Then the Comte du Lac stepped through the door, and Aunt Eugenie froze. Her expression rather resembled a fish for a moment—bulging eyes and a pursed mouth—before she was able to gather herself and complete the greeting.
For her part, Sara was equally affected by his presence, though she hoped she did not appear quite as trout-like as her aunt. In person, the Comte du Lac radiated a contained energy that made it difficult to look away from him. With his even features, aquiline nose, and intense gold-colored eyes, she could see why Mama had taken up with the man. He was quite compelling.
As if aware of her stare, he glanced at her and winked.
Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly dropped her gaze to the vine-patterned carpet beneath their feet. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mama smiling.
“Welcome to England,” Aunt Eugenie said, sounding almost as though she meant it. “You must be the Comte du Lac.”
“I am.” His voice was deep and melodious, with the expected accent. Sara couldn’t decide if it were French or something more exotic. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“This is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Ashford,” Mama said. “And my daughter Lady Sy—” She checked herself. “Lady Sara.”
“A pleasure.” The comte stepped forward and took Sara’s hand, bowing over it.
The touch of his skin against hers sent a warm shiver through her.
How dreadful, to find herself so affected by the man! Not only was he Mama’s paramour, he was the type of fellow people would not be able to stop gossiping about. Thank heavens she would be leaving London next week. Guests or not, she must attend Lord Whitley’s house party.
Until that time, she would just have to pretend the Comte du Lac was no more attractive than a lump of coal.
“It’s good to be back in London,” Mama said. “I apologize for the short notice, and for bringing along an unexpected guest. You’ll find that Tarek is good company.” She slanted a smile at the comte.
Aunt Eugenie cleared her throat. “I’m certain it’s no trouble to have Lord du Lac here.”
The comte let out a laugh. “There is no need for such formality, surely? I’m not used to being addressed by such a name.”
Aunt Eugenie gave him her most frigid stare. “You are in England now, my lord. Here, we observe the proprieties.”
“I’m afraid you must become accustomed to your title.” Mama set her fingers lightly on his arm. “Lord du Lac has a certain ring to it, you must admit.”
“I suppose.” His lips twitched up into a wry smile. “Still, will you all indulge me within these walls, and call me Tarek? It will help me feel more comfortable.”
Aunt Eugenie let out a huff from her pinched nostrils. Sara did not know how to respond. It was ungentlemanly of him to ask for such an intimate form of address—but clearly he was unused to their customs. And he was their guest.
Sally bustled in with the tea trolley, breaking the awkward silence.
“Come, sit.” Aunt Eugenie gestured toward the chairs and sofa.
Sara took her usual wingback. Unfortunately, it placed her directly across from the comte, who settled next to Mama on the green-striped sofa.
“Sara, why don’t you pour out?” her aunt suggested.
It was partially to showcase her skills as a hostess, Sara knew, but also so that her aunt might interrogate Mama and the comte without needing to pause to discuss lumps of sugar and amounts of milk.
Of course, the only person Sara needed to converse with about such matters was the comte himself. She knew that Mama preferred her tea black with a tiny bit of sugar, while Aunt Eugenie liked copious amounts of milk and two sugar cubes per cup.
Sara served the ladies. Then, empty cup in one hand, silver teapot in the other, she looked at their guest.
“How do you take your tea, sir?” she asked.
From the twinkle in his eye, she feared he was going to give her some improper answer, but he paused a moment, perhaps thinking better of it.
“With lemon,” he answered.
It surprised her—firstly that he even knew it was an option, and secondly because that was how she preferred her tea. Heavens, she hoped he would not think she was mimicking him when she made up her own cup.
Aunt Eugenie noticed, however, and left off questioning Mama for a moment.
“I don’t understand some tastes,” her aunt said. “Sara enjoys her the same way, but I’ve always found lemon too tart to put into my cup. Now, Margaret, tell me more about your plans while you’re in London.”
Mama began a litany of shops and museums, and Sara poured a cup of tea for their guest, complete with a thin slice of lemon.
The comte took it with a nod of thanks, then leaned toward her.
“I’ve often wondered if the amount of sugar a person puts in their tea is inversely related to the sourness of their disposition,” he said in a low voice.
She could not help smiling, though she tried to suppress it. “I’ve had that very thought myself, from time to time.”
“Aha,” he said. “So you do know how to smile.”
She straightened, her amusement gone. “If that’s an attempt to flirt with me, I consider it in rather poor taste.”
“You English are so prim.” He shook his head. “Am I supposed to pretend that I’m not seated across from an attractive young woman?”
Base flattery. Sara did her best to ignore the feathery brush of pleasure his words gave her.
“That is correct. Given the circumstances.” She could not help glancing at Mama.
He stared at her a moment, and she saw comprehension flash in his eyes. Then he set his cup down and burst into laughter.
Aunt Eugenie pursed her lips. “Gracious me. What an outburst.”
“What is it?” Mama asked, turning to regard him.
“My apologies, ladies.” The comte’s smile was very white against his dark skin. “I believe there is a misunderstanding. Lady Sara, while I admire your mother tremendously, she is a friend and a patron to me. Nothing more.”
“Oh.” Sara stared at him a moment, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
He and Mama were not lovers after all? That changed everything—and not necessarily for the better.
Mama’s eyebrows lifted and she covered her smile with her fingers. “Oh, dear. While I’m flattered by your assumptions, let me reassure you that the comte and I are not involved in a—”
“Certainly not,” Aunt Eugenie said loudly. “He’s young enough to be your son. And you would never strain our reputation in such a manner, no matter what the gossips say.”
Sara did not fall back into her chair, precisely, but her shoulders were glad of the support of the wingback. Whatever was Mama thinking, bringing such a fellow as her guest? Was she trying to undo all Sara and Aunt Eugenie’s years of hard work?
She must know how unsuitable the Comte du Lac was. French and Tunisian, possessed of an improper sense of humor, far too handsome for anyone’s peace of mind; the gentleman was a walking scandal magnet.
The next few days were going to be a trial, indeed. Thank heavens for Lord Whitley and his house party. It was imperative that Sarah escape to Hampshire before the combination of Mama and the Comte du Lac tarnished her reputation beyond repair.
***
Mirth still bubbling through him, Tarek drank his tea and listened to Lady Fulton and Mrs. Ashford speak about London. Lady Sara studiously avoided his gaze, despite his efforts to catch her eye.
What an odd lot these English were. So tightly cinched up in their clothing and opinions, their notions of what was proper and improper.
But despite her decorous appearance, he was already beginning to suspect Lady Sara of hidden depths. There was something about her smile, the flash of humor in her leaf-colored eyes, that indicated an adventurous spirit. Rather like her mother.
It was as though the young woman named Syrine was there, hiding beneath Lady Sara’s layers of decorum and respectability. Would it be possible to coax her out further? He was greatly tempted to try.