to lurk among the lilies.”

Tarek glanced at the Venus de Milo tipped over on the carpet. “If anything I say is displeasing to Lady Sara, she has a weapon at hand.”

“It’s not a joking matter,” Sara said, an edge to her voice.

“No,” he agreed. “And I’m immeasurably glad you were able to defend yourself. From now on, however, I don’t intend to leave you without a champion.”

The light in her eyes deepened, and she looked at her aunt once more. “Aunt, please.”

With a hmph, Mrs. Ashford stepped to the doorway.

“Only for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be just outside.”

Then Tarek was alone with Sara, and all the words he’d meant to say fell right out of his head. He found himself staring at her somewhat desperately—this woman who had, all unexpectedly, captured his heart.

Chapter 11

Sara gazed into Tarek’s warm eyes, her emotions whirling as though some reckless child had set a top spinning inside her skull. The afternoon had become so peculiar, she felt completely suspended from her everyday life. Part of her was certain the events of the past half-hour were all a dream.

At any moment now, she would wake beneath the oak tree on the lawn of Whitley Manor, where she must have fallen asleep. And dreamed.

Of Tarek.

“Are you truly here?” she asked. The fragrance of lilies filled the air. The wall of the gazebo behind him shimmered with watery reflections.

“I am.” He squeezed her hand. “I ought to have been here all along.”

Suddenly he went down on one knee, and her heart gave a jolt. She equally yearned for and feared what he was going to say next.

“Lady Sara Ashford. Syrine. When I came to England, I never anticipated I would fall in love. But I did. With you. And now I can’t envision returning home without you. Would you consent to marry me?”

She closed her eyes as the top in her head careened about. How very strange that she was, in fact, being proposed to in the gazebo after all.

Just by the wrong man.

For years, she’d worked so hard to maintain Society’s rigid principles. How could she marry Tarek—a man that everyone would whisper about, a man who challenged her notions of propriety over and over, until she scarcely knew how to behave, herself?

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. He was staring up at her with a look of hopeless desperation.

“How can I marry you?” she asked. “We scarcely know one another.”

“That didn’t seem to be an issue where Lord Whitley was concerned.” His voice held a bitter edge. “I would venture to say that you and I know far more about each other than you and the viscount ever could, yet you were fully prepared to leap into matrimony with the man.”

“This is different.”

“Because I’m not a pompous English lord more interested in chasing skirts than finding a lasting love? Because I’m too dark-skinned and foreign to be deemed suitable by your precious Society? Because I challenge the adventuress inside you to cast off the shackles of respectability and live your life to the fullest?”

Every question cut into the heart of all her assumptions, and she winced at each one.

“I can’t imagine a life with you, Tarek,” she said.

“And I can’t imagine one without you.” His look softened. “I think you’ve spent years trying to envision a future too perfect to possibly exist, and denying the one you truly want. Is it really so difficult to think of what our life together might hold?”

Hot moisture pricked her eyes.

“Ever since Father died, I’ve tried to be good,” she said. “To be the very best, the most proper girl ever, so that Mama would be proud of me. So that she might return, and never go away again.”

A tear escaped to trickle down her cheek. Tarek sprang up and gently wiped it away with his thumb.

“You are the best girl ever,” he said softly. “And I never want to leave you.”

His words were like a warm blanket around her heart—but could she trust that they would remain true?

“Would you stay in England?” she asked.

A pained expression crossed his face, but his gaze never wavered from hers. “If that is what’s required for your happiness, then yes, I will stay.”

She pulled in a trembling breath. “And would you take me to France, and to Tunisia, to meet your family?”

That dazzling smile broke across his face. “In an instant, Sara. I would take you anywhere you wanted to go. London, Burgundy, Tunis. The world is ours to explore.”

“The world might be,” she said. “But I’m not certain where home is.”

“With me,” he said, and opened his arms.

Something turned inside her, a key unlocking a door. Could it, after all, be truly that simple?

Yes, her heart answered.

“Then take me home,” she said, and stepped into his embrace.

Their lips met, and the whirl of her emotions coalesced into a surge of light that warmed her whole body. She felt as though she could melt into him, and for a mad moment she wondered how her bare skin might feel against his. The thought sent a shiver of desire dancing along her nerves.

His arms tightened about her, and then his tongue met hers in a dazzle of sensation.

“Ahem,” Aunt Eugenie said in a loud voice. “I’m coming in now.”

Tarek ended their kiss, but he did not let her go, and she was glad of it. Aunt Eugenie stepped into the gazebo and gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Have the two of you reached an understanding?” she asked.

Tarek looked down at Sara, one eyebrow lifted. “Have we, Lady Sara? Will you consent to be my wife?”

This time, there was no hesitation.

“Yes, Tarek Zafir Remy, Comte du Lac. I will marry you.”

“Thank the stars!” He picked her up and whirled her around. She held tightly to his shoulders and laughed aloud, her heart as light as air.

“I brought a ring,” he said, setting her down.

“You did?”

“Did you?” Aunt Eugenie echoed. “How very presumptuous.”

Tarek ignored Aunt Eugenie, and pulled a beautiful square-cut emerald ring from his pocket.

Sara caught her breath. “That’s Mama’s engagement ring. I came across it once when I was going through her jewelry. She looked sad and put it away again when I asked about it.”

“Yes,” he said. “She gave it to me to bring today. Along with her blessing.”

“Your mother loved your father with all her heart,” Aunt Eugenie said. “Sometimes I wonder if she travels so much because England is still too painful. In faraway lands, she can escape the shadow of what they had together.”

Sara stared at her aunt, the thought spreading like healing ripples through her. She’d always assumed Mama stayed away because Sara was not the right kind of daughter. But perhaps there was more to it. Far more than she, as a child, had ever guessed.

Another weight lifted from her soul, and she turned back to Tarek. “Do you think Mama could accompany us, from time to time?”

It had never occurred to her before, but perhaps Mama was lonely, returning to England only when she could bear it no longer, and then fleeing once the memories became too heavy.

“It would be a pleasure to travel with Lady Fulton,” he said. “Now hold out your hand, you distractible woman. I’m trying to become engaged to you.”

She swallowed a laugh and obediently spread her fingers so that he could slip the ring on. It fit perfectly.

Aunt Eugenie sniffed, not with disapproval this time, and fished her kerchief from her sleeve. “You’ll be the Comtesse du Lac now. I suppose that’s not so dreadful a thing.”

“And Hanimefendi Syrine Zafir,” Tarek said, a twinkle in his eye. “But most of all, I think I shall call you wife.”

“That will do very well,” she said. “And I shall call you habibi in return.”

“Ah! You are too clever for me.” He grinned with delight. “When did you learn the Arabic word for beloved?”

“It was in a book of poems Mama brought back from Persia some years ago. I memorized it, thinking it might prove useful one day.”

“And so it has.” He sobered and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Perhaps you were waiting for me all along.”

The thought made her shiver, it felt so true.

“Perhaps I was.”

Ignoring the fact of Aunt Eugenie’s presence, she twined her arms around Tarek’s neck once more and pressed her lips against his. After another long, dizzying kiss, she pulled away.