Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 3

“Do keep an eye on Tarek,” Mama said to Sara as they went in to dinner that evening. “You can guide him on proper fork usage.”

The comte, who was gallantly escorting Aunt Eugenie, gave them a slightly strained look but refrained from comment. Perhaps he was not as insensible to the social niceties as Sara had thought upon their first meeting.

Aunt Eugenie glanced at Mama as they fetched up at the mahogany dining table. A centerpiece of lilies sent a faint perfume into the air, and the gas chandelier shed a bright, even light over the place settings.

“Since you are the marchioness,” Aunt Eugenie said, “I believe you should occupy the head of the table.”

“Don’t you think our guest should have that honor?” Mama asked, a devilish look in her eyes.

“If you insist, I will,” the comte said. “In Tunisia it’s customary to eat with one’s fingers from a common bowl. I’m sure you’ll all be happy to follow my lead.”

Aunt Eugenie let out a strangled sound. “Perhaps we shall just go on as usual, then. I’ll take the head.”

Sara shot her mother a glance. It was unkind to bait Aunt Eugenie so, especially as the comte seemed all too ready to join in.

“Tarek, you sit here, beside Sara.” Mama practically pushed him into the chair, then rounded the table to sit across from them.

Although half the places at the long dining table remained empty, Sara had to admit it was companionable to have more than just herself and Aunt Eugenie at dinner.

“So,” Aunt Eugenie said as the soup course was being served. “Keeping in mind that Sara and I will be departing London soon, what local outings shall we plan for our guest? Boating on the Thames? A stroll in Hyde Park?”

“They sound equally exciting,” the comte said, his tone dry. “I can’t imagine choosing between the two.”

Mama laughed. “Surely there is an upcoming ball of social importance that the newly arrived Comte du Lac should be seen attending. Have you any thoughts on this, Eugenie?”

Sara’s aunt frowned. “I cannot picture the ideal circumstances for presenting Lord du Lac to Society.”

A thought teased at Sara’s memory, and she grabbed hold of it. “Lord Severn’s betrothal ball is the day after tomorrow.”

She and Aunt Eugenie had not planned on attending. There was quite a scandal surrounding Lord Severn’s fiancée, an Italian baronessa who had initially been snubbed by the ton. But the reason they’d planned to keep their distance made it an excellent opportunity to present the comte. The unusual—one might say highly improper—circumstances of Lord Severn’s betrothal would help dilute the gossip about their foreign guest.

“An excellent thought,” Aunt Eugenie said, clearly following Sara’s logic.

“It seems the ideal timing to introduce Tarek to the ton,” Mama said. “He will have been here just long enough to pique society’s interest without seeming to have snubbed them.”

“I presume he’ll be escorting Lady Sara, but is that wise?” Aunt Eugenie asked. “The gossips might fasten upon it.”

“It’s better for Tarek to attend with Sara than to be considered my companion,” Mama replied.

Her words brought heat to Sara’s cheeks, but they were correct. Sara would have to help the comte navigate the ball, ensuring that his behavior was as unremarkable as possible. And that her good name was not placed in jeopardy.

Surely she could manage to shepherd him through one evening without it ending in social disaster, however. And even if the wagtongues speculated, she would be off to Lord Whitley’s house party before any real gossip could take hold. After that, anything they said would be moot.

Aunt Eugenie turned to the comte. “Lord du Lac, do you know how to dance? I’m not certain what you are accustomed to, in terms of social events. It won’t do to have Lady Sara made a laughingstock upon the floor.”

“I can dance well enough,” he said. “The last ball I attended was in Paris, a year ago.”

“Last year?” Aunt Eugenie shook her head. “Then you don’t know the Lancer Gavotte. It’s all the rage this Season.”

“Sara can teach him,” Mama said calmly. “Tomorrow afternoon, in the ballroom here. And if the dance proves too complicated, they can have another lesson on the day of the ball.”

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.”