Page 93 of Scandalous

“Oh? And why is that, my lady?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted bluntly, never taking her clear blue gaze off the pair as they took their places for the dance. “Call it female intuition.”

The suave Frenchman said something that made Sarah laugh. He took her hand, and it made Martín’s skin crawl.

“I understand he is only recently arrived from America. Why do you think he has come to England, Captain?”

Martín shook his head slowly, unable to pull his gaze from the elegant nobleman.

“I could not say, Lady Ramsay.” And he couldn’t. The only thing he knew for certain was that no good would come of it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sarah was stunned by the number of gifts that awaited her the morning after the ball. She knew that it was to curry favor with her uncles, rather than to celebrate her birthday, that most people sent presents.

After writing thank-you cards, she divided the gifts up into two groups: the few she would keep, and those she would give to the Manton sisters for dispersal at their home for women.

The only gifts she kept were those from her family and friends. As well as a ridiculously expensive brush and comb set she received from the Marquis d’Armand. The set was silver and set with stones that could only be sapphires. Sarah was going to talk to Daphne about the best way to return the gift without giving offense.

Her uncles seemed very interested in pursuing their acquaintance with the sophisticated peer, but Sarah was uneasy about the suave Frenchman’s intentions. When he’d heard she’d received a new horse for her birthday, he’d been persistent about riding with her, until she finally told him that she rode in the park most days.

For once, she hoped Martín did not make an appearance at her usual morning ride. Martín’s expression when she’d introduced them had looked almost murderous. More competitive instinct? For months she’d wished he’d showed some sign of jealousy with Mies, but d’Armand was a different matter entirely. She’d be happier if the two men never met again.

However, when Sarah arrived at the park the next morning, it was to find Martín already waiting for her—along with Daphne and Hugh.

“What a delightful surprise!”

“I had to see how your riding was progressing, Sarah,” the baron said, smiling at her before turning coyly to his wife. “Naturally Daphne wanted to tag along when she heard I was coming. And then Martín insisted he come to chaperone the two of us.”

Martín snorted. “I invited Lady Ramsay to ride with me, and her husband attached himself like a big burr,” he clarified. “I am pleased you are here, Sarah. I thought you would be resting today.”

“I told him you’d be here,” Hugh said to Sarah. He grinned at Martín. “You should know I’m always right, my friend.”

Martín rolled his eyes.

They’d just set off when a voice called out from behind them. “Miss Fisher!”

Sarah closed her eyes briefly before turning.

“I hoped I would find you here.” D’Armand was mounted on a magnificent black horse that he rode with breathtaking grace.

“What the devil is he doing here?” Hugh muttered loudly. For once, Daphne did not chastise her husband for his bad manners.

“I’m afraid I may have mentioned I rode in the park most mornings,” Sarah said beneath her breath before welcoming the man. “My lord, how nice to see you again. Have you come to ride with us?” She winced at the stupid comment. Why else would he be here?

His lips curled, and his dark eyes flashed her a warm, intimate look. “I should love to,” he said, either unaware of or unconcerned by her friends’ disapproving stares.

“You have met Lady and Lord Ramsay?”

“Enchanté.” His eyes swept the blond woman in a bold, almost provocative manner.

Daphne gave the man a look that could have frozen water.

The baron rode his giant horse between the Frenchman and his wife. “D’Armand.” The usually amiable man radiated barely suppressed violence and—for the first time—Sarah caught a glimpse of the dangerous pirate who’d been so feared by corsairs and the French navy.

D’Armand looked amused by Ramsay’s obvious hostility. He turned to Martín.

“Ah, Bouchard,” he said, as though he’d only just then noticed him. He eyed Martín’s red mare. “That is a particularly fine mount.” His tone suggested it was too good for the likes of Martín.