The Making of a Duchess (7 page)

   Her stomach clenched again, and grabbing the vase nearest her, she promptly cast up her accounts.

   Julien stared as Mademoiselle Serafina Artois was sick in his mother's blue and white Ming vase. The thing had cost him a fortune, and now his future wife was using it as a chamber pot.

   Probably as a good a use as any for the vase, but now what was he supposed to do?

   "Grimsby!" he bellowed. "Get up here!"

   Mademoiselle Serafina raised her head, her face pale and waxy. Julien figured he'd better go to her—he'd better do something.

   "I'm sorry," she moaned. "Oh, this is humiliating."

   "Nonsense. You were very ladylike." With a flick of his wrist, he loosened his cravat and handed it to her. She frowned at the cloth. "It's the best I can do on short notice," he said.

   She grimaced and put the white linen to her mouth. Julien prayed Luc would not see this.

   He reached down and put a hand on her elbow. "Let's get you to the sofa. You can lie down."

   She didn't protest, just allowed him to help her

to her feet. She wobbled slightly, and he put an arm around her slim waist. At his touch, she inhaled sharply and glanced at him.

   As he had noted before, she was tall, the top of her head reaching just below his nose. And he could see now that she had eyes not the color of chocolate but of creamy tea, long eyelashes, and—he inhaled slowly—ripe, full lips.

   He looked away quickly, trying not to notice how the swell of her breast felt where it brushed his chest. They reached the sofa, and he settled her on it, both relieved and annoyed to release her.

   "Lie down," he ordered, his voice gruffer than he had intended.

   She did as he ordered, lying stiff as a board and staring at him as though he planned to chop her head off.

   Grimsby entered, and Julien motioned to the vase. "Clean that."

   "Yes, Your Grace."

   While Grimsby carried the vase out, Julien crossed to the tea service and poured the chit a cup of tea. "Cream or sugar?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

   She was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified. She shook her head.

   He brought her the tea, and she struggled to sit so that she could drink it. Julien pretended not to notice her hands were trembling so badly that the tea cup and saucer rattled loudly.

   She was no typical English beauty. Years of life surrounded by those pale, blond creatures had dulled his memory of dark-eyed Gallic women. His mother had told him Delphine, the comtesse de Guyenne, had been ravishing in her day. Obviously, the daughter had inherited her mother's good looks. But there was nothing in her that flaunted that beauty. She seemed almost unaware of it.

   She was taller and thinner than most of the women of his acquaintance, but she was far from angular. She was not falling out of her gown, as was a la mode, but she was rounded and curved in all the places a woman should be. Yes, all in all, she was a beautiful package, but he felt something more for her than attraction. He felt longing. His gaze fell to her mouth, her lips poised on the edge of the tea cup.

   Those lips gave him ideas.

   "What happened?"

   Julien turned as his mother and the housekeeper rushed into the drawing room. His mother was beside Mademoiselle Serafina in an instant. "Are you unwell, my dear?" She put a hand to Mademoiselle Serafina's forehead. "You don't feel warm. Come." She urged the girl to stand. "Let's get you to bed."

   "That's not necessary," the girl said, her eyes still darting about the room. "I'm fine. I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me."

   Julien watched as his mother and the housekeeper escorted the girl from the room. He followed them into the hallway and heard the housekeeper ask, "Where is your luggage, my lady? The footman said there was none in the carriage."

   Mademoiselle Serafina stumbled and quickly righted herself. "It's coming. It was—lost."

   "Oh, dear!" his mother exclaimed. "What will you do?"

"The—dock… workers are bringing it."

   "I see." His mother glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze.

   Julien could say one thing for Serafina Artois. She was not boring.

Sarah wanted to die. As soon as the duchesse and the housekeeper left her, Sarah dismissed her maid and climbed into the enormous bed. She lay there for a moment, looking about the room. She had made two more mistakes as soon as she set foot in this room. First, she had thanked the housekeeper for showing her the way. Aristocrats did not thank servants, and the woman had given her a quizzical look. The second mistake was asking—twice—if all this were really hers. She had never slept in such a beautiful room, such a large bed, such lavish quarters.

   She blinked, certain it would all disappear. But, no, the walls were still lavender, the sheer cream curtains still pulled back from floor-length windows, the white and gold fireplace still crackled with a cheery little fire. Tucked in one corner was a walnut and satinwood armoire, decorated with paintings copied from Greek antiquity and carved with corner finials and rosettes. In another corner was a delicate tulipwood dressing table with a hinged mirror that could be raised when in use. Finally, there was the bed on which she lay—a half tester with matching canopy and bedclothes in blue satin—bedclothes the color of the duc de Valère's eyes.

   She pulled the covers over her head and squeezed her own eyes shut.

   She was mortified. Humiliated. She was never going to recover from this indignity.

   She had actually cast up her accounts in front of a duc! Could anything be worse?

   Well, she supposed having sharp needles stuck in her eyes would be worse, but not much.

   And he was a handsome duc. Why hadn't The Widow deigned to mention that little fact? The man was a veritable god. Sarah closed her eyes, but she could not strike his image from her memory.

   He was tall—that was her first problem. She adored tall men, men who made her feel small and petite beside them. Not that she had ever known a man like that, but a girl could dream. When the duc de Valère had helped her to her feet and put his arm around her, Sarah had felt slight and dainty.

   Not only was he tall, he was muscular. His chest was broad, his arms like steel, his shoulders square.

   And his neck. When he had removed his cravat, she had seen a good deal of the solid bronze flesh beneath. She liked the way his black hair curled against it. She had rarely seen a nobleman with hair longer than his collar, but she could not stop thinking about the way the duc's hair swept back from his forehead and fell softly until it grazed his collar.

   He was obviously no typical nobleman. He had not shaved that day and possibly not the day before. His square chin was shadowed, giving him a slightly dangerous look that Sarah was willing to argue contributed to her nervousness. But what had really done her in were his eyes. They were so blue—and so penetrating. She was certain he could look straight through her and know she was never, and would never be, Mademoiselle Serafina Artois.

   Sarah tossed off the bedclothes and lay staring at the ceiling. She had humiliated herself in front of a duc, tossed her accounts in what was probably an expensive vase, and broken a porcelain bowl. She hoped it had not been Sévres.

   A disastrous start. But that did not mean this scheme was doomed. For her own sake, she must become Mademoiselle Serafina. She could not afford to fail, and that meant no more nervousness, no more casting up of accounts, and no more mistakes!

   There was a tap on the door, and Sarah steeled herself. Slowly, she pulled the bedclothes back into place and composed her expression. "Come in."

   The duchesse and her housekeeper entered, the latter carrying a silver tray with two linen-covered dishes. "How are you feeling?" the duchesse asked. "Do you think you could keep down a little soup?"

   Sarah gave what she hoped was a stately smile. "Yes. I'm much better now. Thank you for bringing dinner to my room." Especially as she didn't think she could have made it through a formal dinner. Not tonight.

   "There's soup and bread and butter. If you feel hungry later, just ring, and Mrs. Eggers will bring more."

   "Thank you. This is more than generous."

   "Nonsense." The duchesse waved a hand. "I'm sure you're used to far finer."

   Sarah gave her a vague smile.

   "I do hope you are over this indigestion tomorrow," the duchesse added as the housekeeper set the tray on the bedside table. Sarah was careful not to thank her. "We've been invited to a ball hosted by Lord Aldon, and I so want to introduce you to everyone. Several of the guests are French émigrés and will have known your parents from before the revolution."

   Sarah swallowed and stubbornly pushed down the fear that threatened to erupt again. "A ball?" she said as though that were all she had ever desired in the world. "How wonderful."

   "I do hope your luggage will arrive in time. If not, perhaps we can find something of mine that will suit you."

   Now this truly was unexpected. "Again, Your Grace, you're more than generous."

   "Call me Rowena. After all, you'll be here several months, and I anticipate that we shall become great friends."

   Sarah sensed the duchesse would have preferred if she tried out the new name immediately, but she simply could not do it. Not yet. Still, it was a kind and welcoming gesture.

   She had a brief flash of one of her phantom memories—a dark-haired woman singing—and then it was gone.

   "We'll leave you in peace," the duchesse said, turning toward the door. "Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."

   "Thank you."

   The door closed, and Sarah nodded to herself. She had done better that time. Her nervousness was decreasing and her confidence growing, especially if she did not think too much about the duchesse's last words—the duchesse expected her to stay for months. Months as Serafina Artois! And the sham started with a ball tomorrow night.

   A ball!

   Sarah had never been to a ball in her life. The closest she had come was encouraging the Jenkins boys—the children of her last employer—to say goodnight to their parents as Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins left for a ball. It was the only one she ever remembered them attending.

   But she would have to get through it somehow. If she could avoid dancing and pretend she spoke everyday with viscounts, earls, barons, and marquesses, she would be fine. Just fine.

   And then she had an alarming thought. What if the duchesse—Rowena—expected her to dance with her son, the duc de Valère? Surely, he would ask her to dance. It would be rude of him not to.

   Oh, no. No, no, no. She would never survive a dance with the duc.

   She had to find a way out of this.

   She could feign sickness again, but that would not work forever. Eventually she would have to get well and go to social outings. And she did not want to go to social outings. She wanted to be back at Sir Northrop's with Anne and Edmund, looking at insects in the garden and studying geography. Sarah sighed. The only way to return to her charges was to do as Sir Northrop expected: find evidence implicating the duke.

   And if she wanted to avoid dancing with the handsome duc, she would have to do so tonight.

Julien sat in his library, brandy in one hand, book in the other. His dark blue coat was wrinkled, and he wore no cravat. The lamp had long since burned down, but he hadn't closed the book or finished his brandy or made any move to go to bed. He was exhausted after staying out all night, but he didn't relish sleep. Sleep brought dreams.

   His mind was working now, figuring out how he could slip into France, meet the servant who claimed to know of Armand, and get back to London again. All without being caught by either the French or the English and being accused by one, or both sides, of being a traitor.

   The two countries were at war—that much was true, but Julien did not think the situation could be any worse now than in '94, when he had gone back several times looking for Bastien and Armand.

   That had been during the Reign of Terror, when the streets ran with the blood of his fellow aristocrats. If he had been caught then, he would have been a dead man. But he had not been caught, and he had not stopped searching for his brothers. After Napoleon seized power in France, the terror quieted, but on each of Julien's voyages, travel between the two countries grew more and more treacherous. Even the smugglers hesitated to risk it, despite the fact that French wines and fashions sold at a premium on London's black market.

   Rigby was right: he was a fool to go back. Julien just could not see that he had any other choice. If Armand was alive, however remote the possibility, Julien would risk anything to reach him.

   He heard a thud outside the library door and tensed, every muscle in his body straining to hear.

   All was silent. It was probably just one of the servants. Probably just the house settling.