Page 89 of Scandalous

“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.”