Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 6

Sara heard the crash of breaking glass behind her, and forced herself not to turn around. The back of her neck prickled with the intensity of the comte’s stare, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of looking. She knew exactly what had happened, and, judging from the smolder in Tarek’s eyes, Lord Whitley was lucky to have escaped without bodily injury.

The viscount, oblivious, led her onto the dance floor.

The next dance was a mazurka, and only a few moments into the music she discovered that Lord Whitley was an indifferent dancer, at best. Her traitorous heart was glad she wouldn’t have to endure a waltz with him.

Then, realizing her thoughts were ranging far too widely, she yanked them back. It didn’t matter if her husband was a highly accomplished dancer. Only that he was acceptable. Besides, anyone could improve. If dancing was that important to her, she was certain the viscount would do his best to develop his skills in that arena.

Though really, life consisted of so much more than dancing. It was a trivial concern.

“Do you like to ride, my lord?” she asked as they navigated around a nearby couple.

“Riding?” The viscount seemed to ponder her words, and they nearly collided with the other dancers.

Sara resolved to save further questions until after they left the dance floor.

“I suppose I like riding well enough,” Lord Whitley finally said. “When it’s not raining. I do enjoy playing cards, even more. Do you gamble, Lady Sara?”

“Heavens, no.” Seeing his disappointed look, she modified her answer. “That is, I have not previously gambled. Perhaps you can teach me at your house party.”

He brightened immediately. “There’s so much I’d like to teach you. We can play all sorts of games.”

“That sounds delightful,” she said, though a tendril of doubt wound through her. Surely the viscount was not suggesting anything improper? After all, he was a gentleman.

Not like some people she could name. One in particular, who stood against the wall, arms crossed, glaring as she and Lord Whitley spun about the dance floor.

Really, Tarek—the Comte du Lac—was behaving like a petulant child whose sweet had been snatched away.

The implication being that Sara was that sweet. The notion equally pleased and discomfited her. He had no claim on her, beyond the kindness she would owe any guest. Despite the fact he’d kissed her.

It meant nothing, of course. If they both pretended it had never happened, then all would be well.

The mazurka came to an end, and Lord Whitley had only stepped on Sara’s toes once. He kept his arm about her waist a moment, and squeezed her close.

“I look forward to hosting you at Whitley Manor,” he said, his breath hot upon her cheek. “I only wish my house party was commencing tomorrow.”

“I feel the same,” she said. Her interactions with Tarek would be understandably strained for the next two days, and it would be a relief to depart London.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the comte loomed over Lord Whitley’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but Lady Sara’s mother is asking for her.”

“A pity.” Lord Whitley let her go, with a wink. “Until we meet again, my dear.”

Tarek glowered at him.

“Enjoy the rest of your visit,” the viscount said, giving Tarek a cordial nod.

“I intend to,” Tarek replied, making it sound like a threat.

Really, the man was impossible.

Luckily, they’d spent enough time at the ball that they could now depart without appearing rude. Aunt Eugenie would certainly agree.

As soon as Lord Whitley moved away, Tarek took Sara’s arm and escorted her in the opposite direction.

“What does Mama want?” she asked as they stepped off the dance floor.

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t spoken with her.”

“But you said—”

“I couldn’t stand seeing that man pawing you a moment longer.” Tarek bared his teeth in a look far too fierce to be called a smile.

“We were dancing,” she said indignantly. “And it’s not your place to dictate who I can and cannot spend time with.”

“I understand that you’re going to his house party. But I certainly don’t understand why.”

To escape you, she almost said. But that would be too unkind.

“Aunt Eugenie and I were specifically invited and said yes, long before we knew Mama was coming for a visit. Or that she was bringing you.”

“You could always cry off,” Tarek said. “Even I grasp enough of your precious rules of conduct to know that family takes precedence over mere acquaintances.”

“There are other reasons to attend the house party,” Sara said.

She didn’t intend to explain herself further. Her hopes for the rest of her life were none of the Comte du Lac’s concern.

“Such as?”

“Look, there’s Aunt Eugenie.” She towed him toward the grouping of chairs where her aunt was seated, conversing with some acquaintances. “We need only find Mama, and we can take our leave.”

“We’re leaving?” He gave her a close look. “I thought you enjoyed dancing.”

“Our purpose here has been accomplished.”

And the sooner they left, the better, before any further situations developed. She did not trust Tarek, and could not say what would happen were he to have another run-in with Lord Whitley. For some reason, he seemed to have taken an intense disliking to the man.

Aunt Eugenie agreed they might depart the ball, and took her leave of her matronly companions. After some searching, Tarek discovered the Marchioness of Fulton in the card room and fetched her out, much to Sara’s embarrassment.

“Don’t scowl, love,” Mama said as they waited in Lord Severn’s foyer for the driver to bring round their coach. “I’ve a reputation to uphold, after all.”

“All of us do,” Aunt Eugenie said, giving her an arch look. “Some reputations are, of course, more pristine than others. But I’m happy to say we’ve escaped the ball unscathed. Wouldn’t you agree, Sara?”

Sara ignored Tarek’s glance, and summoned up a proper smile. “Yes. It was a perfectly unremarkable evening.”

As long as one did not count the kiss that had scorched her down to her toes. Even now she fought to push back the warm, sparkling heat that filled her at the thought.

Blast Tarek. He was entirely too improper.

He was still thinking of it, too, by the look in his eyes as he handed her into the carriage, and the way his hand lingered on her arm.

Two days.

In two days she would be gone to Hampshire. In the meantime, she would busy herself with shopping expeditions and social calls. Anything to keep her out of the comte’s path and away from the intensity of his golden eyes.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they said. She clung to that thought with all her strength, praying it would prove true.