Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 4

That night, Sara could not fall asleep. She lay wide awake in her bed long after silence had descended upon the house. Her room was too bright, despite the drawn curtains, which for some reason were doing a very poor job of filtering out the light of the nearly full moon.

Every time she closed her eyes, she recalled dancing with Tarek—no, no, the Comte du Lac. Drat the man! Against her better judgment, she’d been moved by the shadow of hurt in his eyes when she refused to call him by his given name, and had indulged him just that once.

Now, though, the wall of formality had been breached, and she could not stop thinking of him as Tarek.

She huffed out a sigh and turned on her side. That afternoon, time had flown as she taught him the steps to the Lancer Gavotte. Even Sally’s faltering piano playing couldn’t detract from the enjoyment she felt dancing with Tare—with the comte.

She must admit, she’d never had such a well-matched dancing partner. There had been no awkward moments where she turned one direction and he another. No stumbles as he took a step across her line of travel, or the reverse.

She shouldn’t have agreed to dance again with him on the morrow—but how could she refuse? Beyond the fact that he was their guest, she had to admit that she was, just possibly, the tiniest bit enamored with him.

In addition to his handsome face and bearing, he’d proven to be good company. That was, when he wasn’t bent on teasing her out of what he clearly considered her stuffy English manners.

Sara turned over again, this time facing the wall. The gold stripes of the wallpaper shone faintly in the moonlight seeping through the curtains.

It was unwise of her to succumb to his charms, she cautioned herself. Not only was he a threat to her carefully cultivated reputation, there was absolutely no point in carrying on a flirtation with a half-French, half-Tunisian aristocrat who was only in London for a clandestine meeting with the queen.

Although she would like to visit France, one day. And Mama’s descriptions of Tunis were quite engaging—

Stop that at once. The internal voice sounded a bit like Aunt Eugenie, and reminded Sara there was absolutely no point in imagining travel to exotic locales.

She was in pursuit of a much different future. A solid, respectable life as the wife of a solid, respectable English lord. It was all she’d ever wanted.

Mama brought more than enough excitement to the family. One scandalous Ashford was, frankly, one too many.

Sara flopped onto her back and stared up at dimly lit draperies over her bed. Oh, this was a tangle—but one that would be unraveled soon enough. She would go off to the viscount’s house party, Tarek would meet with the queen and then return home, and she would never see him again.

The thought should have brought a sense of relief, not the bittersweet melancholy sifting through her. She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, willing herself to fall asleep. Willing herself to stop recalling the feel of his arm about her waist, the flash of his smile, the sound of his laugh.

Oh, dear. She was in a dreadful state indeed.

She could bear it for a handful of days more. She must. Tomorrow they would attend Lord Severn’s betrothal ball, and two days after that she and Aunt Eugenie would depart for Hampshire. Very soon, Tarek—Lord du Lac—would be blessedly out of her life, and she could get on with the business of sorting out her future properly.

***

Their dancing lesson the next afternoon went well enough. Sara was careful to remain as cool toward the comte as possible. Her only difficulty was during the waltz, when he swooped her deliciously about the empty ballroom.

Still, she fixed her purpose in her mind, and did not let his warm touch and frequent smiles distract her. Much.

She excused herself early to make ready for the ball. And if she took extra care with her appearance, it was only because there was a chance she might see Lord Whitley at the event. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance that evening.

Her evening gown was a pale orange, the color of the sky at sunset, and she wore a necklace of polished topazes to match. It was only a little bit of vanity to admit that it complemented her coloring nicely. Her lady’s maid took extra time with her coiffure, arranging the ringlets about her face and shoulders in the newest fashion.

Finally, the entire household was ready and the carriage brought round. Sara was the last to descend the stairs to the entryway. She noted that Aunt Eugenie wore her favorite violet gown, and Mama was garbed in an exotic-looking dress patterned with peacock feathers.

The Comte du Lac was altogether too dashing in his coat and tails. She concentrated on the smooth feel of the railing beneath her gloved hand in an effort to keep from staring at him.

He stepped forward as she gained the ground floor, and made her an elegant bow. Admiration sparked in his gaze. “Lady Sara, you look beautiful. Like a desert lily touched by the setting sun.”

His unique compliment warmed her, though she tried not to show it. “I will assume the desert lily is pretty flower.”

“Indeed it is, white and shaped like a star. You should visit Tunisia some time, and I will show you.”

“That is most kind.” She stifled a fleeting sense of regret that she could not accept his invitation. “However, I am happy here in England.”

“Are you?” He gave her a thoughtful look.

What a foolish question. Of course she was happy, and she would be happier still once her future with Lord Whitley was assured.

“The carriage awaits,” Mr. Carlisle said, opening the front door.

Sara accepted her pelisse, and the comte’s offer of escort, and they followed Mama and Aunt Eugenie out.

It was not far to Lord Severn’s, but the press of carriages was dreadful. They slowed to a crawl three blocks from his townhouse, and Mama let out an annoyed breath.

“We could simply get out and walk,” she said.

“Certainly not.” Aunt Eugenie clutched her reticule and peered out the window. “It’s simply not done.”

“And it would ruin our dancing slippers,” Sara added.

“Ah, yes.” Mama stuck out her foot and studied her bright blue slipper. “Most impractical footwear. I’m reminded of why I don’t stay long in London.”

“You were always impatient,” Aunt Eugenie said. “Thankfully, Sara has a much steadier disposition.”

Mama slanted a look at Sara from her green eyes. “I wonder if one day you will throw all caution to the wind, daughter, and act upon your impulses.”

“That sounds very improper,” the comte said from his place in the coach across from her. “Certainly Lady Sara would do no such thing.”

He was baiting her, but she refused to rise to it.

“Dancing slippers are not impractical when one is in a ballroom,” she said. “Look, we are almost there.”

“Sara, you and Tarek must go in first,” Mama said. “I’ll wait for a few more guests to be announced between us, before making my entrance. We all know that people will take notice when I come in.”

“Very wise,” Aunt Eugenie said. “I will accompany Sara and the comte, of course.”

In a matter of minutes, they had reached the townhouse and were ushered inside. Mama lingered in the entryway while Aunt Eugenie marched their party to the ballroom.

The footman at the door announced them, and several people turned to give the Comte du Lac apprising looks, but in the end his presence created very little stir. It seemed that, in addition to the deliciously romantic tale of Lord Severn’s pursuit of his baronessa, there was an additional bit of scandal with a set of families outside the Ashfords’ acquaintance, the Strathmores and the Huntingtons, some of whom had recently returned from Tunisia!

“Do you know them?” Sara asked the comte as the whispers spread about the ballroom concerning the reappearance of a certain James Huntington.

“I didn’t make their acquaintance when they were in Tunis,” Tarek said, “but I was aware of an English expedition petitioning the Bey for permission to travel. Something about a search for a flower. I was busy preparing for my own trip at the time, and I’m afraid I missed most of the details.”

Sara marked the appearance of Miss Lily Strathmore, who apparently was the botanical illustrator on the expedition. She looked like an intelligent and interesting young lady. Perhaps Sara might make her acquaintance.

Oh, what was she thinking? The last thing she needed to do was strike up a friendship with a family the gossips were buzzing about. No matter how interesting they might seem.

Interesting is dangerous, she reminded herself, resolutely not glancing at Tarek’s darkly handsome face. Interesting can only lead to scandal and ruin.

Unlike Mama, she did not have the luxury of a fortune or the social independence to indulge her longing for travel to exotic places. Not that she had any such longing whatsoever. It might be pleasant to go to the Continent—in fact, once she and Lord Whitley were betrothed, she might suggest they take their honeymoon abroad. But travel beyond Europe was foolhardy.

Just look at Lily Strathmore, who had been to Tunisia and, judging from the look on her face, seemed quite miserable about the whole experience.

“Are you certain you aren’t interested in traveling across the Mediterranean?” Tarek asked, as if reading her thoughts. “It appears to be a popular pastime.”

“Quite certain,” Sara lied. “Goodness, I’m thirsty. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of punch?”

Tarek lifted an amused eyebrow at her. “As my lady commands.”

He turned away, and Sara scolded her heart for leaping at his words. He’d meant nothing by them, and was simply teasing her as usual, making fun of the formality of the English by calling her my lady. That was all.

By the time he returned with her punch, it was nearly time for the next dance—the Lancer Gavotte. Sara took a few sips of the refreshing beverage, blessing Lord Severn for not serving the usual overly sweet ratafia found at most balls.

She consulted her dance card. As was customary, she and her partner would dance the entire set, which consisted of the gavotte, a polka, and ended with a waltz.

Her heart bumped up against her ribs as she recalled waltzing with Tarek the day before, during their second dance lesson. Once again last night, sleep had been an elusive creature as she’d lain in her bed, alternately savoring the memory of being held in his arms, and chastising herself for reveling in that sweetness.

The best thing to do would be to converse during their waltz, she’d decided. That way she would not give in to the foolish sensations sweeping through her as they whirled and stepped about the floor.

Also, Tarek would not be able to lead her in such swooping arcs as he had the day before, carrying her from one end of the dance floor to the other. Lord Severn’s ballroom was far too crowded for that, luckily. Sara would not be in danger of feeling as though she were flying, anchored only by Tarek’s warm grasp about her waist, his bare hand clasping hers.

She took a last sip of her punch, then handed her cup to a nearby footman.

Tugging up her gloves, she gave the comte a brisk smile. “Shall we make ready for our dance?”

“I’ve been waiting all evening for this moment,” he said, causing her traitorous emotions to leap up like a poorly trained puppy. “Seeing how well prepared we are.”

“I think we shall give an acceptable accounting upon the dance floor.” She kept her tone businesslike. No need to let him know how deeply he was beginning to affect her.

Thank heavens she and Aunt Eugenie were departing soon for the viscount’s house party.

His smile deepened. “More than acceptable, Lady Sara.”

Oh, why did he persist in lowering his voice like that? Pretending she was unmoved by his flirtations, she set her hand upon his arm and let him lead her to a place on the dance floor.

***

Tarek glanced at Lady Sara beside him, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. Her sunset-colored gown seemed very low cut, but after a quick survey he realized that all the ladies were displaying quite a lot of bosom.

He had to admit it was wryly funny that, for once, he was the one shocked by the English, instead of the reverse.

Other than her revealing gown, though, Sara appeared every inch the cool and collected lady. Had he imagined the spark in her eyes when he’d leaned close and smiled at her? Or was he simply an idiot, assuming she was attracted to him because he found her fascinating?

It was an unexpected development. Although, catching the knowing look in Lady Fulton’s eyes when she watched them together, he wondered if she’d hoped for this very outcome when she’d insisted he come to England. Even Sara’s aunt seemed aware of his interest, judging by the way she hovered about them, her brows pinched together in a frown.

The only one who seemed determinedly oblivious was Lady Sara, herself—a fact he found equally amusing and aggravating.

No gentleman wanted his flirtations to be ignored, especially when they were verging on the serious. But it seemed Lady Sara had plans of her own, ones that did not include any hint of the foreign or exotic in her life.

He was tempted to try and change her mind—but he’d already seen that she possessed a formidable stubborn streak. Besides, he was not in London to be courting, but to meet with the queen. Like a perfect summer afternoon, this attraction would pass, and soon enough the sun would set.

No matter that he’d never quite felt this way before.

“I’ll be meeting with the queen’s advisors soon,” he said as they waited for the music to begin.

“That’s excellent news. Surely it will only be a matter of time before you’ll be speaking with the queen herself.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“It’s a pity Aunt Eugenie and I will be in the country by then, and unable to see you off when you depart London.” She accompanied the words with a bright smile, but he thought he detected a hint of strain at the corners of her mouth. Or perhaps that was his wishful thinking again.

“It will be good to return home,” he said.

It seemed the safest response. After all, if Lady Sara wanted no part of him, there was no reason to linger in London, making a fool of himself. Not that she would even be in the city, as she appeared quite eager to attend the house party at some noble’s country estate.

A stab of jealousy went through him at the thought. But he had no claim upon her affections.

You could, the mischievous part of his mind insisted. You could kiss her. Tonight.

Before his thoughts veered even further down that unfruitful path, the orchestra on the dais played an introductory chord. Tarek clasped Sara’s hand—regrettably gloved—and raised it in preparation for the opening moves of the Lancer Gavotte. He was glad the dance set included a waltz. It was likely the last chance he’d get to hold Sara in his arms, and he intended to make the most of it.

They went through the figures of the gavotte, exchanging greetings and light conversation with the other dancers in their group. Everyone performed the steps well enough, but he could not help thinking that he and Lady Sara were the best-matched couple.

Their recent practice helped with that, of course. But from the very first steps across the empty ballroom floor at Fulton House, he’d felt as though their bodies were attuned to one another. They moved perfectly through space together, and it made him wonder how it would feel to engage her in a different, primal dance, their bodies touching, twining…

The figures of the first set came to a close, and the couples each returned to their places. He made Lady Sara a bow, and she curtsied in return. With great effort, he kept his gaze from lingering on the revealing swell of her breasts.

“Are you feeling well?” she asked in a low voice as they made ready for the polka.

“Perfectly.”

Other than the unfortunate fact he was becoming increasingly attracted to a certain Lady Sara Ashford.