by Shana Galen
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.
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 t
able, 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."
Six
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 pa
ce, 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.