Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 5

Despite the comte’s assurances, Sara felt an odd sense of unease as they began the polka. There was a peculiar intensity in his amber eyes that she could not place. Perhaps he was homesick, or feeling too out of place at the ball.

Her worries were soon pushed aside by the energetic dance, however—especially when one of the other couples in their group started galloping about like horses, eliciting much laughter. Fortunately, the polka portion of the Lancers Gavotte was fairly short, otherwise the dancers would be completely out of breath by the time the waltz commenced.

As it was, she felt a bit warm when Tarek—Lord du Lac—took her in his arms.

“Do you think we might dance on the far side of the ballroom?” she asked, glancing at the floor-to-ceiling windows open to the terrace.

The valances draped above the windows fluttered with the night air. Outside, lanterns set at intervals along the balustrade shed a warm glow, contrasting with the silver moonlight.

“It is rather stifling in here,” he said, effortlessly guiding them toward the windows.

A fresh breeze wafted in as they neared, and Sara sighed with relief. The air in the ballroom had grown thick, filled with the scent of competing perfumes and perspiration. A pity they could not just turn in circles before the open windows, enjoying the sweetness of the night—but already more dancers were crowding behind them. She pulled in a last breath before they had to traverse back into the heart of the throng.

Before she knew what he was about, however, Tarek whisked them through the nearest window.

“What are you doing?” she asked, glancing about to see if their exit had been remarked upon. “This isn’t proper in the least.”

She was relieved to note they were not the only ones who’d taken advantage of the open windows and slipped out to dance on the terrace. A handful of other couples waltzed in the soft moonlight, speaking in low murmurs to one another.

Tarek smiled at her, his eyes flashing as they continued to dance to the music wafting from the windows.

“Not entirely proper, perhaps,” he said. “But you must admit it’s much more comfortable. Unless you wish to return to that stuffy ballroom?”

She hesitated. Truly, she should insist they reenter. But the air felt delicious against her skin, and the faint scent of flowers drifted through the night. Overhead, the maiden in the moon smiled down upon them as she floated in a pale sea of stars.

“We might take a moment out here,” she conceded.

“I knew you’d come to your senses. Besides, now we have room to turn.”

He suited action to words, swooping her about until she felt she was flying. To hold the dizziness at bay, she stared up into his eyes. Their gazes locked.

Their steps slowed in unison, until they came to a halt in a shadowed corner of the terrace.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head at her. Lips still curved in a smile, he bent and pressed his mouth to hers.

The dizziness she’d resisted while they were dancing suddenly crashed through her. She swayed and clutched his shoulders, and he gathered her close. So close she could feel his heart beating.

Or was that tremendous thundering her own heart?

His mouth was warm. Soft at first, then harder as he deepened the kiss.

She should push him away. She should step out of his embrace and flee back into the ballroom. But instead she was falling into a well of stars, sparkling and glimmering all about her until she could scarcely breathe.

At last, he lifted his head and gazed down at her. The gold flecks in his eyes sparked with intensity. The lips that had just kissed her were serious and unsmiling.

“You are beautiful, Sara,” he said, his voice vibrating through her. “Syrine.”

“Stop it.” She glanced over her shoulder. So far, no one was watching them, but that could change instantly. “Let me go.”

“I don’t think I can. One more kiss, that’s all I ask.”

He pulled her against him once more, and she almost succumbed to the golden pleasure of his embrace. But she was not Syrine. She was Lady Sara Ashford, and to been seen kissing Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac, would be her ruin.

No matter how much she might yearn for it.

So she raised her gloved hand and slapped him across the cheek.

***

The unexpected sting of Sara’s hand meeting his face made Tarek jerk back in surprise. He released her, and she quickly stepped away from him, chin raised.

“I’d thank you not to presume any more upon my person,” she said in a tight voice.

Tarek raised his fingers to his cheek. She hadn’t hit him very hard—the skin was not raised and he’d wager that any mark she’d left was already fading. “If you wish to go about slapping gentlemen, you might want to improve your arm.”

“I believe it was effective enough.” Her tone was sharp. “You owe me an apology.”

“An apology?” He stared at her. “Sara—”

“Lady Sara, if you please.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you were a very willing participant in that kiss. I’ll not apologize for sharing it with you.”

“Keep your voice down.” A furrow between her brows, she glanced into the ballroom. “And from now on, keep your distance from me.”

He clenched his jaw, feeling as though he’d just been bucked off a horse. Was he truly expected to apologize for a kiss they had both surrendered to? That they had both enjoyed?

The adamant look in her eyes told him that, yes, he must beg her forgiveness, no matter how ridiculous he might find it. More of her thrice-cursed propriety.

“Very well,” he said in a low voice. “I apologize for—”

“Shh!” She flung herself into his arms. “Dance with me, quickly.”

He blinked, trying to catch his bearings, but obediently whirled her into the steps. As they turned, he saw the reason for her command.

The waltz was drawing to a close, and people were already coming out to the terrace in search of cooler air.

As the final, slow strains of music filtered into the night, he let her go, stepped back, and bowed over her gloved hand.

“Thank you for the dance, Lady Sara,” he said. And the kiss, he added silently.

She snatched her hand back. “I find myself a bit parched. Would you please fetch me another cup of punch?”

What could he do but comply? The strictures of society bound him, tangible as ropes about his chest.

“I’ll return shortly,” he said, wishing he could whisk her away into the moonlit gardens and speak his mind. Not to mention kiss her again.

“Thank you,” she said primly. “I’ll wait here, beside the balustrade.”

He searched her expression. There was no sign of the woman who’d returned his passionate embrace. Her command that he keep his distance smarted—especially as he knew she’d been moved by their kiss. The way her lips had parted, the softness in her eyes, the beating of her heart, fast as wild bird’s—it was indisputable.

Yet she denied it.

Feeling as though he’d swallowed a stone, Tarek made her a bow, then turned on his heel and strode into the ballroom.

When he returned, a fresh cup of punch in hand, he nearly growled to see some other gentleman standing beside her. Even worse, she laughed at something he said, and touched him on the arm.

Tarek stalked up and almost thrust the cup of punch into her hand. At the last second, he mastered his emotions.

“Here you are, Lady Sara.” He gently held the cup out to her. “I hope you find it satisfactory.”

Since she clearly found him unsatisfactory.

“Lord du Lac,” she said, “allow me to introduce you to Viscount Whitley. You might recall that he is hosting the house party Aunt Eugenie and I are planning to attend in two days’ time.”

Tarek’s irritation with the fellow flared higher.

“Pleasure, to be sure,” Lord Whitley said. “A Frenchie, are you?”

“Something like that.” Not only was the man rude, his hair was thinning. “Lady Sara is looking forward to your party. I’m certain you and your wife will be excellent hosts.”

“Haha!” Lord Whitley nudged Sara with one pointy elbow. “Needs to study his Debrett’s. You see, du Lac, I’m unmarried.”

Sara smiled at the man. “A state I’m certain you could remedy at any point, if you so chose. You are considered a catch, Lord Whitley.”

Tarek couldn’t see why. The fellow seemed a complete boor. But perhaps being an English lord excused his behavior. French comtes were given no such leeway.

“Being unmarried has its perquisites, I must say. I’m sure du Lac here knows whereof I speak.” He gave Tarek a wink meant to convey a wealth of manly information having to do with freedom and the ability to seduce women.

Tarek curled his fingers into fists. He couldn’t believe Sara actually desired to spend time in Whitley’s company. Had he been that mistaken about her character, after all?

“Yet being married must hold many benefits, in turn.” Sara seemed oblivious to Lord Whitley’s insinuations. “How pleasant it would be to have someone to look after your household and help arrange social events. Not to mention the companionship.”

Lord Whitley’s gaze came to rest on the low neckline of her gown, where the soft shadows between her breasts were almost visible.

“Yes,” he said, a note of lust in his voice. “Companionship.”

Tarek was sorry he’d handed Sara her cup of punch. He wanted nothing more than to dash it into the English lord’s face. Followed by a quick uppercut to the jaw.

With effort, he held himself still. He was due to meet with Queen Victoria’s advisors in two days. Somehow, he did not think beating Viscount Whitley senseless on Lord Severn’s terrace would endear him to the gentry, or do anything to advance his case with the queen.

“Lady Sara,” he said, “would you care to dance again?”

He wanted her away from Lord Whitley—and in his arms again.

She let out a forced laugh. “Lord du Lac, it’s kind of you to ask, but a second dance with me so soon is out of the question. One wouldn’t want to imply there is any special connection between us.” She turned to the viscount. “The comte is newly come to England, and is a little confused as to our customs.”

Tarek clenched his jaw.

“Nice of you to try and help the fellow.” Lord Whitley pulled his gaze up from her chest to focus on her face. “I say, we haven’t danced yet, have we?”

“I don’t believe we have,” Sara said, with an encouraging smile—an expression Tarek was certain would never be turned upon him.

“Then we must.” The viscount held out his arm. “May I claim the next dance?”

“I’d be delighted,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm.

He immediately covered her hand with his own, and Tarek leaned forward, balanced on the balls of his feet. It would be so easy to flatten the man.

“Comte du Lac, would you be so kind as to take this?” She held her full cup out to him.

Temper flashed through Tarek, the blood of his Berber pirate ancestors burning hotly through his veins. For a moment he indulged the thought of smashing the cup to pieces, punching Lord Whitley in his leering face, and then throwing Sara over his shoulder and disappearing into the night.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes and took the cut-glass cup from her. It was not until she and Lord Whitley reached the ballroom windows that he let it slip from his fingers to shatter on the flagstones below.