The Making of a Duchess

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The Making of a Duchess Page 12

by Shana Galen


  To Sarah's relief, she saw they were nearing the Valère box. But just as she would have increased her pace, the duc slowed and turned to her. Sarah tried to keep walking, but he maneuvered her against the wall, blocking her escape. With dismay, Sarah saw that the corridor was quite deserted now. With increasing dismay, she realized she was in exactly the position that had caused her trouble mere moments before.

  Valère leaned close, so close she could count his thick black eyelashes. "I don't know what to think about you, Serafina. May I call you Serafina?"

  "I-I—" She swallowed. "No." She did not want him to kiss her again. She did not want him to kiss her.

  He ignored her. "What I don't understand, Serafina, is why you would travel all the way from Italy only to reject my proposal of marriage. And yet, you don't seek out other suitors."

  The rejoinder came to her quickly. "Not every woman's objective in life is marriage."

  He gave her a rueful smile. "That's another thing. One moment you're nervous and shy. Another, bold and argumentative. Another—" He gestured back the way they had come, and she perfectly understood his meaning. A moment before she had been wantonly kissing him. "You have friends in England, yet you've never been here," he continued. "You have an interest in botany, but you've never been to the opera and obviously haven't studied under a dancing master."

  Her heart was pounding now, and she did not know if it was arousal brought on by his nearness or fear that he would put the pieces together and realize she could not possibly be who she said.

  "You're a mystery, ma belle."

  She took a shaky breath. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now, if you would please move aside—"

  "You're trembling. Why?"

  She gave a short laugh. "I'm not trembling." But she was. She was shaking like a wet cat.

  "You are. Are you cold or could it be"—he lifted a hand, pressed a finger against her lips—"something else?" He parted her mouth slightly, and Sarah's body exploded with white heat. If he didn't kiss her in a moment, she feared she would grab him again.

  Then suddenly, he stepped back. His absence was like the tearing away of a warm blanket on a bitterly cold night. She stumbled toward him, and he caught her, turning her toward the Valère box.

  "Here we are," he said as though the exchange a moment before had never happened.

  Sarah nodded. Her wits were coming back to her. Yes, the Valère box was exactly where she wanted to be.

  Valère pulled the curtain aside, and—a prayer answered—the duchesse had returned. She turned, opera glasses in hand. "Très bien! It is about to begin."

  "Merveilleux!" Sarah said too enthusiastically. She took her seat on one side of the duchesse, grateful to ease her wobbly legs. Valère took his on the opposite side. Sarah was still shaking, but she turned to enjoy the opera. She focused intently, but it was not enough.

  She could feel Valère watching her.

  ***

  Sarah waited two hours in the park surrounded by the town houses of Berkeley Square. She examined every daffodil, every crocus, every violet—every blade of grass at least three times before she realized The Widow was not coming. Carriages came and went, but few slowed, and those who did disembarked at one of the town houses. These were the duc and duchesse's neighbors. Few gave the woman lingering in the square on a sunny day a second glance. Why should they? In her yellow sprigged morning dress, she looked as though she belonged.

  She felt rather silly walking about the grass in a trained gown with a bright yellow ribbon about her waist. Serafina would have stayed on the path, avoiding the grass, but now that she was outside, Sarah realized she had missed the fresh air. The balls and operas were so stifling, and everyone wore too much cologne.

  Well, not Valère. She did not think he wore any cologne, nor needed to. He smelled delicious enough without it. She blew out a sigh. She had not come out here to daydream about the duc. She could do that well enough inside. She glanced at the sky, measured the progress of the sun, and knew it was well after ten. Where was The Widow?

  Sarah's stomach clenched. Something had happened. Something bad.

  She knew it. There was no other explanation. The Widow had been afraid last night; she had wanted to tell Sarah something important about Sir Northrop. Something potentially urgent.

  And now the woman failed to appear at their appointed rendezvous. Had Sir Northrop done something to her?

  Sarah shook her head. She was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Why would Sir Northrop hurt The Widow? They both worked for the Foreign Office. They were allies.

  Weren't they?

  Sarah glanced about the park one last time, but The Widow did not appear. She lifted her skirts and trudged back to the Valère town house. She wished she could blot out her fears and anxieties, silence her brain, but it was churning now.

  If The Widow and Sir Northrop were allies, why was she afraid of him? And why was The Widow afraid for Sarah? Was it simply because she was not working fast enough to expose Valère, or was there something else? Something more?

  Perhaps Sir Northrop was not who he seemed…

  Sarah shook her head and huffed out a breath. Now she was truly allowing her imagination to run away. Sir Northrop had been knighted by the King. He was a respected naval officer, had served the Crown faithfully for many years. His reputation and honor were sterling. Why was she questioning it?

  That might not have been what The Widow wanted to discuss at all. As the Valère butler opened the door to admit Sarah, she gave one last glance at the park. The Widow was not there, and now Sarah feared she might never know what the woman had wanted to say.

  What Sarah did know was that, no matter the cost, she did not want to disappoint Sir Northrop.

  ***

  "I can't dance with your Mademoiselle Serafina tonight," Rigby said, handing Julien a glass of champagne. "Miss Wimple is here."

  "I'm sure Serafina will be heartbroken."

  Rigby raised his auburn eyebrows. "Oh? So it's just Serafina now? Anything you want to tell me, old chap? You know I hate being the last to know."

  Julien scowled. He had not meant to refer to her so familiarly, but she had become simply Serafina in his mind.

  Which proved he was thinking of her far too often.

  "Nothing to tell. Forget it."

  "You want to tell Stover first, don't you?" Rigby complained.

  Julien pointed across the room. "Why don't you go annoy Miss Wimple? She's over there with her friends, giggling and pointing."

  Rigby sighed. "I suppose I had better claim the first dance. Will you and Serafina be joining our set?"

  Julien shrugged. "Doubtful."

  Rigby made the long trek across the ballroom, but Julien made no move toward Serafina. She was at his mother's side and doing just fine there. He had no intention of asking her to dance.

  And after her poor showing at Lord Aldon's ball, most men with a care for their feet would not be lining up to ask either.

  Which meant she would have to sit out the first dance.

  Damn it.

  He marched across the room, scowling at everyone he passed. When he reached her, she spun and blinked at him in surprise. He kept scowling. Why did she have to wear white? Not just white—white with small pink bows? She looked young and fresh and pretty. He felt as though he should put his arm around her and protect her from the evils of a world he knew far too well.

  But he was not going to protect her. He was going to France, and he would find Armand. He would dance with Serafina, and that would be the end of it.

  "Dance?" It was as much a question as he could muster at the moment.

  His mother frowned at him, probably disappointed in his poor manners. But Serafina did not seem to mind.

  "Yes, thank you."

  He jabbed his arm out, eliciting a huff from his mother, but Serafina took it graciously. He led her to Rigby's set, where the other couples made room for them at the top. His title might be French, but a d
uc was a duke. As such, he was the highest-ranked peer dancing.

  But Julien did not want to lead the dance, did not want to put that much pressure on Serafina, so he led her to the middle of the set, taking his place beside Rigby. Serafina was next to Miss Wimple, who smiled at her kindly.

  "Decided to dance after all, eh?" Rigby grinned knowingly at him. Julien opened his mouth, but Rigby waved a hand. "I know. Stubble it."

  The music began, and Serafina watched the dancers at the top of the set, obviously trying to memorize the forms of the dance. Julien watched her. He could not figure out why he was so drawn to her. He knew women more charming, more attractive. He was not so shallow as to be simply drawn by her beauty, and there was more to her. She was intelligent and unafraid to stand up for herself. She was kind to his mother, and she had varied interests—botany among others, he assumed.

  Their turn came, and he took her hand, spinning her.

  "Sorry," she whispered when she stepped on his foot.

  "My fault." He led her to the end of the set where they took their places again.

  And then there were the negatives: she could not dance—which didn't matter a fig to him—and she had refused his marriage proposal.

  Ah. There it was. She did not want him.

  She might have kissed him at the opera last night— an impulse she was probably very sorry for now—but as much as he had enjoyed that all too brief exchange, it did not soften the blow of her refusal. She did not want him.

  He watched her move diagonally to take Rigby's hand and turn; then he moved to do the same with Miss Wimple. Serafina was hardly a ballet dancer, but she was improving.

  Julien shook his head. He was wasting his time at this ball. He should be making a greater effort to meet the smuggler Stover had told him about. He should be amassing the necessary papers and making preparations for a trip to France.

  And he would. He was leaving after this dance.

  He took Serafina's hand again, turned toward her, and noticed that she put her hand on his chest. His gaze flicked to hers quickly, but she was not looking at him. Rigby and Miss Wimple stepped forward, and he had to cross in front of Serafina to meet Miss Wimple. As he passed her, he could have sworn he felt her hand on his side.

  What was she doing now? Feeling his chest?

  He darted a glance at her again, but—again—she was not looking at him. Had it been an accident? Was it a sign?

  He finished turning Miss Wimple and went back to his place beside Rigby. Serafina was looking past him, her cheeks flushed and pretty and her breathing quick enough that the swell of her breasts rose and fell above her modest bodice.

  He watched the rise and fall of that swell, watched the pink ribbons that ruffled as she breathed.

  Damn. He needed a drink.

  The dance ended, and out of rote, he moved forward and took her arm, leading her around the dance floor. Neither spoke, though half a dozen times Julien considered telling her he was leaving. But the words would not come. Finally, he managed, "I'll fetch you a refreshment."

  "Thank you."

  She released his arm; he bowed then headed for one of the footmen carrying trays of champagne before he remembered she had said she did not care for champagne.

  Well, she was going to drink it tonight. He snatched two glasses and almost ran into Lord Melbourne. He had attended school with Melbourne, and they belonged to the same club. They were on friendly terms, though Julien had never liked the man.

  "So, Valère, when is the happy day?"

  Julien frowned at Melbourne. "Good evening to you, too, Melbourne. What are you going on about?"

  "Your engagement. Shall we wish you happy?" He motioned to his wife, a silly blond watching him beside several others of her ilk.

  "Are you on a reconnaissance mission?"

  "Perhaps."

  Julien smiled tightly. "Sorry. No scandal broth for the gossips tonight." He waved to Lady Melbourne and turned back toward Serafina. But he took only one step before he paused.

  Serafina was talking to the same man with whom he had seen her on the terrace at Lord Aldon's ball. The man was watching him now, and Julien intended to find out why.

  Eleven

  "He's coming this way," Sir Northrop said, but Sarah forced herself not to turn and look. Truth be told, she wanted to run to Valère. The way Sir Northrop was looking at her terrified her. "I won't tolerate further failure," he growled. "Get that key. Tonight."

  With a glare, he walked away, and Sarah stifled a sob. What had he done to The Widow? When she asked about her, Sir Northrop had said, "She is unavailable."

  The vague answer only made Sarah worry more. But she could not show that to Valère. She had to acquire that key. She turned to him and smiled.

  "Who was that?"

  She tried to ignore his demanding tone and took one of the glasses of champagne. She did not care for the taste, but right now she wanted a drink. "I told you at Lord Aldon's ball." She tried to make her voice sound light. "That's Sir Northrop, a family friend."

  He did not answer, just stared at her, his look dubious. Oh, please believe me. If Valère figured out who Sir Northrop was, and what her mission was now, she was doomed. Sir Northrop had just spent five minutes castigating her for her slow progress. She had apologized, tried to explain, but he would have none of it.

  "Make progress tonight, or you'll be out on the streets tomorrow," he'd said. Sarah had wanted to grab his sleeve and plead with him to give her more time, but she knew it would do no good. And she feared losing her position was the least Sir Northrop would do to her.

  So now here was Valère, and she had to get that key.

  She took a large swallow of champagne and tried not to panic.

  "Thirsty?"

  She nodded. "I…" Think! She had to get that key. Her efforts to pick his pocket during the dance had been—not surprising—unsuccessful, which meant she needed him to remove his coat.

  How was she going to do that?

  Seduce him? The idea was laughable—and required another large swallow of champagne.

  "Don't drink that too quickly," Valère cautioned. "You'll get sick."

  She stared at him. That was it!

  "Oh, dear." She felt ill as it was and did not think she would have to do too much more to look the part.

  He narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"

  "I think I need to sit down. I'm not feeling well at all."

  Anxiety flitted over his face. "Do you need the ladies' retiring room?" He looked about frantically. "Or perhaps I could fetch a potted plant?"

  She sighed. She had tossed up her accounts once. Once! Was he never going to forget that?

  She put her hand on his arm. "I feel… dizzy. I need to sit down."

  He looked relieved, and then he glanced down at her hand on his sleeve. Sarah thought his eyes would sear through her skin, and she fought the urge to break contact. After all, she was supposed to convince him to propose again.

  Somehow she doubted her hand on his arm would be quite enough. But it was a start.

  He pointed to a series of chairs at the side of the room. Most were occupied by wallflowers, but there were several available. "You can sit there, and I'll fetch my mother."

  Among the wallflowers was exactly where she belonged, but it was not what she needed. He led her forward, but she stopped him, this time with a hand on his bicep.

  Oh, my.

  He glanced at her hand, then at her.

  "Oh, Your Grace, I do so need to get away from some of these people. The ball is such a crush." This was not true. Compared to Lord Aldon's ball, the Vichou ball was empty. But she was going to ignore that point for the moment. "Do you think we could go somewhere more private?"

  She had not meant it as a romantic invitation, and if he took it that way, she could not tell. His azure eyes betrayed nothing, but he nodded and escorted her out of the room. The vestibule was hardly private, but he soon led her toward another door. Trying the handle, he found it op
en, and then held her back as he peered inside. "It's empty," he said, holding it wider so she could enter.

  She stepped inside, glanced around at the darkened parlor, where only a low-burning fire shed light. Behind her, the door clicked closed, and she gasped in a breath. She should not be here. She should not be alone with a man in a dark room. Reverend Collier, the minister who had come to preach at the Academy every Sunday, would be so disappointed in her.

  But, she reminded herself, she was not here for illicit reasons. She just needed that key.

 

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