“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.”

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.