Page 88 of Scandalous

Martín looked across the vast expanse of crystal, candelabra, and floral centerpieces to the table where Sarah sat with Exley on one side and some patrician fop on the other. He scowled at the sight and then sat back as the next course arrived.

Jellied trout.

God save him from English cuisine.

“Tell me, Captain Bouchard, is this your first visit to London?”

Martín turned to the attractive brunette on his left. It was no hardship; her exposed cleavage alone was worth the effort. She was married to a corpulent, older man who sat at the far end of the table. Her thigh was pressed against Martín’s.

“No, Madam Redman, I have been here several times before.”

“La, to think I have only just met you now.” Her hand settled high on his leg. This was not the first time Martín had been the target of an unsatisfied wife—nor even the tenth. If there was one thing he knew about marriage, it was that unhappy wives were as sexually predatory as their spouses.

“I understand you are great friends with Baron Ramsay?”

“I am pleased to claim his acquaintance.” Martín stifled a yawn and moved his leg.

For the fiftieth time, he cursed his decision to attend this wretched dinner. He’d known the ridiculous rules of precedence would mean he’d be as far from Sarah as possible, but Ramsay had threatened him.

“You are behaving like a fool,” the older man had accused, catching Martín at breakfast one morning and commencing to nag when he’d learned Martín had not yet responded to the dinner invitation.

“And you are behaving like a nagging old woman. What concern is it of yours where I go or when?” he’d demanded, not caring how ungracious he sounded.

“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.