Swiftly Weldon cut through the milling crowd, overtaking his prey just as the orchestra began again. "Sara, my dear," he said smoothly, taking her hand. "Will you dance with me?"
Sensing her reluctance, he said under his breath, "People are watching. If we have a nice, civilized waltz together, it will reduce any lingering scandal."
"Very well." Sara stepped into his arms, holding her body stiffly away from him and looking past his shoulder.
Weldon noted a slight reddening on her throat, as if a man's bewhiskered face had rubbed against the tender skin. And as he had guessed, the faint musky scent of sex hung around her. It added to his fury, but he kept his voice controlled. "Try to look as if you are enjoying yourself, my dear," he admonished. "And don't sulk. Remember, I am the injured party, not the villain of the piece."
She looked up at him, her brown eyes grave. "I know. That is why it is hard to face you. I owe you a great apology, Charles. I am thoroughly ashamed of my behavior. I have no excuse except that... I could not help myself.''
Her words only inflamed him further. His fingers tightened on her left hand. "Wantons always say that," he said pleasantly. "It sounds better than admitting to promiscuity."
Sara's face flamed, but she did not try to defend herself.
Deciding that it was time to get down to business, Weldon said, "You know, the first time I met Prince Peregrine, I thought that he looked familiar. It's those green eyes. Quite striking. Unique, in fact. Don't you agree?"
Reluctantly she nodded.
"But while the eyes were familiar, I had trouble placing him," Weldon continued. "It has been so many years and miles that I did not make the connection. Then earlier this evening we talked, and I remembered."
He had caught Sara's unwilling attention, and she watched him intently as he guided them out of the path of another couple. "He hates me. Did you know that, my dear?"
"I know that there is something between you two," she said slowly. "But I don't know what."
"No, he would not want to admit it," Weldon said. "We met in North Africa, in Tripoli. I was making my Grand Tour. He was not called Peregrine then. God knows where he picked up that name. He's probably had a hundred names."
"He said that Peregrine is merely a translation of what he is called in Kafiristan," Sara said defensively.
"Perhaps, though he is not Kafiri, and he is a liar if he claims otherwise." He smiled down at Sara and pulled her into another turn. "Your husband is such a superb liar that anyone can be forgiven for believing him."
Sara's eyes flashed. "You go too far," she said as she tried to tug away from him. "I will not stay here to listen to you insult my husband."
"But you will stay to learn more about him, won't you, my dear?" Weldon said with an undertone of viciousness, keeping a firm grip so that she could not escape.
Sara quieted, wary but watchful.
Reminiscently Weldon said, "He was such a pretty lad, and so amiable at first. We were on our way to being great friends. Our falling out was all my fault, I fear."
"Charles, will you get to the point?" Sara said sharply. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"I am explaining why your husband hates me, darling Sara." Enjoying himself, Weldon spun the moment out. "You see, he was a whore, and he has never forgiven me for kicking him out of my bed."
Chapter 20
Stunned by Charles's accusation, Sara felt the blood drain from her face. A fortnight before, she would not have understood what he meant, but Jenny's lecture had been very enlightening.
Her former betrothed gave her an ironic glance. "Do you know what that means, my dear, or do I have to explain?"
"I know what you mean," she said in a soft, furious undertone, "and I don't believe a word of it. My husband said that you are evil, and he was right. You do yourself no credit by spreading such lies."
For a moment Sara experienced an unnerving sense of déjà vu, for the scene reminded her of when Mikahl had tried to convince her of Charles's wickedness. She thrust the thought aside. "You are raving from drunkenness. I can smell the liquor on your breath."
"Of course you don't want to believe me, Sara," Charles purred, "but that does not mean I'm lying. Did you ever notice the scar on his left hip?"
Sara tensed. "He has a number of scars."
"This one is shaped like an irregular M. Quite distinctive. He cut it himself with a stiletto as a proof of how much he adored me, or so he said. Personally I thought he was a little deranged."
Though Sara tried to conceal her shock of recognition, Weldon saw her flinch. He continued, "M for Master. He claimed that he wanted to return to England with me as my slave of love." Weldon's eyes grew dreamy. "I was rather tempted, but of course I couldn't bring him back to England. For me, your husband was just a passing experiment, a local North African custom that I felt like trying. Still, he was a lovely youth, much better-looking than he is now, and so passionate. Surely you have noticed how passionate he is?"