Page 94 of Scandalous

“As is yours, d’Armand.”

The Frenchman’s smile grew. “The men of my family are excellent judges of cattle. My father, in particular, owned only the best animals. He was well known as a superlative breeder of livestock.”

The silence was deafening. Martín’s eyes had gone flat, and his face looked as though it had been chiseled from stone. Sarah looked at the faces of her friends. Just what was going on?

“Shall we lead the way, d’Armand?” Ramsay asked.

After what seemed like forever, the Frenchman spurred his mount forward.

Martín and Daphne waited beside Sarah until the other two men had gone ahead.

“Your ball was a fabulous crush, Sarah. Its success must have pleased your uncles very much. Are you quite recovered?” Daphne asked.

Sarah blinked. The baroness never engaged in idle chit-chat. Sarah would have sworn Daphne didn’t actually know how. Just who the devil was the marquis and what was he to Martín? And why would nobody tell her?

They spoke of the ball and other unimportant matters, all the while watching the backs of the two men who rode ahead of them.

* * *

Martín listened to the women’s chatter, his eyes fixed on the slim, straight shoulders of the French peer. D’Armand sat his exquisite mount like a man born to it, as he had been. Why was he lingering around Sarah? Was it her money? Her connection to a powerful banking family? Revenge against Martín? Or all three? It would not be for Sarah herself. Such a man—a proud member of the French aristocracy—would consider Sarah’s lineage far beneath him. Unless he could gain something from it, like money or revenge or both.

Ramsay and the marquis had reached a shady spot not far from the serpentine and pulled up.

“It looks like Ramsay wishes to talk for a while,” Lady Ramsay said. “I would like a bit of a gallop. Would you care to join me, Sarah?”

Sarah looked from Lady Ramsay to where the marquis was in conversation with the baron to Martín.

“Go with Lady Ramsay,” Martín urged, ignoring her questioning look. “I will join you soon.”

“But—”

“Our business will not take long. Ramsay and I will find you.” He could see she wanted to argue with him but did not wish to offend Lady Ramsay.

Martín waited until the women had cantered away before guiding his horse over to the two men. The tension between them was palpable. He turned to his friend. “You should go and see to the ladies, my lord. I will handle this.”

Ramsay opened his mouth, as if to disagree, but then closed it. He gave Martín an abrupt nod and turned his horse.

“What elevated company you keep, Bouchard.” The Frenchman smirked as Ramsay rode off. “I know Ramsay realizes you were a whore, but does Miss Fisher? Her uncles? The people who dined and danced with you at her ball?”

“What do you want, d’Armand?”

The marquis’s thin lips curled unpleasantly, as if it irked him to speak to a man he considered no better than chattel. His chattel.

“Were we standing on different soil, I could have you stripped, whipped, and hung by the neck until dead, and nobody would stop me.”

“But we are standing here, d’Armand, and on this soil, slavery is not legal.”

D’Armand chuckled. “Are you a barrister now? How . . . quaint.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” One black brow arched. “That is simple. I want my property back. All of it.”

“Do you think to take me by force?”

The nobleman laughed. “You rate your worth highly, Bouchard, too highly. To me you are just another of my father’s breeding stock.” His eyes flickered up and down Martín’s body, a darkly amused glint in them. “I would hardly have sailed halfway round the world to collect a bull.”

“Then what do you want?” Martín repeated.