And the more she refused to give in to people’s expectations of her, the easier it was. Until no one looked upon her with pity, or concern, or worry, ever again.
Except of course … for Jackson Fletcher.
It was difficult to pinpoint what, in the past week, had set Sarah’s back up so much when it came to Jack. It wasn’t when he scolded her over breakfast. No, it had begun before. From the moment of their first meeting, in the foyer, just beyond those same library doors.
She had been as cordial as one could expect to be, when surprised by an old friend. Indeed, when he first arrived, and she saw Amanda wrapped around him—practically in the way she had as a child, embracing his leg and sitting on his foot as he walked—and her mother’s shocked and happy expression, as well as Bridget’s … well, Sarah could not help but feel the warmth he brought with him.
It was also something of a shock to see him so tall, and … masculine. His hair streaked blond, a smattering of beard along his jaw. Whenever they had received a letter from Jack, all the Forresters gathered around Lady Forrester and listened raptly as she reported his adventures—but in Sarah’s mind’s eye, he was always as she last saw him: sixteen, thin, and just
becoming handsome in his ill-fitting uniform. In her mind, he was still a boy.
Then, in the foyer, surrounded by her family, he’d looked at her.
At first she thought he found something offensive in her costume. But he couldn’t—it was her Madame LeTrois lemon walking costume with a gold thread pattern at the cuffs and hem, after all. And then she thought, briefly, that he didn’t recognize her—it had been nine years since he had laid eyes on her—and nine formative years, at that. Formative for him, too, she could easily note, as he filled out his lieutenant’s uniform now, with no small amount of dash.
But the look in his eyes was admonishing. Judging. It was the same look he gave her over breakfast the next morning.
It was … expectation.
And if there was one thing she had learned from Phillippa, it was to defy expectations.
From that moment on, there had been a frostiness between them that had never been present in their youthful endeavors of playing pirates and sneaking the paper to read stories of the Blue Raven.
But no, she told herself, stopping her brows from coming down before anyone would see the dark thoughts crossing her face, she would not let the burr that had been living in her side (and her house) for nearly a week take away from the fact that the evening was going so very, very well.
But then again, everything always went very well these days. But no, it was going particularly well, not only because they were practically holding court at one of the foremost events of the Season—the Whitford banquet was after all a massive feast where the decorations were decidedly patriotic and the food entirely exotic, and absolutely nobody who was anybody would miss it—but because of whom they were holding court with.
Sarah felt a strong warm hand fall gently on her left arm. She turned, smiling, her eyes being met by the dark depths of the Comte de Le Bon. She gave him that smile that Phillippa told her to reserve only for those men who had her whole attention.
“I do believe, Mademoiselle, that your eyes are greener today than yesterday.”
“Are they?” she returned coyly, making certain that her greener-than-yesterday eyes did not waver from his dark-as-pitch ones.
“Perhaps they are envious,” the Comte mused.
“Envious? Why?” Sarah asked, her brow coming down in a scowl.
“Envious of the fact that yesterday, your eyes were seen in daylight, sparkling in the sun. Now their beauty is shrouded in mere candlelight. They darken, you see, with their jealousy.”
Oh yes, the Comte had her attention.
She liked to think she was getting used to it when some poor young lad fresh out of school composed a sonnet to her green eyes. That she was becoming jaded by the attention, as it were. But truth be told, she was still so very new to this kind of flattery that when it was done well—and with the Comte’s deep voice and interesting accent, it was done superbly—she could not help but be affected.
Especially with that accent.
When Sarah had described the Comte as “interesting” to Bridget, she was not being playful. He really was the most interesting man in the room, not simply because of his heroic travels in Burma, but because he was the only one here who wasn’t a stuffy, proper Englishman.
The Comte de Le Bon
was
fashion, as much as she was. From the tips of his well-shod toes to his burgundy hair and white smile against his tan, the ton was enraptured. It certainly didn’t hurt that while in Bombay he struck up a friendship with the Duke of Parford, who had graciously let the Comte and his sister stay at his empty town house on Grosvenor Square—the most fashionable address in the most fashionable area of the city.
His sister—or Sarah should have said stepsister—was English, and a few years older than Sarah, but since Miss Georgina Thompson had spent most of her life in India, her lack of a Season up until now was excusable.
What was not as excusable was her cripplingly shy nature. The poor girl was never going to get anywhere if she blended into a wall.
But while Miss Georgina clung to the side of her hired chaperone—Mrs. Hill, a staunchly proper English gentlewoman
of limited means—her stepbrother lit up the room with his stories. His beautiful voice and accent. His willingness to jump into any fun, and pull Sarah along with him. And fun was interesting. Fun … helped her forget.
Therefore, no man in England, even if he could trace his family name back a thousand years, could claim to be as interesting as the Comte de Le Bon.
And no woman a match for his status in society like the Golden Lady.
It was when she was falling, falling deeply into that hypnotic voice, possibly never to climb out again, that a remarkably sharp elbow hit her discreetly in the ribs.
Luckily, she had Phillippa to keep her from being too affected.
“My dear,” Phillippa was saying, “you simply must tell Mr. Coombe”—Sarah looked past Phillippa to the handsome young man on her right, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of Oxford—“about meeting Signor Carpenini. Mr. Coombe has an abiding love of music, you see.”
“You’ve met the Signor, Miss Forrester?” came the awed voice of Mr. Coombe.
“Briefly, Mr. Coombe. Have you had the pleasure?”
While Mr. Coombe shook his head, Phillippa interjected, “Briefly? My dear Sarah, don’t be so modest. Signor Carpenini visited the Forresters to hear Sarah sing.”
“You’ve sung for the Signor?” Mr. Coombe squawked, his voice breaking on the last beat. There were murmurs in their group. Men talking over each other, speculating.
“He must have offered to instruct you—how could he not, having heard an angel such as yourself.” Mr. Coombe continued, once he found his voice again.
It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to remind Mr. Coombe that he himself had never heard her sing, and likely never would, when the Comte interjected.
“Your voice is more lovely than the songbirds in the morning in Bombay.” He turned back to where his Burmese friend, Mr. Ashin Pha, who stood guard over the Comte (he
had
saved his life after all), quickly nodded in agreement. “Surely he must have wanted to whisk you away,” the Comte continued, “like I was whisked to Rangoon—”
“Of course he did, my dear Comte,” Phillippa turned her charm to him. Indeed, whenever the Comte got on the subject of India, and his heroics there, Phillippa was very adept at steering conversation back around to the here and now. “But of course, Lord Forrester would not allow such a thing, and Signor Carpenini left for Italy brokenhearted.”
“Phillippa, don’t be so dramatic…” Sarah demurred, and while doing so, blushed prettily. A tactic that allowed others to draw their own conclusions, or so Phillippa said.
The truth of the matter was, Signor Carpenini had been invited to the Forresters, a few years ago, while waiting for his ship to leave for Italy from Portsmouth. And while Bridget—her nerves not failing her back then—played pianoforte, Sarah had sung a small, soft tune, the most that her gentle voice would allow. And Signor Carpenini did offer his instructive services—to Bridget, whose skill at the piano far exceeded Sarah’s at singing. But he was leaving for Italy, and as such, Bridget could not take advantage of his services—at least, until he came back to England.
It was unkind to steal her sister’s glory on this one small point. But it wasn’t as if
she
were the one to stretch facts. One leading statement from Phillippa and the gentlemen around them started fabricating the story in their own minds. Apparently, when building a reputation, only just enough information was necessary, and then everyone could draw their own conclusions. It was how one built fascination, Phillippa said.
Yes, she truly had become their Golden Lady.
Sarah’s eyes scanned the room for her sister and found her standing by a wall, with her mother. She had a plate of untouched food and a surprisingly wistful, sad expression. Sarah wished she would taste the food at least, and try to find a little joy in this outing. The problem was Bridget had made little impression so far in her first Season out. And while Sarah had tried to include Bridget in her newfound popularity, for some unfathomable reason, Bridget wanted nothing to do with it. Which was unfortunate, because Bridget was lovely and accomplished and funny—when she wanted to be.
Sarah was still staring at her sister, when Bridget turned her head and caught Sarah’s eye. Sarah raised her glass of
champagne in a gesture of acknowledgement, only to see her sister’s face go from lost and unhappy to a hateful scowl.
Sarah sighed. The scowl was not unexpected.
But instead of dwelling on the unpleasant, Sarah decided to focus on the much more pleasant expression on the Comte de Le Bon’s face, as well as how his hand had somehow stayed delightfully on her arm.
He was not the most handsome man Sarah had ever seen. He was likely only the second or third most handsome. But far be it from Sarah to think in such shallow terms. He was just
so
interesting, every vowel coming out of his mouth an accented seduction. And he did say some very delightful things.
When he wasn’t talking about Burma, that is.
He had been in the Indies over the Little Season, away from the gossip of the Event. Which, silently, Sarah had to acknowledge was one of his best attributes. As silent as the world had been on the topic of the Event ever since Phillippa took Sarah under her wing, it was still nice to have an admirer who could not have that in the back of his mind.
So, while the Comte de Le Bon continued to amuse her, little did Sarah realize that her evening was about to become infinitely worse.
“Ah-ah-ahem,” came the hoarse clearing from the throat of the gentleman who had come to stand directly in front of her. She looked up—not the easiest task—past the obviously corseted waist of Lord Seton.
“My Golden Lady,” he said addressing Sarah. “I believe this is my dance?”
Sarah looked at him askance, then at her dance card.
“I do not believe it is, Lord Seton,” Sarah demurred. Indeed, her card did not indicate Lord Seton, whom she was sure she would have remembered giving a dance (since she had sworn to never do so again, since that first disastrous party when he pitied her with a dance and a groping leer), but instead Sir Braithwaite. But Braithwaite was nowhere to be seen.
Phillippa glanced over her shoulder and read her card, her eyebrow going up at the name there.
“It is, I assure you—I have Braithwaite’s marker for it.” And Lord Seton produced from his terribly tight pocket a slip
of paper and showed it to Sarah. It said, “One waltz with Miss Sarah Forrester,” and was signed with Braithwaite’s mark.
“This is his waltz, is it not?” Lord Seton said brusquely, his moustache twitching with his sound reasoning.
The Comte and several other men in the group stood, crying, “See here!” and other such defensive postures that made Sarah feel the need to shush them, and placate them back into comfort.
In truth, Sarah did not know what to do. She glanced to Phillippa, whose upturned eyebrow seemed equally stumped. The old Sarah, when presented with this problem, would have acquiesced, and danced with Lord Seton, passing a somewhat tedious period of time on the floor, just to keep everyone happy. But she couldn’t help but feel somewhat used by the current arrangement—it was almost as bad as last Season, when her mother, in an attempt to inspire flirtation and make her appealing to two frankly unworthy gentleman, had begun gambling Sarah’s dances as hands of whist.
It was as if she had been … purchased.
Apparently, Phillippa was thinking the same thing, because she turned her coldest gaze on an unprepared Lord Seton.
“Tell me, how much did Braithwaite owe you that you took this marker as comparable restitution?”
The number that came out of Seton’s mouth was large enough that it caused the gentlemen in their presence to stop their blustering and look on Seton in disbelief.
“Well, I’m afraid you are mistaken, Lord Seton, because this is not Braithwaite’s dance.” Phillippa concluded with a sad little smile painted on her face.
Sarah felt the Comte’s hand tighten on her shoulder. He had—very scandalously, one might think, if there wasn’t something far more scandalous going on right now—moved it there upon standing and posturing.
Of course, Sarah thought with relief, the Comte would come to her rescue.
“But I was told—” Seton had turned red-faced, whether from embarrassment or frustration it was unclear, but Sarah was never to know, because at that moment, another figure joined the group.
“Ah, Lieutenant Fletcher!” Phillippa cried, and Sarah’s head whipped up to Jack’s tall form, imposing in his starched and pressed dress uniform. “You are here to collect your dance partner.”
As Jack made his bows, Sarah … well, she couldn’t help it, but under her breath she said, “I believe he may prefer Mr. Fletcher.”
It was an easy, if indirect hit. Why should a man not on a ship be referred to by his rank, after all? Indeed, some navy men had begun leaving off their blues altogether for civilian clothes. But as Jack’s eyebrow went up, Sarah immediately felt shamed. No, she would not be put down by his manner. Indeed, it was
his
doing, after all! There was undeniably something about him that set her back up.