Page 60 of Scandalous

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You are cruel to tease me, my lord. I have already coped with the two of them for weeks on end. I’m lucky to be sane.”

The baron’s booming laugh filled the room. “Yes, I could see how it was this afternoon. Martín is like a bear with a sore head. He wasn’t even interested in looking at my new horses before he stormed back to the Scythe. Whatever have you done to him?”

Sarah didn’t have to answer the baron’s question as the man himself entered just then.

“Good God, Martín, how fine you’ve become.” The baron eyed the other man through his quizzing glass.

Ramsay was not exaggerating. Even Sarah could see Bouchard’s clothing was cut far more fashionably than their host’s.

The points of his collar brushed his jaw, and the white of his linen contrasted starkly with his dark skin. His waistcoat was a shade of antique gold that matched his eyes too closely to be an accident. His black coat was as snug as a second skin, and he wore black pantaloons rather than the more traditional breeches. The thin fabric stretched over his sculpted hips and thighs in a manner that caused her to blush and look away.

“You look lovely, Mademoiselle Fisher,” Martín murmured, coming to stand before her.

“Yes, doesn’t she?” The baron was watching his friend with open fascination. Sarah realized Lord Ramsay’s mischievous sense of humor was even more dangerous than his reputation as a privateer.

Martín ignored his host, his face expressionless as his eyes swept her, lingering speculatively on the jewels. Did he think they were from Mies? Sarah hoped so. He bowed over her hand, and she felt the heat of his breath through her glove. For a moment she thought her knees might buckle.

But then she reminded herself that he was only interested in her to the extent that he believed Mies wanted her. His predatory nature made such a competition impossible to resist. He did not want her, but he did not want Mies to have her either.

She was seized by an overwhelming desire to kick him.

She was saved from making a fool of herself and hurting her foot by Lady Ramsay’s entrance, on Mies’s arm. The baroness was truly flawless, her simple gown the same shade of blue as her eyes, her only ornament a diamond pendant. Sarah was shocked by the wave of envy that swept her. Was this how she would be from now on? Dreading the fact that just about every woman she encountered would be more attractive than she was?

Sarah could not bear to look at Martín’s face and see his reaction to Daphne.

Instead she turned to Mies. He looked reassuringly the same, and Sarah realized the clothing he wore, the same outfit he’d worn in Tenerife, was probably the only evening attire he’d brought with him from home. In his dark gray jacket and breeches he could not compete with the elegance of the other two men, but the waistcoat he wore was one she had not seen before, sky-blue embroidered with tiny silver birds. His flaxen hair was still damp, the loose curls falling over his collar. His eyes were openly admiring as they took in her hair and dress.

Sarah looked away from his warm gaze, not wishing to encourage him, the fact that he’d been willing to engage in slavery never far from her mind. She frowned, realizing that Christian forgiveness—along with purity and chastity—seemed determined to elude her.

The dining room at the hall was an ancient room with a flagstone floor that appeared to have been here since the dawn of time. The table and chairs had all been constructed on a massive scale, as if they’d been built during an age when people were far larger. A footman waited behind each chair to move the weighty-looking pieces of furniture.

Three massive chandeliers hung from heavy chains, each holding dozens of candles that cast long shadows across the almost Teutonic room. The table glittered with more crystal, silver, and dishes than she’d ever seen in one place. Sarah tried not to gape like a bumpkin at the service, the food, and the innumerable footmen who swarmed around the five diners. There was a place set for a sixth, but neither Lord nor Lady Ramsay seemed inclined to wait for the absent party.

Sarah was kept busy with the array of cutlery and new dishes and watched Mies for cues on which to use before attacking each dish. She looked up at one point and saw Martín’s eyes on her, his amusement at her nervousness apparent. Sarah narrowed her eyes at him and turned back to their host, who was discussing the plans for their journey.

“I hope leaving three days hence will inconvenience nobody?” The baron glanced around and, upon meeting no demur, he continued. “Miss Fisher, my wife tells me the only information you have about your father is that he belonged to a Dutch merchant family in London?”

Mies jolted, his cutlery clattering against his plate. “Why have you not told me before that your father was Dutch?”

Why hadn’t she told him? They had, after all, talked about their families and childhoods many times in the months they were at sea. “I suppose I didn’t think it mattered. I know nothing of his family, and they disowned my father when he decided to marry my mother.”

Mies continued to look wounded, and Sarah darted a look at Martín and then wished she hadn’t. He was staring at them both with an expression of sardonic superiority that made her feel violent.

The baron’s single eye darted among the three of them as if he were enjoying a particularly amusing play and didn’t want to miss anything.

“In any event,” the baroness said, apparently unaware of the currents swirling around the table, “Hugh will look into the matter when we arrive in London.”

The rest of the conversation followed more conventional lines. It seemed Napoleon’s treatment on Saint Helena was the most talked about subject at the moment. Articles in the London Times claimed the exiled French leader was receiving harsh treatment at the hands of his British captors. The doings of Napoleon and the long war in Europe had always seemed very far removed from Sarah’s life in N’goe.

Mies leaned close to her. “I wish you’d told me you were Dutch.”

“I’m not Dutch, Mies. My father was. I’m not English, and I’m not African, either. I don’t know what I am.”

“You have been here less than a day. You will feel more at home after a while. Much more at home than you ever did in your African village.”

Sarah frowned. What right did he have to think he knew her so well—or where she belonged? She glanced at the other three and saw they were still engaged in animated conversation. Martín was laughing and arguing with Lord Ramsay. His face bore an expression of openness she’d never seen before, even during their best tutoring sessions. As if feeling her eyes upon him, he turned. His smile chilled, and all the warmth drained from his face. Sarah turned away, her eyes welling. What had she ever done to him that he should look at her with such coldness and hostility?

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