Quite suddenly the currents of the party brought her face-to-face with Prince Peregrine. Sara tilted her head up as she opened her mouth to welcome her guest, but her voice died unborn as his intense gaze caught and held hers. The prince's eyes were a clear, startling green, a color unlike any other she had ever seen, a wild, exotic reminder that this was a man raised under different skies, by different rules. The unknowable green depths beckoned, promising... promising what?
It would be easy to drown in those eyes, to throw propriety and honor aside, and count the world well lost.... Shocked and disoriented by her thoughts, Sara swallowed and forced her mind back to reality. Extending her hand, she said, "I am your hostess, Sara St. James. Surely you are Prince Peregrine?"
His black slashing brows rose in mock despair. Taking her hand, he said in a deep resonant voice, "It is so obvious? And here I thought I was wearing correct native dress. Perhaps I should sell the tailor to the tin mines for failing me." He had a faint, husky accent, and his pronunciation was slightly over-precise, but otherwise his English was flawless.
Sara laughed. "It is not British custom to sell people to the mines, as I'm sure you know. Besides, your tailor is not at fault. There is an old proverb that clothes make the man, but that is only a partial truth. What really makes a man is his experiences, and your face was not formed by an English life."
"Very true." The prince still clasped Sara's hand. His own hand was well shaped and well groomed, but had the hardness that resulted from physical labor.
Sara remembered a demonstration of electricity she had once seen, for she felt as if a powerful current was flowing from him to her. It radiated from his warm clasp and those unnerving green eyes, and made her disturbingly aware of his sheer maleness. Perhaps an arduous mountain life had made the prince so lithe and strong, so attractive that she wanted to run her hands over his body, feel his muscles, draw him close....
It took all of Sara's training in graciousness not to snatch her hand back. The blasted man must be a mesmerist! Or perhaps the resemblance was to a cobra hypnotizing a rabbit. She took a deep breath, telling herself not to be fanciful, the prince was merely different from what she was used to. Ross had once told her that Asiatics stood closer together than Europeans when they conversed. That was why she was so aware of the man's nearness.
Disengaging her hand from his, she took a step back. "Local custom permits kissing a woman's hand, or perhaps shaking it, but the rule is that the hand must be returned promptly.''
His mobile features fell into lines of profound regret. "A thousand apologies, Lady Sara. I knew that, but forgot. So many things to remember. You will forgive my occasional lapses?"
"I can see that you are going to be a severe trial, Your Highness." Sara hoped her voice sounded normal. Her hand still tingled where they had touched, and she felt abnormally sensitive, like a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. The flowers smelled sweeter, the music sounded brighter, the air itself pulsed with promise. "Where is my cousin? I can't believe he was so rag-mannered as to leave you to your own devices."
"On the contrary, his manners are too good. He was waylaid by a tedious fellow who is obsessed with the subject of what prince would be a fit consort for your little Queen Victoria."
Sarah nodded. "Mr. Macaw. He is very difficult to escape."
"It is simple to get away from such fellows," the Kafir pronounced. "It is only necessary to be rude. Civilized manners are not at all an asset, you know."
"You and I could have some truly splendid arguments, Your Highness." Sara tried to look severe, but the corners of her mouth curved up and betrayed her. Though the prince was alarmingly attractive, he was also Ross's friend, and it seemed natural to treat him with informality. "What a pity that I am the hostess of this party, and can't spend the next hour convincing you that manners are essential to smooth the rough edges of life. Shall we find my cousin? Being over-civilized, I can't bring myself to abandon you in the midst of strangers."
The prince glanced across the crowd. "No need to search, for Lord Ross has finally escaped the dreaded Mr. Macaw."
A moment later, Ross reached them. "Sorry to have left you stranded, Mikahl."
"No matter," the prince said. "Your cousin had no trouble identifying me. She has been instructing me in manners, but fears it a hopeless task."
Ross smiled. "If Sara will consent to be your mentor, you could have no better guide to local customs."
Peregrine looked hopeful. "Will you mentor me, Lady Sara?"
She laughed. "Mentor is not a verb, but if you wish, I will be happy to advise you." More seriously, she continued, "Ross said that you saved him from two dangerous situations. I cannot do as much for you, but I will do whatever I can to make your stay in England a rewarding one."