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 gentlewomanof 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,
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 gentlewomanof 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,
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