The Making of a Duchess (20 page)

   "Three months, then," the duchesse added quickly. "Can you bear it?"

   "Of course," Sarah answered cheerfully. After all, she would not have to play this role much longer, no matter what the duchesse planned.

   But as much as the preparations vexed Sarah, there was some joy in them as well. She would probably never have the opportunity to plan her own wedding, and the more time she spent with the duchesse, the more the woman became like a mother to her.

   In Sarah's own phantom memories of her mother, her mother's shadowy face was at times replaced by Rowena's.

   At eleven, Sarah finally decided that Valère was not going to deign to come out of his library, so she excused herself from the talk of wedding preparations and went to bed.

   She told Katarina to lay out the most modest night shift she owned, but the girl had either not understood, or Serafina only owned one night shift, because the girl had put out the same one she always wore.

   Sarah had dismissed the girl and then put it on. She wondered how Valère knew it had lace at the throat and laces down the front—laces that tapered into a vee at the valley of her breasts.

   She laced the gown tightly, put her robe on over it, and climbed into bed. After about an hour, the robe was stifling her, but she kept it on for another thirty minutes. Finally, she decided Valère was not coming, discarded the robe at the foot of her bed, and tried to sleep.

   She only succeeded in tossing and turning so much that the bed clothes were in hopeless disarray. She had her eyes open and was counting sheep—number three hundred and seventy-six—when the door opened and Valère entered.

   At least she hoped it was Valère. Her eyes darted to the entry, and she watched the large form quietly close the door and then move toward the bed. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she squeaked, "Your Grace?"

   "Damn it," he muttered. "I told you to call me Julien."

   She scrambled to a sitting position, pulling the bed clothes to her chin. "I don't think that's wise, Your Grace. Your presence here is already most inappropriate."

   She thought she heard him chuckle; then a match near the fire flared, and the candle beside her bed flickered to life.

   He was standing about two feet away, hands on his hips, wearing a linen shirt and buff breeches. He had removed the boots, probably so he could move about quietly, and she could see his white stockings. She could also see a good deal of his bronze chest. The buttons at his throat were open, and he was not wearing a cravat.

   "Would you care to go to my room?" he asked casually. "Would that be more appropriate,
Miss Smith
?"

   "Might we consider the library?"

"We might, but I'm already here."

   She bit her lip, desperate to get him out of her room. She was lying in bed in nothing but her night rail. It was heavy and plain, to be sure, but she should not be in bed in his presence. "What will the servants think if they see you coming or going?"

   His eyes glittered like sapphires. "I think you already know the answer to that question."

   "Your Grace!"

   "Julien." He took a seat at the foot of the bed, his weight causing her robe to slide off. Drat!

   "The only servant I'm concerned about is your maid, but I have it on good authority that she has a closet on the upper floor."

   "You asked?" Sarah hissed. "The servants will wonder why you asked."

   Valère looked unconcerned. "I can be discreet, although apparently not discreet enough to keep my travels to France from the notice of the Foreign Office. Can you tell me when they began to suspect I was a traitor?"

   "No. I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

   "Because you don't trust me."

   She looked away, glad to look anywhere but at that bronze chest and his form sitting on her bed.

   "What about all that talk last night of trying to help me?"

   "I do want to help you, but I won't betray my country to do so."

   "How can I make you trust me?" he asked, looking more serious now.

   When she did not answer, he moved closer, his hand reaching out to smooth a stray hair away from her cheek. Her breath hitched, and she leaned away from his touch.

   He was quiet for a long minute, and then he began speaking in a low voice. "I was thirteen when the peasants came. I was thirteen and the oldest of three sons. My twin brothers, Bastien and Armand, were just eleven. We'd been in Paris for several months, and we didn't understand why my father suddenly wanted us to move back to the country. We'd heard about the riots, but there were always riots in Paris.

   "That time we heard even more disturbing rumors. My parents would not discuss them with us, of course, but some of the servants would. Our nanny told us that the crowds were screaming,
Mort à l'aristocratie!"

   She looked at him now, moved by the sound in his voice when he spoke in French. But he was not looking at her. His eyes were far away, back in France, hearing his nanny tell him the stories.

   "We heard terrible things," he continued, and Sarah did not think he realized he had reverted to speaking in French. "We heard things we couldn't believe—the Bastille stormed, innocent men and women killed in the streets, children murdered. We didn't believe it.

   "The family protested when my father moved us to the country. Not I. I always did what was expected of me. But I sympathized when Bastien—it was always Bastien—complained. He loved Paris and found the country dull. Armand was happy anywhere he had books. He was so intelligent. He could talk his way out of any difficulty."

   Sarah smiled, liking the image he painted of his younger brothers. Bastien, the recalcitrant child, and Armand, the brains of the family. It was obvious Julien had been—as he was now—the leader. The perfect heir to the title. She could see him, even as a little boy, playing the man.

   "And then one night I awoke and saw flickering on my ceiling." He looked at her candle, seemed to watch it flicker. "I don't know what woke me, probably the noise, and when I looked out the window, I saw our courtyard was overrun by peasants carrying crude weapons."

   He met her gaze now, his eyes cold and hard. "We weren't cruel to them. I know some landowners were. They took the peasant women for their own purposes. They overworked children. They put a heavy tax burden on their workers. My father was a fair man and a good man. We thought our peasants loved us."

   He swallowed.

   "They didn't."

How could he explain to her the sense of betrayal he had felt—that night and even more so later? Was there something he could have done to prevent the uprising? Something he did to provoke it?

   He had never mentioned these feelings of guilt to his mother. He knew she would tell him he had done nothing wrong, and perhaps he hadn't. But he did not know how else to make sense of his shattered life.

   Sarah was watching him as he told her about meeting his mother in the hall, rushing to the twins' rooms, and finally the sprint to safety. Her eyes were wide and so very brown in the candlelight. He didn't know if telling her his story, opening his past to her, would make her trust him, but it was the only thing he knew to do.

   He had told this story only once before—to Marcus Stover. Rigby knew bits and pieces, but Marcus knew the whole. For some reason, it had been easier to tell Marcus.

   "What did you do when you came to London?" she asked. "Did your mother's family take you in?"

   "Yes. They were kind." He told her about living with his mother's people, the adjustment to life in England and schooling, and his relentless drive to restore his family fortune.
Ne quittez pas.

   "I made some good investments," he said, summing it up. "And now my mother never has to worry about money again."

   She nodded, leaning forward. He thought she had probably forgotten they were in her bedroom and she was dressed in only her night shift. It was almost exactly as he had imagined it, though seeing her in it was not at all what he expected. The laces at her throat were tied tightly, but the more he talked, the more engrossed she became. The bedclothes had slipped down, and he could see the laces plunged between her breasts.

   They were full, ripe breasts, if their shape under the linen was any indication. He could see the swell of one in the narrow gap between the laces. How his fingers itched to unfasten that knot and spread those laces apart. How he would enjoy slipping the gown off her shoulders and kissing every single part of her as he slowly exposed inch after inch of creamy flesh.

   He swallowed. Such thoughts were out of the question. This was not some strumpet, and he would do best to remember that.

   "I don't think that's the only reason you work so hard to make money," she said, and her voice snapped him out of his reverie.

   "I suppose I like to be comfortable as well," he admitted.

   "But that's not all. Your childhood security was splintered. You lost everything. It's only natural that you would want to make sure you could never lose everything again."

   He shrugged. "Or perhaps I just enjoy business. I'm a duc without land, without an inheritance to oversee. I need something to keep myself occupied."

   She nodded, looked thoughtful. "And you never knew what happened to your brothers? You think they're still alive?"

   "I have no reason to believe otherwise." He could feel his defenses rising, but he tried to tamp them down.

   "And your search for them is why you've traveled to France so frequently?"

   "Yes."

   "That's the only reason?"

   He clenched his jaw. "Yes. I'm not selling state secrets. I just want answers."

   "Have you found any?"

   He gave her a long, hard look.

   "Have your trips to France given you any reason to believe your brothers are still alive?"

   When he still did not answer, she put a hand on his arm. "I'm not trying to disparage your search, but I need to give something to the Foreign Office. I need some proof that what you say is true."

   He looked away from her and debated telling her about his plans to return to France. If he told her, would she alert the Foreign Office? Would she interfere with his plans?

   "I have a letter," he began cautiously. "It's from one of the Valère servants. He says he has information that my brother Armand is alive."

   She was nodding quickly now, excitedly. "That's the one I was copying in your library. But from what I understood, the servant won't tell you any particulars. He wants you to—" She glanced up at him, her eyes huge. "Oh, no."

   He nodded. "I'm going back."

   She shook her head. "You can't do that right now. The Foreign Office is watching you. They're watching
me
watch you." She threw off the bedclothes and knelt before him. "If you try to leave now, you'll be caught for certain."

   "Not if you help me."

   She shook her head. "How can I help you? I don't even know if I believe you."

   Frustrated, he took her shoulders. "What else do I have to do? What do I have to say to make you believe me? You've heard my story; you've seen the letter. I have other documents you can see, correspondence, but nothing as convincing as the letter you have seen."

   She was staring at him, her face close to his, her breathing rapid.

   "I need you, Sarah. If the Foreign Office realizes I've left…"

   "Alright," she snapped, jerking out of his arms. "I'll help you, but you have to be completely honest with me. I want no secrets."

   He knew when his back was against the wall. "Fine. You've seen the letter. What else do you want to know?"

   She thought for a moment, her head turned slightly away from him as she stared vacantly at a watercolor across the room. His eyes traced the curve of her chin and the sweep of her eyelashes. "How will you travel to France?" she said finally, turning back to him. "You can't exactly book passage."

   He paused, his stomach knotting with uncertainty. If he told her the truth, she could ruin everything. But if he lied…

   "Stover knows a privateer—a smuggler—who's still willing to make the passage. I haven't been able to contact the man yet, but that should change tomorrow night."

   "What happens tomorrow night?"

   "That doesn't concern you." He rose. "What I need—"

   "—is my support," she finished for him. "You want me to vouch for you? Then you have to prove you speak the truth." She climbed out of bed, and he caught a flash of one ankle and calf.

   "I will—when I arrive home with my brother."

   She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "And what am I to tell the Foreign Office in the meantime? What if they discover you've left England? I need some proof to hold them off until you return."

   He clenched his fists. He had a pretty good idea what this proof she spoke of was going to be. "What proof?" he ground out.

   "I want to go with you and Mr. Stover tomorrow night."

   "No. Out of the question. It's not safe for a woman."