The Making of a Duchess (9 page)

   "I-I…" Her mind raced for the correct response, but her thoughts were a muddle. His features darkened, and she took a step back. Why had she not gone to her room when she had the opportunity?

   "But perhaps you never had any intention of accepting my proposal," the duc said now, voice icy. "Perhaps you had other motivations for coming."

   She raised her brows. "I did?"

   "Did you?"

   "No." None besides snooping through his personal items and determining whether or not he was a spy. Her gaze traveled to his desk again. She might not be a professional spy, but she had seen the letter with the French markings on it. If only she had been alone, she could have pocketed it, and this nightmare would be over.

   "Perhaps you want to survey the field before you make any commitments."

   She blinked, dragging her gaze from his desk. "Survey the field?"

   He gave her a look that said he knew she understood every word he said. She wanted to laugh, He thought she was being difficult, when in reality, she had simply not been paying attention.

   "The other eligible bachelors in the
ton
," he said, voice edged with steel.

   "Oh, no." She shook her heard violently. "I don't want to do that." Too late she realized such a firm denial would probably confirm his suspicions.

   "Not to worry. You'll have your opportunity tomorrow night at Lord Aldon's ball. I'll chaperone you, of course. Introduce you to London's finest." He reached for the door handle and pulled the door open.

   "But I'm not interested in London's finest," she protested, envisioning having to dance with half a dozen men. "I don't even want to go to the ball."

   But he was not listening. He stalked through the vestibule and up the marble stairs. Sarah watched until he disappeared. She sighed, already weary of playing Mademoiselle Serafina, but she was not so weary as to forget about the letter she had seen on his desk.

   Heart pounding, she turned back to it and hurried across the room. Her gaze scanned the desk quickly. Where was it? Where
was
it? Oh, if only she had her spectacles—

   "Mademoiselle, is there anything you require?"

   Sarah let out a short squeak and whirled about. The butler, Grimsby, was standing in the doorway, keys in hand. Valère must have sent him back to lock the door.

   Sarah cleared her throat. "No. I was just going up to my room."

   "Shall I light your way?"

   She shook her head. "I'll manage."

   When Sarah poked her head out of the bedclothes, Katarina began babbling away in Italian. Sarah nodded, pretending to understand. Not long after, the duchesse descended. Intent on playing her part, Sarah was still in bed, sampling from a tray of coffee and scones the housekeeper had set on her bedside table a few moments before.

   The duchesse entered, did not bat an eye that Sarah was still abed, and ordered her to take a hot bath. Then she inquired as to whether Katarina would be offended if Serafina had her hair done by Madame Leroix. She was the most fashionable hairdresser in London at the moment, and everyone knew the French had superior talents when it came to coiffure.

   "Oh, please don't go to so much trouble on my behalf," Sarah urged, though she knew her protests would be to no avail. But she was beginning to feel guilty at all of the attention being paid to her. Who was she to deserve to sleep on silk sheets, have a maid unpack her things, and a housekeeper bring her breakfast in bed? She was no one—her parents unknown and most likely disreputable. If the duchesse knew who she really was—

   Sarah swallowed. No, the duchesse would never know. More importantly, the duc would never know.

   "You make use of Madame Leroix, Your Grace. I assure you, Katarina will do well enough for me."

   The duchesse smiled benevolently. "You don't want to offend your sweet little maid. I understand. Give me the words, and I'll give her the bad news."

   Sarah's gaze darted to Katarina, who was across the room, humming to herself and carefully placing folded garments in the clothespress.

   "The words?"

   "The Italian.
Scusi, signorina?"

   Katarina turned sharply, her face lighting at the sound of the duchesse's Italian. Sarah wanted to groan in frustration. It was too early for so many complications!

   
"Un momento, per favore."
The duchesse turned back to Sarah. "Serafina, how do I tell her that her services won't be required this evening?"

   Sarah gritted her teeth. At the moment, she remembered exactly three words in Italian:
bravo, arrivederci
, and
grazie
. None of those would help in this situation. She was tired, she was irritable, and she was hungry. For a moment, she was tempted to tell the duchesse the truth and end this whole charade.

   But then she had a quick image of herself on the streets, huddled in a doorway, fending off a leering, gap-toothed ruffian.

   Sir Northrop wouldn't really put her out on the streets, would he?

   Oh, yes, he would. Especially if she made a muddle of this assignment. If she compromised national security by informing the mother of a traitor that the Foreign Office was spying on them.

   Sarah glanced at the duchesse and wondered how she was going to get out of this muddle. "Your Grace?"

   The duchesse frowned.

   Sarah gave herself a mental kick. The duchesse had asked to be called by her Christian name. "Rowena," she managed, though it went against all of her training to be so informal. "My maid and I have a…" She glanced at the ceiling, hoping she looked thoughtful, her mind racing for some plausible excuse. "A complicated relationship."

   It was vague, but vague was good.

   "Would you mind if I spoke with her privately?" Sarah lowered her voice. "I don't want to hurt her feelings."

   The duchesse nodded in understanding. "Of course. I leave you to it. I'll have that bath sent up for you right away, and Madame Leroix will be here this afternoon." She turned toward the door, then back again. Her eyes were soft and shining. "Oh, Serafina, I cannot tell you how excited I am. I've been waiting for this day for so, so long!"

   And with a quick dab at her eyes, she was gone.

   Sarah leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She hated this. She absolutely hated this. After her conversation with the duc the night before, now she knew why his mother was so intent on making her welcome: she thought she would soon acquire a daughter-in-law.

   Instead, Sarah was going to be the cause of her losing a son to prison or worse. The penalty for treason was drawing and quartering.

   Sarah shook her head. She did not want to think of that, did not want to think of the handsome duc on trial at the Old Bailey, the leering crowd of spectators, each paying a farthing for admittance to the show.

   Would she have to testify? She supposed she would. How would she stand tall and keep her chin up then, when she was face to face with the duc and he knew

the truth: she was no comte's daughter.

   She glanced at Katarina and saw the girl looking at her. If Sarah was not really the daughter of a French comte, was Katarina really a maid? Was she even Italian?

   Sinking down, Sarah tried to remember when life became so complicated.

In his dressing room, Julien tried not to think about how much he hated social outings. He scowled at his valet as Luc held out a dark blue coat and proceeded to stuff Julien into it.

   "All in the name of fashion, no?" Luc said, straightening the tight coat.

   Julien didn't answer. He tolerated the stuffy clothing necessary for the balls, musicales, and fêtes because his mother enjoyed the outings and because at times they were useful for business purposes. It was far more useful to go to his club or his solicitor and do business there, but it never hurt to put on his finest and be seen in the homes of England's beau monde.

   He knew part of his allure was curiosity. Not just that he was a refugee from France—there were many of those in London, especially in the years directly following the revolution. Those who had settled in London had done so very modestly. His counterparts, former comtes and barons and the sons of vicomtes and marquesses, taught French to English schoolboys or attempted to learn professions.

   Some, like Julien, were lucky. Julien's father had foreseen the trouble brewing in France and had sent what money he could to London. It was not much—most of the Valère fortune had been in land. But it was enough that Julien and his mother did not have to rely solely on her parents. They were also wealthy, but their money was likewise tied up in land.

   The real curiosity for these English was that Julien, due to his efforts, was a
wealthy
French émigré. His mother had been frugal with the money his father had left them, and when Julien was eighteen, he began to invest it.

   He began small in proven, low-risk ventures. But gradually, as he became more confident, he took greater risks—and reaped greater rewards. His risks were never foolish. He took the time to investigate each scheme thoroughly, and he found he had a talent for separating the wheat from the chaff.

   Now, at twenty-five years of age, he owned a shipping company, several merchant ships, and warehouses. The
ton
had to know the money his father had left him was gone, replaced by money he had earned in trade, more or less. But he had the title and the money that went along with it at one time, and that seemed good enough for them.

   "How should I tie your cravat tonight, Monsieur le Duc?"

   Julien raised a brow.

   "The Oriental? The Mathematical? The Napoleon?"

   "No, not that last one. Just knot it. I want to look at some papers before the ladies come down."

   "Of course." Luc began to tie the cravat. Julien prayed his valet would be satisfied with the first effort. He did not have the patience to endure several attempts tonight.

   Not that anyone would be looking at his neck cloth. Sometimes Julien felt as though he were covered in money, the way mothers of young, unmarried ladies eyed him. Julien had heard rumors he was worth more than ten thousand a year, which was not true of course. It was more like eight thousand, but if he denied the ten, people would only believe it more. The English were peculiar in that way.

   Luc stepped back, observed his work, and frowned. But before his valet could undo the knot, Julien moved away. "This is fine. Thank you." It was a dismissal, but Luc made no move to leave.

   "I would have thought Monsieur le Duc wanted everything perfect for Mademoiselle Serafina Artois."

   Julien gave him a hard look. "You would have thought wrong."

   The valet tapped his cleft chin. He had a narrow face and jet black hair swept back from a high forehead. His clothing was always impeccable. Hell, Julien thought, the man dressed better than he did.

   "So Mademoiselle Serafina is not to your taste."

   "Not exactly," Julien said, thinking back to her response the night before. Who answered a marriage proposal with
not exactly
? He pulled on his gloves.

   He had told himself half a dozen times the night before that he was glad of her rejection. Glad he wasn't going to have to pretend to be madly in love, buying her flowers and writing her love poems.

   But if he was so glad, why did he feel so annoyed?

   "What do you find not to like?"

   Julien scowled at him. He had known Luc for years, but the valet could overstep his bounds. "You needn't wait up tonight," Julien said, leaving the dressing room to walk through his bedroom. "I can undress myself."

   "And throw all the clothes on the floor," Luc accused.

   Julien shook his head and opened the door. He would attend the ball, do his duty and escort Mademoiselle Serafina, but he would think no more of her than he did any other task which befell him. She was a task. That was all. Not much different than balancing his ledgers. He'd taken three steps down the hall, heading for the staircase, before he saw her.

   At that moment he had two thoughts: was her bedroom really that close to his, and had any of his ledgers ever looked that beautiful?

She stopped, her brown eyes widening when she saw him looking at her. He supposed he was scowling— not the appropriate response—but what else was he supposed to do when hit by a wave of arousal so hard it made his head hurt?

   The women had been up here all day primping, and obviously not without benefit. Mademoiselle Serafina wore a tunic of pink silk over a train of white silk. Her sleeves were full and short, though her arms were covered by pink gloves that matched her dress. Her bosom was not so well covered. The evening gown had a rounded neck that dipped low enough to show a tantalizing swell of rounded breasts. Julien could have focused on that creamy display of skin all evening, but he forced his eyes upward—and was not disappointed.