by Shana Galen
***
Sarah's stomach was in turmoil. Seeing the duc's town house had sent a surge of panic through her. She had not expected something so grand for a French émigré and his mother. This was most definitely a duc's house. Not an English duke, true, but she could not imagine their houses were any grander. This house was huge, enormous, mammoth, in fact. Outside, the façade was white with black shutters, and it towered over her—over all of London it seemed. Sir Northrop had told her only the duc and his mother lived here. So much space for only two people! Why, the entire Academy could have been housed here and still had space for the Valères.
The interior of the home did nothing to quell her astonishment. The vestibule was black-and-white marble, and it gleamed from the foot of the door all the way up the curved stairs that led to the drawing room on the first floor.
She looked up. The chandelier—was that cut crystal?—gleamed. She looked down. The banisters— were they mahogany?—gleamed. She looked to the side. The vase on the small table—was that Sèvres porcelain?—gleamed.
She looked forward, and even the buttons on the butler's coat gleamed.
Sarah looked down at her own ungleaming self and felt a burning rise in her throat. She had been in many aristocratic homes, but none this grand nor this impressive.
"This way, my lady," the butler said and indicated those gleaming steps.
She took a deep breath and, on wobbly legs, followed. You are Mademoiselle Serafina Artois. She swallowed. Chin up!
The Italian maidservant Sir Northrop had sent with her was being led in another direction, probably up the servants' stairs, and though Sarah had just met the girl a half hour before, she had the urge to latch on and follow her. The servants' stairs seemed far less intimidating than the marble mountain in front of her.
But Sarah was not certain how much the maidservant, who Sir Northrop had called Katarina, knew about this scheme. Did she know that Mademoiselle Serafina Artois was really Sarah Smith? No matter. No daughter of a comte would sleep in a cot in a bedroom the size of a cupboard.
The butler had paused and was waiting for her to follow. Once again, Sarah had the urge to turn and run the other way. Would life on the streets really be so horrible?
A picture of garbage and rats and men drunk with gin flashed in her mind. The duc's home was certainly superior to that image.
The butler was still waiting, and Sarah raised her skirts and rushed to follow. She had taken two steps before she checked herself, lifted her chin a notch, and began to climb the mountain at a leisurely pace.
Hurrying would not do. That was the kind of mistake that would end with her selling flowers on some street corner. As a governess, Sarah was used to being an outsider. She was not quite a servant and yet, not part of the family. She often had time to observe her "betters." She would have to use the fruits of that observation now.
Sarah had noticed that the upper classes seemed to enjoy making others wait on them. Not that she intended to be that kind of aristocrat, but she doubted it occurred to most of them that they were not the center of the universe and that others were waiting, sometimes quite impatiently. This butler would be accustomed to waiting.
Sarah gingerly lifted her skirts, taking one last leisurely look about the vestibule, and then began to climb the mountain. With a nod, the butler continued on ahead of her, and she sighed in relief.
She could do this. She could do this.
At the top of the steps, the butler moved forward and paused in front of two towering, white doors. Sarah looked up and up and up. Was this a drawing room or a throne room?
She shook her head. Serafina would not be impressed.
With a flourish, the butler swung the doors inward and announced, "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, daughter of the comte de Guyenne."
Sarah swallowed and stepped forward, the light from the windows at the front of the room blinding her temporarily. She blinked before being wrapped up in a hard embrace and assaulted by rapid French.
Caught off guard, it took her a moment to translate.
"Dear, dear Serafina! How good that you have come," the woman was saying. She stepped back, holding Sarah at arm's length. "Let me look at you. I cannot believe how you have grown up."
"Duchesse?" Sarah squeaked.
"Oui! Do you remember me?"
As they had never met before, Sarah had no trouble answering, "No, Your Grace."
"Oh!" The duchesse's eyebrows rose. "Do you speak English then?" The duchesse had switched to English, her accent that of a native.
Sarah flinched, hoping she had not already made a mistake. She wished she were a better actress, but she must proceed onward now. "Yes. I speak English and French."
"And Italian?"
Sarah clenched her teeth, remembering the tidbit The Widow had dropped on her at the modiste's this morning. "Of course."
"Please, do sit. You must be exhausted after your long journey. Would you care for tea?"
"No. Thank you." She was not yet ready to play her role and attempt nonchalantly to sip tea at the same time. She took a seat on a bright yellow chintz sofa while the duchesse sat across from her in a dainty chair upholstered in cream satin.
The duchesse was everything Sarah had expected. She was regal and poised and beautiful. Small and trim with thick black hair, she had an effortless beauty Sarah would have died for.
The duchesse was smiling, but there was something sad in her face.
For a long moment, the duchesse just stared at her, and Sarah began to worry that she had been found out. She gave her a wobbly smile, trying not to think about the fact that she was sitting in a town house in Berkeley Square. No one but the wealthiest, most prestigious families lived in Berkeley Square. Half of the ton would be impressed were they to be invited to tea in this drawing room.
The duchesse was frowning now, and Sarah curled her hands into the fabric on the sofa. Something was wrong. Perhaps she should be talking? But what did a comte's daughter say to a duchesse?
She glanced about the room. Above her was a crystal chandelier; below her was an Aubusson carpet in red, blue, and green; around her was furniture of the best quality. The intricately carved wood shone. Paintings lined the walls, and the cornices were expertly crafted. Behind her was a small pianoforte, and across from her stood a huge fireplace with gold trim and heavy porcelain urns flanking the mantel.
"Th-this is a lovely room," she stuttered. "So—" Luxurious? Huge? Terrifying? "Pretty."
Sarah clutched the sofa tighter. Oh, how stupid she sounded! Her stomach clenched again, and she bit her lip to keep the bile down.
"Thank you." The duchesse smiled. "I am trying to decide whether you resemble your mother or your father more. I think your father, but I see you have your mother's cheeks."
Sarah nodded. "Yes, that's what everyone says." She smiled. Perhaps playing Serafina would not be as bad as she had feared. She need only smile and nod and agree.
"And how are your dear parents? I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to hear from Delphine and to find out that you and your family had settled in Italy and were doing well. When she suggested you might be open to a visit to London, Julien and I couldn't wait to see you. It's too bad your parents could not come as well. How are they?"
Sarah nodded, keenly aware her instructions had been to avoid the subject of her so-called parents. "They're fine. Thank you for asking."
The duchesse was frowning at her. "But if they are well, why could they not make the trip? Your mother said your father was on his death bed."
Sarah blinked and swallowed. Her stomach gave a threatening heave. "Yes, well, other than that, they are fine."
She wanted to sink into the sofa and hide underneath it. She was such an idiot! The Widow and Sir Northrop had told her that her father was supposedly on his deathbed. How could she have forgotten? She had to take a deep breath and calm down. She had to think.
There was a tap on the door, and a woman who was probably the housekeeper entered.
Sarah sent up a prayer of thanks. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but Cook needs to see you."
"Oh?" The duchesse stood. "I'm so sorry, Serafina. I will return in a just a moment."
Sarah stood as well. "Please, take your time."
A moment later, the duchesse was gone, and Sarah was alone in the ornate drawing room. She turned this way and that, afraid to touch anything. Oh, how she hated all of this lying and playacting! But the faster she completed this mission, the sooner she could return to life as a governess. Perhaps she could find the evidence Sir Northrop wanted now, and then she would be able to tuck Anne and Edmund into bed tonight.
With new purpose, she moved about the room, looking for a desk or table with a drawer—anything that would hold or conceal papers. She passed a large painting of an Italian noblewoman and then halted and whipped back around. Was that a—no.
She leaned closer. Was that a Titian?
Oh, Lord. Oh, my. Just how wealthy was this family? An actual Titian! And then another thought occurred to her—with wealth came power. What would happen if the Valères discovered she was not who she claimed? Would she be thrown in prison?
Even worse, what if the duc de Valère was a spy? If he realized she had found him out, he might see the need to be rid of her. Permanently.
She put a hand to her belly to still its roiling. She could not worry about that right now. She had to keep her chin up and her wits about her. She tried focusing on the Titian.
She wished she could put on her spectacles in order to read the signature, but The Widow had forbidden her to do so unless absolutely necessary. So Sarah squinted and leaned in close, lifting one hand toward what looked like a scribble.
"I wouldn't touch that if you want to keep my mother's favor," a deep voice said from behind her.
Sarah swung around, knocking a bowl off a nearby
side table. It shattered loudly when it hit the gleaming wood floor.
"Oh!" She looked from the shattered bowl to the man standing in the drawing room's entrance.
It was him. She knew it.
This was the duc de Valère. The spy. The traitor. The man who might kill her if he knew what she had been sent to do.
Her stomach clenched again, and grabbing the vase nearest her, she promptly cast up her accounts.
Five
Mon Dieu.
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 cl
osed 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.