The Making of a Duchess

by Shana Galen

  Now she had no choice but to accept. "Of course."

  He rose, made a grand gesture of offering his arm, and escorted her onto the dance floor. They took their place among the other couples, he across from her. She smiled at the others in their set, then leaned over and hissed, "Are you certain you want to dance,

  Your Grace?"

  The couple beside him looked from her to Valère. Valère smiled at them, then her, tightly. The dance was already beginning. The first couple moved down the set. "I asked you to dance, and I escorted you here, so yes, I'm certain I want to dance."

  "Oh." She watched the second couple, trying to memorize the forms. Was it a turn to the left and then a step or a turn-step-turn?

  He was looking at her dubiously. "Why do you ask?"

  The couple beside them began to repeat the forms, and Sarah felt her heart pump faster. Oh, how she regretted not having practiced dancing more.

  He reached for her, and she stepped on his toe. "Oh, no reason."

  He turned one way, and she went the other. Oh, how mortifying. But she would keep her chin up and get through this. It was no less than the Academy expected.

  Valère tightened his grip on her hand. "It's a turn and then a step," he instructed. "Just listen to me."

  She did. It was embarrassing that he had to tell her the forms, but she completed them successfully. She even began to smile. She was dancing. With Valère's help, she was actually doing this.

  Despite the Italian and the dancing, she might get through this night yet.

  And then at the edge of the crowds, frowning at her, she saw Sir Northrop. He held up ten fingers then walked away.

  Sarah missed the next step.

  Eight

  "I'm so sorry," Sarah said for the tenth time as the duc de Valère escorted her from the ballroom. "My father has been ill for some time, and I have not wanted to dance. I'm afraid I'm out of practice." It was a clever lie, and she actually said it rather smoothly. But at that moment she would have given anything to be a better dancer than liar. The duc was limping—very slightly, but she noticed.

  "It's fine," he said.

  "No, it's not. You're limping."

  He gave a surprised look. "Old injury. Nothing to do with you." He paused just at one of the doors of the ballroom, not caring that he was blocking the exit. Sarah squeezed into a corner with a potted plant to make more room. "Would you like me to fetch you a glass of champagne?"

  He was still acting the perfect chaperone. Despite the fact that she had tread on his toes half a dozen times, he was going to fetch her a refreshment as was the custom. Obviously the duc could affect good manners when the moment called for them.

  "No, thank you. I don't drink champagne."

  "Well, I do." And he limped off.

  So much for affecting good manners.

  But his departure did give her a moment to think. During the dance, Sir Northrop had held up ten fingers. What could that mean? Ten o'clock? She glanced at the longcase clock across the room. It was quarter of ten now. But how would she know where to meet him?

  If she were a spy—a real spy—where would she plan to meet? The terrace? The library? The conservatory? Did this house even have a conservatory?

  She would start with the terrace. The French doors leading outside were just past the row of potted plants beside her.

  "There you are, Serafina."

  Sarah glanced up and saw the duchesse leading a man and woman toward her. Not now! She glanced at the clock again. Twelve minutes until ten.

  The duchesse stood before her. "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois," she said in French, "may I present the comte and comtesse Poitou."

  Sarah curtseyed and glanced at the clock again. "Enchantè," she answered.

  "The comte and comtesse knew your parents," the duchesse continued in French.

  "Really?" Sarah's French was fluent, but between pretending to be Mademoiselle Serafina, worrying about the time, and wondering what Sir Northrop wanted, she could hardly remember her English much less concentrate on this conversation.

  "We were so relieved to learn that you and your family made it out of France alive," the comtesse said. "As I recall, your father vexed the king mightily. If we'd only listened to Guyenne, we might have been spared that so-called revolution."

  Sarah frowned in confusion. Had Serafina's father said something that could have prevented the revolution? Something bold enough that the king would exile him? Since it seemed she was expected to say something, she smiled and gave a vague, "Oui, bien sûr."

  It was eight minutes to ten. Surely, Sir Northrop would wait for her.

  "How did you manage to get out?" the comte asked.

  The duchesse nodded. "Oh, yes. Do tell the story."

  "The story?" Sarah took a quick breath. Now she had to make up a story?

  "Delphine gave me a scattering of details in her letters," the duchesse told the comte, "but I'm certain Serafina will tell it better."

  Sarah gritted her teeth to keep from screaming in frustration. Could nothing go right tonight? How was she supposed to tell a story she didn't know?—she glanced at the clock—in five minutes and in French, no less!

  She was going to murder Sir Northrop.

  But the duchesse and her friends were looking at her, their faces rapt with attention. She had to say something. "It began in"—she watched the duchesse—"Paris."

  The duchesse furrowed her brow.

  "I mean, the country outside Paris."

  The duchesse continued to frown. "I thought you were in Marseilles."

  "Oh." Sarah nodded. If the duchesse knew the story so well, why didn't she just tell it! "Is that where Mama began the story?"

  "Yes. She said you were in Marseilles, all three of you riding in the carriage. It was Sunday, and you were on the way home from—"

  "Mass," Sarah interjected with a smile. "That's right."

  The duchesse frowned again. "I thought the king sent the news in the evening."

  "Um—it was vespers," Sarah said as though this should be obvious.

  "Ah!" The duchesse nodded. "I see. Go on."

  Go on? She glanced at the ceiling and tried to conjure something else to say. If this story was not believable, it might cast doubt on who she was and alert the duc that he was being spied upon. The consequences would be dire. She had to be clever now…

  Had not Mademoiselle Serafina been only a toddler at the time of the Guyenne's flight? Yes!

  "I fear my memory of the event is somewhat unreliable," she said with a smile. "I was so young."

  "Of course you were." The duchesse patted her arm.

  "But I believe that after my parents received the king's letter—"

  "Mademoiselle Serafina? Is that you?"

  Sarah whirled to see Sir Northrop coming across the room, a huge smile on his face. The duchesse, comte, and comtesse turned as well. Sir Northrop's eyes bore into her, and she forced herself to speak. "Sir Northrop, I didn't know you would be here."

  He joined their small group, and Sarah introduced him.

  "And how do you know one another?" the duchesse asked her.

  Sir Northrop looked at Sarah, and Sarah looked back. Apparently, he had not come to save her after all. "We met… in Italy."

  "In Italy?" Sir Northrop shot a glare at her.

  "Oh, how lovely. I adore Italy!" the comtesse exclaimed, her accented English thick and difficult to understand. "Where in Italy?"

  Sarah closed her eyes for a moment and said the first place that popped into her mind. "The Piazza San Pietro. Isn't that right, Sir Northrop?" His eyes were throwing daggers, but she did not care. Let him think on his feet for once. He was the one knighted for service.

  Sir Northrop took a long moment to consider then said coolly, "My wife and I traveled to Rome on our honeymoon. We first met Mademoiselle Serafina and her family there. Of course, Serafina was but a child then. Our families have kept up the connection over the years."

  "And you didn't know she was in L
ondon?" the duchesse asked.

  "No idea," Sir Northrop answered, and he almost looked as though he were telling the truth.

  "I wrote," Sarah said quickly, not wanting Mademoiselle Serafina to appear rude. "Perhaps the letter was misdirected."

  Sir Northrop nodded at her. "Perhaps." He turned to the duchesse. "Your Grace, would you mind if I stole Mademoiselle Serafina away for just one moment? I know Lady Merton would love to see her. I'll bring her right back."

  "Of course," the duchesse said. "We'll wait here."

  Sir Northrop offered his arm, and Sarah took it. With her upswept hair, rouged skin, and fancy gown, she felt ridiculous beside the man who knew she was nothing more than a governess. But she reminded herself that no one else knew she was a fraud, and she held her head high. Sir Northrop led her across the room, glanced over his shoulder casually, and then opened a side terrace door and slipped out.

  The side terrace was small and empty. Chinese lanterns lit the main terrace as well as the lawns, but this section was shrouded from light. Sir Northrop closed the terrace door and leaned against it. Sarah pressed herself against the banister.

  "How are you doing?" Sir Northrop asked without prelude. "Have you found any evidence?"

  Sarah stared at him, anger building. "Found any evidence? No. I'm too busy trying to remember that my father is deathly ill, my family fled from Marseilles, and that buona sera means good evening. I think."

  Sir Northrop raised a brow at her tone.

  "I'm sorry," Sarah said, "but I'm at my wit's end. Thank God you interrupted just now. They wanted me to tell the story of the Guyennes' flight from France." Her voice was rising, sounding slightly panicked, and Sir Northrop held up a hand.

  "None of that, Serafina. I won't have it. Calm down."

  "Calm down? I might be able to calm down if I had a fortnight to study my character. If you'd given me more than three days to learn all of this!" She gestured at her gown and then the ballroom. "But how am I supposed to calm down when I have the duc de Valère asking me to marry him?"

  Sir Northrop leaned forward, and she could have sworn his eyes glinted. "Valère asked you to marry him?"

  She shook her head. "As if you didn't know! As if you didn't arrange it through the letters."

  "We didn't arrange it, but we had hoped the idea would occur to the Valères."

  Sarah shook her head, exasperated. She could hear her tinkling earbobs sway. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He waved a hand as though her question were inconsequential. "What did you say?"

  "No, of course."

  "No?" His voice boomed out, and she winced. "Why did you say no?"

  "Was I supposed to say yes?"

  "Of course!"

  "How was I to know that?"

  "Any idiot would know that."

  She inhaled sharply and straightened her shoulders. "I see. Perhaps you'd like to send someone else to play Serafina. Someone who's not an idiot."

  She tried to push past him, to return to the ball, but he grabbed her shoulders and thrust her back against the banister. "This is not a game," he gritted out, his spittle wetting her cheeks. "I—we—don't have time for your dramatics."

  Her heart was pounding fast now, fear replacing the earlier feeling of inadequacy.

  "Do you understand?" Sir Northrop growled.

  She nodded. "Y-yes."

  Sir Northrop stepped back again, but that did not diminish the sinking feeling creeping over her. Sir Northrop was not going to help her. In the back of her mind, she had hoped he would tell her this was all over, that she could go back to little Anne and Edmund. But that was not going to happen. She was stuck being Mademoiselle Serafina, and no one could save her.

  "You said Valère asked you to marry him," Sir Northrop reiterated, calmer now. "And you rejected him."

  She nodded.

  "Was he angry?"

  "He said he wasn't."

  "But?"

  She glanced over his head at their shadows cast by the Chinese lanterns in the garden. Behind him, the bricks of the town house flickered red and blue and yellow ominously. "He seemed annoyed."

  "Not so annoyed that he didn't ask you to dance."

  "Duty is important to him. That's why he asked me to marry him. Duty."

  "Good. Then you can get him to ask you again."

  "What? No, I can't!" Sarah shook her head defiantly, but the look in Sir Northrop's eyes made her take a step back. "I told him no," she said sternly. "He's not going to ask me again."

  "Find a way to convince him otherwise. I need you engaged to Valère."

  Sarah felt suddenly exhausted. She was no spy. How could she possibly deal with all these complications? Couldn't Sir Northrop see she was unprepared? Did he not realize the dangers she faced if she failed as Serafina?

  She wanted to protest, but something about the way Sir Northrop glared at her kept her silent. Perhaps Valère was not the only danger.

  "An engagement lends more legitimacy to your being in Valère's home," Sir Northrop told her, "and it develops closeness between you and the duc. The closer you are, the easier it will be for you to crack his defenses, find out what he's really up to."

  "I saw a letter on his desk." The tidbit was not much, but maybe it would substitute for an engagement. "The writing was French. I didn't get a good look, but I thought it might have come from the Continent."

  Sir Northrop nodded, looked pleased, and she relaxed slightly. Afraid of Sir Northrop! Sometimes she was such a ninny.

  "Get your hands on that letter. Copy it or bring it to me. Valère and his mother will be going to the King's Theater next week. Make sure you're there."

  "And if I can secure the letter, then I don't have to worry about the engagement?" She knew even before she spoke that she was wasting her breath.

  Sir Northrop gave her a hard look. "You need the letter and the proposal. Is that clear?"

  She sighed. "But how do I persuade him to propose again?" She remembered the night before with no small discomfort. If she were Valère, she would not propose again.

  "That's your problem. Your orders are to become engaged. Posthaste."

  She stared at Sir Northrop, open-mouthed. Was this how the Foreign Office operated? Next they would be ordering her to get married and produce a child.

  An image of Valère kissing her, in an effort to produce that child, flickered in her mind. She saw his hand cup her chin, his fingers caress her cheek. And then those long, aristocratic fingers slid down to the exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders. She could almost feel his light touch skating across the swells of her breasts.

  She took a shaky breath. For a moment the thought of starting a family with Valère, the notion of having his children, warmed her—heated her. But she quickly pushed the notion away. Valère wanted Mademoiselle Serafina, not Sarah Smith.

  And she did not want him either. No. It was only the idea of children and a family that was affecting her. She could not think where those lustful thoughts had come from.

  "Did you hear me, Serafina?"

  She nodded rigidly. "Yes." Find the letter. Get engaged.

  "Good. Now get out there and get to work. Use some of your feminine wiles."

  She raised a brow. "Feminine wiles?"

  "Exactly." He gave her a pat on the shoulder and opened the terrace door. "Good luck."

  And then she was back in the crush of people. She took one step and stared into Valère's azure blue eyes.

  ***

  Julien had been one second from tearing the terrace door off its hinges and going after her. What the hell was Mademoiselle Serafina doing out on a secluded terrace with that man? He did not know the man's name, and he did not care if he was bloody King

  George himself.

  And now she was back again, her face white and drawn.

  Julien grabbed her arm, pulled her aside. "What did he do to you? Did he accost you?"

  "What?" She was staring at him, clearly confused. "No. That was Sir Northrop."
/>
  "Who the hell—" He paused, tried to wrest control back. "Your pardon—who is Sir Northrop?"

  "My empl—a family friend."

  Julien narrowed his eyes. There was something she was not telling him. She looked down at his hand on her arm. "Would you mind releasing me?"

  He did so, stepping back but continuing to study her. Her face was pale, and she would not meet his gaze. "What's wrong?"