“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.”
Sara felt her face heat. “I know, Aunt, and I am sorry. I truly don’t know what’s come over me.”
“Whatever it is, throw it off and put yourself forward, my dear. You need to make yourself agreeable to Lord Whitley. Didn’t you tell me he’d offered to teach you to gamble?”
“Is that appropriate? You’ve always warned me against it.”
Aunt Eugenie pressed her lips together. “I think the circumstances warrant drastic measures. Just be on your guard. Some people cannot stop gambling, once they’ve begun.”