“Don’t be a child, Martín.” Ramsay had given him a good-natured smile in spite of his rudeness and plucked a piece of buttered bread from his plate. “It is a ball given in Sarah’s honor. You are one of the few people she knows in London. Her family honors you by inviting you to the dinner. Must you have these things explained to you?”
“Here, take the rest of my meal.” Martín shoved away the plate of food he’d been enjoying until Ramsay began lecturing him. “I am tired of making tepid dinner conversation. I am tired of being seated between daughters of impoverished peers or their bored wives. I am tired of being paraded as some sort of savage for the amusement of my betters.”
“Welcome to the polite world, Martín. You know I experienced the very same thing when I returned several years ago. You are being inducted into society, and these things are part of the price.”
Martín snorted. “I am only being ‘inducted’ because of your endless—” He stopped, unable to recall the English word he was searching for. He hit the table with his fist. “Merde! What do you call it?” he said in French. Getting angry always made his control of English slip. “Twisting of the arm!” he shouted, triumphant at having recalled the English phrase before Ramsay answered.
“I am only able to twist arms because of the dubious honor of being related to half the ton. I may have been born into this society, but I have never been part of it. I suspect Exley feels the same. But we have not left you alone, my friend, and you should not let Sarah feel alone. Go to the dinner and do the pretty—it will make her happy. And you like to see her happy, don’t you?”
“If you were truly her friend, you would not want her to come within spitting distance of a man with my past.”
“Are we going to have this tired argument again?” Ramsay didn’t wait for a response. “When do you plan to speak to her uncles? You said you intended to do so two weeks ago, and yet you have done nothing.”
“Will you never stop nagging? What is it to you when I speak to them? If I speak to them?”
“You are unbearable. And you will continue to be unbearable until you have confronted this like a man.”
Martín threw up his hands, both figuratively and literally. “I will talk to them after the ball. It was too hectic for her with all the preparations.”
“And you will go to the dinner?”
“I will go to the dinner. Now, will you go away?”
So, thanks to Ramsay’s meddling and his own gutlessness, here he sat, removed from his reason for attending the dinner by an entire table and being fondled by an amorous stranger.
“You’ve known Lord Ramsay long?” asked the woman beside him—he’d already forgotten her name.
“Yes, we have known each other for many years. I began our acquaintance as a lowly member of his crew on the Batavia’s Ghost.” Martín hoped a reference to his less-than-auspicious beginnings might cool the woman’s ardor.
“How fascinating!” Her heaving breasts put paid to his hopes. He could see the notion of sitting so near such an enterprising savage was driving her into rut, as if Martín might lose control of himself and bend her over the table and take her right now. He smiled at the amusing image and glanced away from her chest toward Sarah’s table.
She was looking right at him, a sweet smile on her face. For a moment it felt as if it were just the two of them in the huge room. And then the man next to her spoke and broke the spell.
Martín glared at the intrusive stranger. He could not recall meeting him, and he was sure he would have remembered. He was dressed like a Continental and possessed that certain something the English did not. He wasn’t large, but he looked tall and well-formed. Glossy black hair framed a fine-boned face that wore an expression of jaded, world-weariness. Something about him made Martín uneasy. As if sensing Martín’s concerns, the man looked directly at him and smiled, raising his glass in silent greeting.
“Do you know the marquis?” the brunette beside him asked, once again breaking into his thoughts.
“Who?” Martín asked rudely.
“The man who just raised his glass to you? He is the Marquis d’Armand, one of the many French refugees who’ve flooded the country since the Revolution. My husband says—”
Martín’s brain spun like a child’s top, tossing out random thoughts with dizzying speed. The Marquis d’Armand? Could it be another man with the same title? A distant relative of the old marquis? A not-so-distant relative?
Whoever he was, he was leaning intimately toward Sarah, a flirtatious smile on his thin lips. The handle of Martín’s fork cut into the side of his hand.
“Captain Bouchard?”
The words came from a long way away.
“Captain? Are you well?”
He looked into the curious eyes of the woman next to him. “What?”
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. You’ve certainly become as pale as one.”
His throat felt tight and thick, as if his stomach had migrated there. “What does your husband say, madam?”
She gave him an odd look, but seemed pleased to repeat herself. “He says most of them will have nothing to go back to after Napoleon granted their lands and houses to his supporters. I believe that is the case for the marquis. He has arrived only recently from America, where he is said to have some interest or other. Apparently his father lived there before the war.”
“Is that so, madam?” Martín wrenched his eyes away from the man laughing and talking to Sarah.
So, this was d’Armand’s heir? The son of the man Martín had killed.
* * *
Sarah bit back a groan. She’d been seated between the Marquess of Exley and her uncles’ acquaintance from France, the Marquis d’Armand. She knew neither man well, and both of them looked dark and dangerous.
Exley turned to face her. “What a position of honor I find myself in, Miss Fisher, seated beside the lady of the hour.” His lips twitched into what passed for a smile, and his beautiful eyes glinted like pale blue diamonds.
“Well, you are a marquess,” she began, and then flushed at her gauche words. To her surprise Exley chuckled.
“I’m pleased to learn my title is good for something other than a moth-eaten robe and an uncomfortable chair.” His ironic words were accompanied by a devastating smile that held surprising warmth.
“You are teasing me, my lord, and I deserve it. Thank you so much for coming to my birthday dinner.”
“It is a pleasure, Miss Fisher. I’m going to take further advantage of my august title and claim a set. I am accounted something of an expert at Scottish reels.”
“I look forward to learning the finer points, my lord.”
She turned to the man on her other side. He was waiting for her.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, it is a great pleasure to finally meet you. Your uncles have told me much about you.” Something about the Frenchman’s thin, smiling lips and knowing, dark eyes made Sarah’s stomach clench.
“You are too kind, my lord. I understand you have only just arrived in London from America. Will you be staying long?”
“I am hoping there will be a reason to extend my stay.” His heavy lids dropped suggestively.
Goodness! What had her uncles told the man to make him so eager? It certainly couldn’t be her looks that had drawn such ardor. She was easily the most average-looking woman at the two tables. He must have somehow learned of the amount they’d settled on her yesterday, her actual birthday. No doubt she would soon acquire an entire throng of admirers. All except the one she wanted.
She glanced toward the other table. Martín was looking right at her. She smiled at him before recalling the baron’s advice to ignore and abuse him. He smiled back.
“You know Captain Bouchard?” d’Armand asked, pulling her attention away from the only man in the room she wanted to talk to.
“It was his ship that brought me back from Africa.”
“I understand he is an escaped slave.” D’Armand’s dark eyes were
intense.
“I know little about his past, my lord. What I do know is that he rescued me and hundreds of others from a disastrous situation. To us, he was a miracle.” Sarah turned away, wishing to let d’Armand know in no uncertain terms that the subject of Martín Bouchard’s past was not one she would discuss with him.
* * *
The meal was extremely tiresome. Not only did he have to answer the incessant, flirtatious questions of the woman next to him, but he also had to fend off her questing hands beneath the table.
Martín couldn’t even approach Sarah after dinner as her uncles spirited her away to the area where she would greet her guests. The best he could do was position himself against the French doors so he could watch her in the receiving line.
“Captain Bouchard.”
Martín turned. “Ah, Captain Graaf.” He made no effort to keep the irony from his voice.
The Dutchman sighed. “Can you not call me Mies? Or if you can’t stomach such familiarity, at least call me Graaf. We both know I am not worthy of the title of captain.” The skin beneath the younger man’s eyes was shadowed, as if he’d not been sleeping well.
Martín took in the man’s slumped shoulders and lined face and frowned. He’d already taken the man’s ship and held him captive. What further sport could there be in humiliating such a weak, pitiful figure?
“Very well, Graaf,” he said, unwilling to use his Christian name. He might feel pity, but he still despised the man and had no desire to become fast friends.
“Miss Fisher has added a new admirer to the growing list.” Graaf jutted his chin toward d’Armand, who was also in a position to watch the receiving line.
Martín’s chest tightened; just what the devil was the man about? “Do you know him?” he asked.
“I know of him. His mother was from Liège, a Belgian Lowland province famous for its wine. At least it was before Napoleon took it in 1795 and then burned their vineyards so they would not compete with French wine.” Graaf shrugged. “Anyhow, he spent several years in England after escaping the guillotine. Apparently his father was something of an embarrassment to the family and was banished to the Americas before the Revolution. D’Armand has only just recently returned from the United States. He has petitioned Louis for the return of his family lands. Who knows? Maybe he will end up back in his home. In either case, he will need money. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a rich bride to augment his family coffers.” Graaf eyed the Frenchman with an expression of distaste.
“A rich bride?” Martín repeated.
Graaf gave him a look of surprise. “Haven’t you heard Sarah’s uncles settled an enormous amount on her for her birthday?”
“No, I had not heard that.” And he did not like it. Especially when he considered how it would encourage every fortune hunter in London.
Martín did not want the Dutchman to see how much the news disturbed him. “And you, Graaf, when are you going home?”
“Oh, soon, I suppose.” He cut Martín a bitter look. “You might as well set your mind at rest that you will not be receiving any remuneration. My family, I’m ashamed to say, has not a feather to fly with after this bloody war.”
Martín lifted one shoulder. “I am a man of the world. I was never under any misapprehension.”
“My father will actually have to pay to retrieve the ship. I’m sure you can imagine how eager I am to reunite with my family.”
“Actually, I cannot.”
Graaf opened his mouth, and then shut it, his face a fiery shade of red.
“But I know what you mean,” Martín said. It would be churlish to use his unfortunate childhood as a weapon, especially when he had so many other sources of ammunition to use on the weak and useless Dutchman. “You can console yourself with the knowledge that you survived a deadly illness, a mutiny, and failed to sell several hundred human beings into lives of slavery. Not to mention saving Mademoiselle Fisher from an unfortunate fate.”
The Dutchman’s flush deepened. “You are correct on the first three counts. On the fourth, it was you, and not me, who saved Sarah. Actually”—he smiled wryly—“it was Sarah who saved Sarah, and held both of us at gunpoint in the process.”
“You have the right of it, Graaf. Whomever she marries will be wise to keep the key to his gun cabinet well hidden.”
Both men laughed.
* * *
Sarah glanced around the room, searching for the person who took up more and more space in her brain. There he was, talking to Mies of all people. What in the world could the two men be discussing without having their hands around each other’s necks? Suddenly, they both looked in her direction and laughed.
Sarah whipped her head around and focused her attention on the two women who were next in the receiving line, smiling at some comment they made. Her face hurt from all the polite smiling. In all truth, the evening—the preparations, the hundreds of strangers, the ball—was more taxing than she would have believed possible.
She offered her hand to three more young women she didn’t know and uttered some inane pleasantry.
Her eyes drifted back to Martín. Even from across the ballroom he radiated an irresistible magnetism. He was attired like every other man in the room, but his sun-kissed skin made him glow. He looked positively . . . edible. She flushed at the inappropriate thought and greeted the next person in line, a spotty young buck sporting an unfortunate yellow and blue waistcoat.
Dinner had been both strained and far too long. The Marquess of Exley spoke very little, and, when he did, the meaning behind his words was often obscure.
The Marquis d’Armand, on the other hand, was an engaging dinner partner as well as being both elegant and handsome. So elegant, in fact, that his sophisticated manner made Sarah want to run from the room. So, too, did the frequent and heated glances she intercepted from Martín—who’d been seated as far as he could be from her.
Sarah wanted to kick herself for not requesting that Aunt Anna seat him beside her in spite of her ridiculous notions of precedence. It was Sarah’s party. Shouldn’t she have some say in where her guests sat?
She pulled her eyes away from the object of her obsession and turned back to the endless line.
* * *
Martín returned his giggling dance partner to her clique of gigglers and made his way back to where Ramsay and Exley stood.
Ramsay grinned at him. “There, that wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, was it?” He was referring to the dance Martín had just completed with the mindless little idiot Ramsay had foisted upon him.
“I see you are denying yourself the same pleasure, my lord.”
Ramsay chuckled, and even Exley smiled.
“That goes for both of you,” Martín added before turning to search for Sarah in the crowd. She was dancing with Danforth. Well, at least she wasn’t dancing with d’Armand.
“Fortunately for me, no mother would allow me within a league of her daughter,” Exley said, surveying the ballroom as if it represented the manifestation of his worst nightmare.
Martín snorted. “I no longer believe you, Exley. They are all too willing to thrust their daughters into the arms of a man of dubious background and questionable reputation.”
“Cultivate a reputation as a murderer,” Exley suggested, giving Martín his habitual icy stare.
Before Martín could formulate an appropriate response, Lady Ramsay and Lady Exley returned.
“Adam, have you not danced with anyone? Why must you and Hugh behave like such dolts?”
“Which of your questions should I answer first, my dear?” Exley asked. He met his wife’s glare and sighed. “Will you do me the honor, Lady Ramsay?”
The baroness laid her hand on his arm, and the attractive pair went to take their places on the dance floor.
“Would you care to dance, Mia?” Ramsay asked.
Lady Exley looked up over a foot and a half to meet the baron’s single green eye. “Good Lord, Hugh, what a stupid-looking couple we would make. Besides
, I’m exhausted after only three dances. I expect it is due to my condition.”
“Condition?” Martín repeated, and then closed his eyes at his own stupidity. “Er, please accept my congratulations, my lady.”
“I believe I have embarrassed you, Captain Bouchard.” The marchioness grabbed his arm and stood on tiptoe to peer into his face. “Is that lovely face of yours blushing?”
His ears grew even warmer.
Ramsay’s laugh was audible even over the orchestra. “Good gad, you’re a menace, Mia. Exley must be made of stone.”
“Parts of him are.”
Martín shook his head at their raucous laughter; the two never stopped talking.
He tapped his foot and looked at his watch. He would dance with Sarah and then leave directly afterward. He needed to get away and consider the problem of d’Armand. He would have gone already but for the promised dance. As it was, he had to endure another quarter of an hour of Ramsay’s teasing before the time came.
“Are you enjoying your birthday, mademoiselle?” Martín asked after they’d danced a quarter of the floor, his words abrupt to his own ears.
Sarah was light in his arms, her dancing much more smooth than it had been the first—and only—time they had waltzed.
“Everyone has been very good to me.” Her smile was shy and un-Sarah-like. “I wanted to thank you for the lovely gift. I began reading it immediately.”
Martín’s gift was a book by a female writer named Jane Austen. It was the first book he’d ever purchased. It was also the first inscription he’d ever written.
“I am pleased you like it.”
“It was very thoughtful.”
“Bah! A book.” He dismissed her thanks, embarrassed. “I’m sure you received much more interesting gifts. I’ll swear that is a new necklace you are wearing. It becomes you.” She wore a double strand of pearls around her long, graceful neck.
“Yes, it is from my uncles. It is lovely, but I do not love it as much as their other gift.”
“What? Two gifts? You are being spoiled, I think. Tell me about this other gift.”
“I am being terribly spoiled. My uncles gave me a horse of my very own.”
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