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.

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.”