Her family.
With that invigorating thought, she turned her steps toward the lily beds, and the white gazebo rising beyond.
“Aunt?” she called in a low voice when she reached the fragrant path bordering the lilies. “Are you here?”
There was no response. Drat it. Something had detained Aunt Eugenie, though punctuality was one of her hallmarks.
Sara turned to go back to the hedge, but Lord Whitley called out to her from the gazebo.
“Lady Sara, there you are! I’d almost given up hope.”
Her heart leaped guiltily, and she pivoted to face him. He stood framed in the opening, and though he was not tall and dark with tousled hair, he was a presentable enough gentleman.
“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
She really ought to go back and find Aunt Eugenie—but then her chance would slip away, and who knew if it would come again?
“Well, come in.” He gestured to her, then stood aside as she mounted the steps.
Soft light filtered through the trellis-enclosed walls, and dappled reflections spangled the ceiling. One side of the gazebo was taken up with a low couch piled with cushions. A rug patterned in rich oranges and blues covered the floor, and the near corner held a small marble replica of the Venus de Milo. The lush scent of lilies filled the air.
“How pleasant,” she said, turning in a circle. “Your own secret hideaway.”
“It is, indeed.” He stepped in front of her and untied the bow of her hat. “You won’t need this.”
“I suppose not.” She laughed to cover her nerves, then removed her hat and set it gently on the cushions.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I indulged more than enough at lunch.”
“A woman who’s not afraid to dispense with the preliminaries. I like that.” He took her by the shoulders. “Shall we begin with a kiss?”
“I… suppose.”
It wasn’t proper, but then again, she and Tarek had shared a kiss and he hadn’t even been on the verge of proposing. Surely it would do no harm to allow Lord Whitley this small leeway.
He pulled her against him and pressed his mouth to hers. Sara waited for the rush of light to sweep through her, but nothing happened, beyond a sense of discomfort. Belatedly, she raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. Perhaps she just needed a little time to become accustomed to Lord Whitley.
But instead of being filled with yearning, a vague disquiet swept over her. She pulled back, breaking the kiss.
“Delicious,” Lord Whitley said. “But perhaps you’d be more comfortable on the couch.”
“I suppose so.” It was unusual for a gentleman to propose while standing, at least from what she understood of the matter.
Carefully, she sat. Lord Whitley immediately settled beside her, so close his thigh pressed against hers.
“Oh, before I forget, I brought along a little something for you,” he said, patting at his pockets.
The ring. She leaned forward. What kind of precious stones would it feature? She was partial to emeralds, though diamonds and amethysts were equally agreeable.
“Here we are.” He pulled out a thin packet and laid it upon the cushions.
Sara eyed it dubiously. It did not seem to contain a ring.
“French letters,” the viscount said. “Always best to be prepared.”
“I… don’t know what those are,” she said, uncertainty beginning to swirl through her.
Rigidly, she tamped it down. Everything was going according to plan. And if it didn’t match her idea of a proper proposal, well, she’d never been betrothed before. Surely Lord Whitley knew what he was about.
“What a sheltered young lady.” He peered at her. “Are you certain you want to go on with this?”
“Of course I am.” He couldn’t back out now! She clutched at his hand. “I just… thought that perhaps you’d brought a ring.”
His eyebrows rose and he let out a chuckle. “Truly? Perhaps not as sheltered as I’d thought, then. We can procure one for next time, if you wish.”
Sara didn’t quite follow him, but nodded. Lord Whitley had an odd way of going about things, but eventually she was sure they’d come to understand one another without confusion. Every couple had a settling in period, after all.
“Now, let us try that kiss again,” he said.
Before she could protest, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down upon the couch, covering her mouth with his. It was worse than before, and her heart fluttered with incipient panic. She tried to push him off, but he was too heavy.
She could not speak, could scarcely breathe, but somehow she must stop him. She felt as though she were being smothered by an excruciatingly warm, fleshy blanket.
Then his hand rose to cover one of her breasts, and she let out a squeak of shock. This was completely unacceptable. She could not push him away, but she had to do something.
The statue, in the corner. Could she reach it?
She wriggled along the couch, which Lord Whitley seemed to take as further encouragement, as he redoubled the motion of his lips against hers.
Sara stretched out her arm, and her fingers met the cool, smooth torso of the replica Venus de Milo. It took another suffocating moment before she could wrap her hand about it, but as soon as she did, she brought it across Lord Whitley’s temple with a thunk.
Lord Whitley groaned and toppled off her, to lie motionless on the carpet.
“Oh no!” she cried.
Gasping for breath, she set the statue down and went to her knees beside him. Had she killed him?
“Sara!” someone called, and then a man leaped into the gazebo.
Not just any man, however, but Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac.
Her heart stuttered, then burst into flame.
Chapter 10
Tarek raced into the gazebo, his pulse thundering. From the path, he’d caught a glimpse of the viscount lying atop Sara, and red rage had engulfed him. Before he could reach her, however, she’d bashed Lord Whitley over the head.
He admired her greatly for that quick-witted use of a statue. It had the added benefit of keeping him from murdering the man outright.
Now she knelt before the downed viscount, her face pale. As Tarek burst in, she glanced up at him, her eyes wide. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she rose and was somehow in his arms.
“Tarek.” Her voice was muffled by his coat. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.” He held her close and breathed in the sweet smell of her hair as his fury subsided. “I should never have let you go.”
At least not without telling her how he felt. The past four days had been excruciating, as he’d come to realize the depth of his emotions. Despite everything, he had found the woman he wanted to share his life with.
Only to lie awake in the dark of night, fearing he’d lost her to that lout, Lord Whitley. He was very glad the man in question now lay prone on the carpet at their feet.
“I’ve killed Lord Whitley.” Her voice trembled. “Whatever am I going to do?”
Tarek glanced down. “He’s still breathing.” Unfortunately. “I expect at any moment he’ll come to.”
She sagged against him in relief, and Tarek tightened his embrace, glad beyond words to shelter her in his arms. But was she there only because she was afraid she’d killed the viscount? Would any acquaintance have done, for a bit of comfort?
He did not know, and his pulse beat faster with apprehension. He’d come to find her, ready to bare his heart and pray she would not trample it into the mud.
But he must take that risk.
Lord Whitley groaned, and Sara pulled out of Tarek’s embrace. With effort, he kept himself from snatching her back and whisking her away—beyond the gazebo, beyond London, beyond even the inflexible and clammy shores of England.