“Ah.” She smiled and took a sip of cognac. “The timing would be right, considering that the youngest princess is now over a year old.”

“What timing?” He bent and stripped off his boots, then gratefully stretched his damp, sock-covered toes toward the coals burning on the hearth.

A half-smile curved Lady Fulton’s mouth. “I believe Queen Victoria may be suffering from the sickness many women are prone to during the early stages of pregnancy. If that’s the case, she will certainly be paring her appointments down to the bare minimum during this time.”

He sat back and took a sweet, burning swallow of his cognac. “That’s a relief, if it’s true.”

“I imagine it is. They did not single you out in particular, but said all foreign dignitaries, correct?”

He nodded, the tightness constricting his lungs easing a bit. Perhaps his time here would not be an utter failure, after all. If he hadn’t offended the queen, then he still had a good chance at gaining her tacit support for the independent government of Tunisia.

“What am I to do in the meantime?” he asked. “Sara and Mrs. Fulton won’t be here to lend their formidable respectability to Fulton House, and it’s probably unwise for you and I to rattle about here, alone together.”

“Let me think on it. This is an interesting development.” She took another sip of her drink, a calculating look in her eyes.

A commotion in the entryway signaled the arrival of Sara and her aunt. Tarek hastily pulled his boots back on, grimacing as the clammy leather embraced his feet. Sitting about the parlor in his sock feet would certainly be frowned upon. Despite everything, he didn’t want to give Sara any more reasons to think poorly of him.

Though she had already made her opinion of him quite clear. He took another drink of cognac, trying to blunt the edges of that thought.

It shouldn’t matter that she despised him. And it shouldn’t matter that she was blithely leaving London that afternoon to spend a fortnight in the odious Lord Whitley’s company.

She and her aunt paused in the parlor doorway.

“Good morning, Mama,” Sara said. “Lord du Lac.”

Her gaze skimmed over him, and Tarek clenched his jaw.

“Cognac, at this hour?” Mrs. Ashford said. “How irregular.”

“It’s after eleven o’clock.” The marchioness raised her glass in salute. “Would you care to join us?”

Mrs. Ashford’s expression grew even more pinched. “No, thank you. Sara and I must prepare for our departure. The coach is leaving promptly at one. Heavens, I hate to think what mischief the two of you will get up to while we’re gone.”

“Utter calamity,” Lady Fulton said. “I can’t imagine the house will still be standing upon your return.”

Mrs. Fulton sniffed loudly, then turned to Sara. “Come, my dear. We must ensure the packing is going smoothly, and that the kitchen has put together a suitable picnic lunch for our travels.”

Sara shot her mother an exasperated look. “Do be good, Mama. And keep the comte out of trouble.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” the marchioness said. Sara’s eyes widened, and her mother laughed. “Oh, don’t fret. I’m considering taking Tarek out of London altogether, to go visit some friends of mine.”

“You still have acquaintances in the country?” Mrs. Ashford asked, her tone disbelieving. “After all these years?”

“I do.” There was a note of mischief in Lady Fulton’s voice. “Now, run along. I wouldn’t want to delay your trip. We’ll meet you here to say our farewells at one o’clock.”

Tarek hoped it was not his imagination that Sara looked a bit downcast at the thought. For his part, he hated the idea of saying goodbye to her forever. But what other choice did he have? She’d made it clear she wanted as little to do with him as possible.

Even though he burned for her, that fire would eventually die down. It must.

***

As the grandfather clock on the landing struck the hour, Sara finished pinning on her dark blue hat—the one with a jaunty feather. If she was not feeling particularly cheerful, she could at least put up a good front.

It’s only because I’m saying goodbye to Mama. There was no other reason for her melancholy frame of mind. She was well shut of Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac, and about to embark upon a most desirable future.

“I think we have everything,” her maid said.

“Everything, and more.” The footmen had already taken down two trunks, half a dozen hatboxes, and assorted smaller luggage.

It was imperative that Sara look her best for the next two weeks, of course. Lord Whitley must be dazzled by her.

“I’ll see you in the coach,” Sara said.

“Very good, milady.” Her maid curtseyed and then hurried off to fetch her own last-minute items.

Sara turned away from the mirror and surveyed her room one last time. When she next returned, her life would be entirely changed. For the better. Of course.

Trying to muster up her excitement, she stepped into the hallway. When she was halfway down the stairs, she could hear Mama and Aunt Eugenie’s voices drifting from the parlor.

“Do keep a close watch on my daughter,” Mama was saying. “Especially around that Lord Whitley.”

“Margaret, that is the entire point of the visit. I didn’t think you were so obtuse.”

“I’m not. I just don’t believe that Syrine—” Mama lowered her voice, and Sara was unable to hear what, precisely, her mother’s opinion of her was.

“Lady Sara,” Tarek said from behind her.

She spun about, nearly losing her balance. He leaped forward and caught her around the waist, steadying her against him.

“Careful,” he said, his eyes staring into hers. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She forgot to breathe, lost in the golden fire of his gaze. Their bodies pressed warmly together and they stood there for a moment, frozen, the air filled only with the ticking of the clock. The answering beat of their two hearts. His eyes moved to her mouth, and she could feel the memory of their kiss vibrating in the air between them.

Something inside her yearned toward him. One more kiss, it whispered. Just to say goodbye.

With a gasp, she recalled herself, and pulled away.

“I’d advise you not to go about startling people on the stairway,” she said. “You might cause an injury.”

“My apologies,” he said, his expression hardening. “Allow me to escort you to the bottom of the stairs.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Twining her arm through Tarek’s would only further upset her balance. She gripped the railing tightly and began to descend once more.

He walked silently behind her, but she was aware of his presence, a golden-eyed tiger stalking down the stairs in her wake. When they gained the safety of the floor she hurried forward, finally letting out her breath as she stepped into the parlor.

“You’re late,” Aunt Eugenie said, consulting her pocket watch. “The coach is waiting.”

“Of course.” Sara looked at Mama and tears pricked her eyes, despite her resolution to stay unmoved.

“My darling girl.” The marchioness stepped forward and enfolded her in a hug. “I will miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” Every time.

The scent of Mama’s sandalwood perfume filled her nose, and she tried to swallow back her sorrow. Ladies did not cry when they said their goodbyes.

“Enjoy your house party,” Mama said, letting her go. “And, dear Sara, promise me one thing.”

“What is that?” Sara fished her kerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

At least she’d known to come prepared. No matter how many times she said goodbye to Mama, it never grew easier.

The marchioness gave her serious look. “Whatever happens, I want you to trust yourself and follow your heart. Will you do that?”

She suspected that Mama was referring to Lord Whitley and Sara’s hopes for the future—which were what her heart had always desired.

“Yes, Mama,” she said. “I will. I promise.”

“Good girl.” Mama kissed her on both cheeks, then drew in a wavering breath. “Then I shall see you next time, Syrine.”

Sara let the name slip.

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Eugenie said. “Goodbye, Margaret. Do visit again soon.” She turned to the comte. “Lord du Lac. I’m pleased your time here has proved to be unremarkable. Pray, continue on in that vein.”

“I’ll do my best.” Tarek made her low bow. “I’m entirely grateful for the hospitality you’ve shown me, Mrs. Ashford.”

“As you should be.” Aunt Eugenie gave a satisfied nod, then held her hand out to Sara. “Come along, my dear.”

Sara squared her shoulders and looked at the comte. “Tar—Lord du Lac, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. Good luck in your further endeavors.”

“Thank you. I will always remember you, Lady Sara.” He caught her hand and bowed over it.

The brush of his lips over the back of her hand sent another jolt of despair through her.

“Goodbye.” She pulled her hand from his, but could not avoid the burning look in his eyes.

Before she did anything foolish, she marched out of the parlor, and did not speak until she and Aunt Eugenie were safely ensconced in the coach.

Mama and Tarek stood on the stoop and waved, which made Aunt Eugenie sniff in displeasure.

“Such a display,” she said as the coach pulled away. “Whatever will the neighbors think?”

“That Mama is sad to see us go,” Sara replied. She could not speak for the comte, of course, but he did not seem very happy, either.

If only…

She slammed the door on that traitorous thought. If only, what? There were no circumstances in which Tarek Zafir Remy was suitable marriage material. And even if—by some enormous stretch of the imagination—he was, she could not give up her life in London or her respectable place in Society to hare about the Mediterranean with a fellow who had no notion of the proprieties whatsoever.

“Well done, my dear,” Aunt Eugenie said, as if she could read Sara’s thoughts. “You performed your duties as a hostess very nicely, and I’d say you’ve earned your reward. Just think—in a few short hours we’ll be at Lord Whitley’s.”

With a satisfied smile, her aunt sat back.

Sara’s maid, seated beside her, nodded. She was well aware of their plan. “Don’t worry, milady. We’ll make sure Lord Whitley has eyes for no one but you. I’m certain you’ll be the prettiest lady at the house party.”

Sara hoped so. Tarek seemed to find her lovely enough.

Oh, but she must stop thinking about him. She was departing London, and there was no need for her to fret over the Comte du Lac a moment longer.

As the coach left Mayfair, she banished the memory of Tarek’s intense amber eyes, deliberately buried the feel of his warm lips against hers. His life was his own, as was hers, and they would not cross paths again.

Now, she must turn her entire attention to capturing Lord Whitley’s interest—and, even more importantly, his proposal of marriage.

Chapter 8

By the third day of the house party, Sara was not entirely certain her plan was going to succeed. She was not, as it transpired, the most lovely lady there, and it seemed Lord Whitley was more interested in spending time with the beautiful, widowed Lady Blackwell than with Lady Sara Ashford.

“What can I do?” Sara asked her aunt as, once again, their host invited Lady Blackwell to be his companion for the day.

That afternoon, the guests were invited to a picnic tea and stroll about the gardens. In order to remain available for Lord Whitley, Sara had politely declined other offers of escort, and now she and Aunt Eugenie sat alone at a small table shaded by an oak tree, watching as the rest of the party meandered past the colorful flowerbeds and manicured hedges.

It was a very romantic setting, and she could not help imagining Tarek there, teasing her as they viewed the flowers and strolled beside the lily pond.

Drat the man! Ever since they’d arrived at the house party, she could not stop thinking about him.

“A pity Lord Morgan fell ill and could not attend,” Aunt Eugenie said. “An unbalanced ratio of ladies to gentlemen is awkward on any occasion. As to what you can do? Stop mooning over that unacceptable fellow we left in London!”

“I haven’t the slightest—”

“Nonsense. I saw how you looked at him. And while the Comte du Lac is quite handsome, he is completely unsuitable in every other way. Sara, you must put him out of your mind.”

Oh, how she’d tried. But every hour since they’d left London her distraction grew worse. She could close her eyes and see Tarek’s face perfectly, recall the exact pressure of his arms about her as they danced. As they kissed—

“Stop.” Aunt Eugenie’s tone was stern. “You must let go of whatever romantic fancies you have concerning the comte, and focus on the task at hand. I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this.”