Page 90 of Scandalous

“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.