Scandal's Daughters

by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson

  “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.

  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 r
esolved 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.

  Chapter 7

  Over the next two days, Tarek’s mood went from gray to deepest black.

  Sara was clearly avoiding him, the weather had settled into a murky drizzle, and to top matters off, Queen Victoria’s advisors had just turned him away from meeting with the queen. Tarek slogged back to Fulton House, the most miserable he’d been in years.

  “My goodness,” the marchioness said when he came in. “You look half-drowned. Give Mr. Carlisle your things, and then come into the parlor and we’ll have some tea. On second thought, perhaps something stronger. Cognac?”

  “Cognac would be most welcome.” He shed his sodden greatcoat and hat and handed them to the butler. “Where are Lady Sara and her aunt?”

  “Off running some final errands before their departure this afternoon. A pity they insist upon leaving—it’s most inhospitable of them. Now, sit and tell me about your meeting.”

  “May I take off my boots?” He grimaced down at his footwear. “I went through a few puddles on the way back to Mayfair.”

  Lady Fulton raised an eyebrow. “You are determined to be wretched, I see. You could have taken a cab.”

  He shrugged and followed her into the parlor. “I needed the walk. The queen’s cabinet told me she’s currently indisposed and not meeting with foreign dignitaries for at least three weeks.”

  He stood, his feet uncomfortably damp, and waited for Lady Fulton to fetch two glasses of cognac from the sideboard. Despite Sara’s opinion of him, he was too much a gentleman to take a seat before his hostess had done so.

  Lady Fulton handed him a glass, then settled in one of the two chairs positioned before the fire. “Sit down and dry out your feet, Tarek. So, they turned you away and told you to come back in a few weeks. That is curious.”

  “My behavior hasn’t been out of bounds—at least I don’t think so. Have I unknowingly crossed some social line?”

  “No. You’ve been remarkably well behaved. For the most part. And you’ve certainly done nothing to make the queen reluctant to see you.” She tapped her lips with one finger. “I wonder… Did they seem a bit uncomfortable when they told you the queen was not currently in the best of health?”

  “Now that you mention it, there was a bit of hemming and hawing, yes.”

  “Ah.” She smiled a
nd 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.