The Making of a Duchess (8 page)

   But Julien did not relax. The image of a whitehaired woman wielding a pitchfork rose in front of him. Julien pushed it away. He really should go to bed. His mind was playing tricks on him.

   Then something moved outside the library door. Julien's gaze darted to the floor, and he saw the shadow darkening the thin slice between the carpet and the closed door.

   Luc? Grimsby?

   Julien did not move. There was a knife in his desk drawer. Should he go for it or wait for the intruder to move first?

   The door handle turned slowly, silently. Julien no longer harbored any illusions that it was his valet or his butler. Both would have knocked before entering.

   The hinges creaked, and the intruder paused on the other side of the half-open door. He carried no light, but the library was darker than the vestibule, and it would take a moment for his eyes to adjust. Julien knew he could use that to his advantage.

   Obviously satisfied he had not been detected, the intruder pushed the door open farther and stepped into the library. He closed the door silently behind him, then without looking right or left, went straight for the desk. The trespasser was short and slight and— wearing a dress?

   What the—

   Julien stared in disbelief as the woman rounded his desk, sat in his chair, and then felt around the surface of the desk for a lamp.

   "The oil burned down," Julien said dryly, the satisfaction of seeing her jump making him smile briefly. "But I can light a candle if you'd like."

   "No," she squeaked. "That's quite alright."

   That voice, that tall, slim figure—Julien closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. "Mademoiselle Serafina?"

   "Who? Oh! Me." She cleared her throat. "Your Grace, I can explain."

   Julien set his book and brandy on the side table, rose, and lit a candle on his desk. The warm light flickered over Mademoiselle Serafina's features, making her brown eyes look large and luminous. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, falling in ribbons of silk down her back. She had not changed out of her blue gown. It was wrinkled and falling off one shoulder but still presentable.

   He put both hands on the desk and gave her a hard look, this woman who was to be his wife. Did she know that was the plan? It had never been discussed.

   He shook his head. Of course she knew. Women always knew.

   She cleared her throat again, the slim white column of her neck drawing his attention. "As I said, I can explain."

   He waved a hand and went back to his seat on the sofa against the wall. Lifting his brandy, he took a long swallow, almost draining it. "Go ahead. Explain."

   "You're not foxed, are you?"

   He raised a brow. "Would that be a problem? After all, I'm in my own home, in my own library. And up until five minutes ago, I was quite alone."

   She swallowed again. Was her face slightly paler?

"Are you going to be sick again?"

   She straightened her shoulders and notched her chin up, looking slightly offended. "I'm fine. Thank you."

   "There's an empty decanter behind you. Costs a hell of a lot less than the Ming vase you made use of this afternoon."

   She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously annoyed. "A gentleman would not have mentioned that incident again," she said, tone frosty.

   He shrugged, not feeling the least compunction to act the gentleman when she was the one who had invaded his library. He took another drink from his glass and studied her. "You don't have any accent," he said finally.

   "What?" She frowned at him, probably thinking he was foxed.

   "Your English." He sat forward now. "You have no French accent, not even a trace." He was always keenly aware of his own accent, knew no matter how perfect his English, it would always mark him as a foreigner.

   She put a hand to her throat. "Well, I was so young when I left France that—"

   "For Italy."

   "Yes. My parents live in Italy."

   "And yet you have no Italian accent."

   She opened her mouth then closed it again.

   "Say again?"

   "We speak English."

   "Your parents are French, you live in Italy, but you speak English."

   She shrugged, a dainty gesture that caused one ribbon of hair to fall over her shoulder and caress his desk. He stared at it.

   "We're eccentric." She looked him full in the face, daring him to question her.

   He raised his glass in a mock salute. "That must explain why you're wandering about my home in the middle of the night, creeping into my library. What were you looking for?"

   "Paper and pen," she said rapidly.

   "Why?"

   "I needed to write a letter. Immediately."

   "To whom?"

   "My mother. You know that my father has been so ill…" Her gaze drifted to his desk, and he followed it, hoping no important papers were lying about. He noted the envelope containing the letter about Armand. His hand itched to move it, but that would only draw her attention to it.

   How could he be such a fool as to leave it lying out? Enough toying with her. He would give her the paper and send her back to bed.

   He leaned down, easing open the drawer where he kept the parchment. He reached inside, and something silky brushed over his knuckles. He glanced up to find Mademoiselle Serafina looking over his shoulder to study the contents of the drawer.

   She gave him a sheepish smile.

   "Here." He handed her several sheets of paper, a pen, and a jar of ink. "Anything else?"

   "No."

   He gave his desk chair a pointed look, and she rose, clutching the writing supplies to her chest.

"I'll just go back to bed now."

   He went to the library door and opened it for her. "Good night."

   But as she walked toward him, it occurred to him that this was probably as good a time as any. After all, they were alone, and he did rather want to get the whole business over with so he could concentrate on plans to travel to France.

   She reached the door, but he shut it again in front of her. She stopped short and gave him a nervous glance. "What are you doing?"

   What
was
he doing?

   Vengeance. Think about vengeance and duty, he ordered himself.

   "Mademoiselle Serafina, we both know why you're here."

   "We do?" The color drained from her face, and he saw now that she had freckles across her nose and her cheeks. She stared at him and clutched the paper so tightly she wrinkled it. "Who told you?"

   He frowned. "No one told me. I know what's expected of me, and I have no objection."

   Now she frowned, confusion in her eyes. He gritted his teeth. Hell, he hoped she wasn't going to make this more difficult than it had to be.

   "So?" he prodded. "What do you say?"

   She was watching him closely, looking uncertain. "I… have… no objection either." Her words were slow and measured.

   "
Très bien. D'accord.
My mother will want to start the wedding preparations immediately." He turned away from her, snatched the letter about Armand, and tucked it into his coat pocket.

"What?"

   He heard her drop the paper and pen and looked back to see her standing stiff and wide-eyed. "What wedding?"

   "Our wedding. You just agreed to be my wife."

Sarah felt her stomach heave violently, felt the room sway before her, and reached out for something solid. She closed her hand on the first object she touched— the duc's arm. It was warm and solid under her fingers, and when she looked into his eyes, they met hers.

   Heart beating fast, Sarah looked away and released him. Her head was spinning, and her ears were ringing. She could not have heard him correctly.

   The duc had not looked away from her. "Are you feeling unwell?"

   "Yes. No." She could feel her cheeks burning. Say it
,
you ninny!
"Yes. I think there's been a misunderstanding."

   He narrowed his eyes. "I see."

   "When you were ah—" How to say this? How exactly did one turn down a duc's marriage proposal? "When you were proposing, I didn't realize you were proposing."

   He raised a dark brow, annoyance darkening his features. "What did you think I was doing?"

   "I-I…" She pressed her lips together. There was simply no getting around the embarrassment. "I don't

know. I'm sorry."

   He was frowning now, and that made the room spin again. "You said you didn't have any objection."

   "I know." How could she explain that she was trying to keep him from guessing she was an imposter?

   She couldn't.

   The duc raised a brow. "But you do accept." It was more a statement than a question, and he was already turning away from her.

   "Not exactly."

   He stopped, turned back, gave her his full attention. She opened her mouth, shut it.

   What was she doing? Turning down a duc's proposal? Was she mad? She could be the duchesse de Valère.

   Of course, if The Widow and Sir Northrop were correct, she would also be the wife of a traitor.

   And then there was the minor fact that the duc had proposed to Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, and she was Sarah Smith. Chances were he would notice the name change during the ceremony.

   "Not exactly?" The duc crossed his arms over his broad chest. It was an intimidating gesture, whether he realized it or not.

   Sarah supposed he realized it. She took a fortifying breath. "I'm afraid I can't accept."

   He scowled at her, and she resisted taking a step back. He looked even more intimidating when he scowled. Dangerous as well. "You're refusing my offer."

   He seemed to be saying it more to himself than to her, so she did not answer. He shook his head, locked his hands behind his back, and turned away from her.

   Sarah glanced at the door, wondering if she could go back to her room. The duc began to pace, and she said, "I think I'll go up to my room now."

   He didn't answer, simply kept pacing.

   Very well. She would take that as an affirmative. Besides, she was Mademoiselle Serafina. She did not need to wait for permission.

   She reached for the door handle, and he spun toward her. "May I ask why?"

   Sarah's hand froze in midair. "Why what?"

   His azure blue eyes darkened. "Why you've refused me."

   "Oh. Well…" She could hardly tell him the truth, which meant she would have to lie again. Or… tell him part of the truth. "We hardly know one another."

   He stared at her, and she awkwardly lowered her hand to her side again, twisting her fingers in her gown.

   "Go on."

   Sarah frowned. What more was there to say? Who would accept a proposal from someone they hardly knew? Was that not self-explanatory? But he was still looking at her. She needed another reason. "I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm not in love with you."

   "Nor I you. But what has that to do with anything?"

   Sarah blinked. Of course! She was such a fool. The aristocracy routinely married for money or position, but she could not change direction now. "What does love have to do with marriage?" she scoffed, playing Serafina to the hilt. "Are you that obtuse?" Immediately, her eyes widened, and she clamped her mouth shut. Had she just called a duc obtuse?

   Fortunately, the duc did not seem to notice her insolence. He heaved out a great sigh and ran a hand through his black hair. Sarah watched transfixed as it fell in layers right back in place. She wondered how that hair would feel between her own fingers.

   "You want romance, is that it?" He sounded quite put out by the idea, which irritated her for her some reason. She was not asking for romance for herself— she was not naïve enough to believe that would ever happen—but didn't Mademoiselle Serafina deserve at least to be courted? Or was this duc so full of himself that he thought women should fall at his feet?

   "I don't want anything from you, sir. I just want to go to bed."

   His eyes flickered at her words, and she realized the mistake in wording.

   She hastened to correct her mistake. "What I meant was—"

   "I know what you meant. What I don't understand is why you should come all the way from Italy just to refuse my proposal. Your mother could have done that via the post."

   "What do you—" Understanding flashed through her like the sun through clouds. The duc and his mother had assumed she was coming with the intention of marrying Valère. Perhaps all had even been arranged in the letters exchanged between the duchesse and the Foreign Office.

   But, no. She had seen the correspondence. No mention of marriage had been made. No
overt
mention—that would be vulgar. But there had been

allusions, veiled allusions.

   She could kill Sir Northrop and The Widow for not having foreseen this possibility or instructing her how to respond. Perhaps she should have accepted?

   The duc was still watching her, irritation making his dark brows a slash over those magnetic blue eyes.