The Making of a Duchess

by Shana Galen

  "Tell them I'm working, and you are taking every opportunity to spy on me." Valère sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest.

  "Very well, but then I must have something to show for my efforts. I've avoided Sir Northrop as long as I can. The next time I am out, shopping for lace or some such thing, he will find me."

  "So stay in."

  "How can I? I'm forced to spend hours a day preparing for our wedding. I feel as though I'm engaged to your mother."

  His blue eyes swept over her, and she was glad she had taken care with her appearance. She did not mind his penetrating looks so much now.

  "I see," he said, gaze lingering on her face. "You feel neglected."

  She closed her eyes. Was Valère intentionally trying to exasperate her? "I don't feel neglected, but I must have something to show the Foreign Office before they give up entirely and just arrest you." And her with him.

  "Then you'd certainly be feeling neglected."

  She felt her face color now, knew he was teasing her and was not quite certain how to react. "That was not what I meant. I simply find it ridiculous that I spend six hours each day planning a wedding that will never occur."

  "Why do you assume it will never occur?"

  She gripped the edge of his desk, so surprised she could barely speak. "Wh-what do you mean?"

  He shrugged. "What if I did marry you?"

  Was the man mad? "You can't!"

  "Pourquoi? Are you already married?"

  "No, b-but I'm not"—she lowered her voice— "I'm not Mademoiselle Serafina." And no amount of wishing or looking in mirrors would make it so.

  "Will that really matter once I return from France with my brother?"

  She blinked at him. "Of course. Do you think your mother wants her son married to a governess? An orphan no one wanted and no one cares about?"

  She had said too much. She realized her mistake immediately and clamped her mouth shut. He was staring at her, and she knew she should leave immediately. But her feet would not move.

  "Is that how you see yourself?" He stood and came around the desk. Finally, she gained control of her feet and took two steps back. "You think no one cares about you? No one wants you?"

  "Yes—no—I don't know."

  He was coming closer. With each step she took back, he took one forward. "I don't want to talk about this. I just need you to give me something to hold off the Foreign Office." She bumped into the wall and looked for an escape, but he trapped her, placing one hand on either side of her shoulders.

  "Sarah." He whispered the word, and she closed her eyes. Her name on his lips was more riveting than any book she had read and sweeter than any of Gunther's ices. "Do you know why I stay away from you?"

  She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

  "Because I do want you."

  Of their own volition, her eyes opened, and she stared at him. She could not have heard him correctly.

  "Do you know that every night I walk past your bedroom door, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to open it, not to go inside and—"

  She should have been thankful he left the last to her imagination, except she had a very vivid imagination. She could remember his kisses, the heat of his body, the gentle pressure of his hands all too well. And she had spent her own restless hours, tossing and turning in the lonely bed, thinking of him.

  She looked up and met his eyes, and that was her mistake.

  "Tu es si belle." With a groan, he took her in his arms. Enveloped in his strength and warmth, she melted into him. His lips caressed hers so gently and tenderly that she moaned. She wanted more. She ached to feel wanted. Ached to feel beautiful—Tu es si belle. Did he really think her beautiful?

  She raised her hands and wrapped them around his shoulders, gripping his hair in her hands, and pulling his mouth down hard on hers.

  He did not hesitate but kissed her so thoroughly it took her breath away. His mouth was firm and yet gentle, and when he parted her lips and tasted her, she clung to him.

  After a moment, he broke the kiss and dropped his head on her shoulder, breathing rapidly. "You don't know the effect you have on me. I'm afraid what might happen if you ever realized, ever tried to seduce me."

  "I wouldn't know how to seduce you," she admitted.

  He glanced up at her, his eyes so blue she felt she could drown in them. "Would you like me to show you?"

  "No." She shook her head. "It's not proper—"

  He put a finger over her lips. "Just a kiss." He lifted a finger, placed it on her lips. She did feel self-conscious then. She hated her lips. "Do you know I dream about your mouth?" he whispered.

  Sarah felt heat rush to her face and looked away, but he drew her eyes back to his. She was certain he must be having nightmares.

  "I think about its shape, color, how it feels pressed against mine."

  She almost groaned but held herself in check with a single thought: "But my mouth is-is horrible."

  He frowned, his forehead creasing. "What do you mean?"

  "It's too large. I-it doesn't fit my face. It—"

  Surprising her, he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers lightly. Once. Twice. "You're wrong, Sarah. It's perfect. It's the most perfect, most seductive mouth I've ever seen on a woman."

  Sarah could not believe his words. He actually liked her mouth? He thought it was perfect? She had always seen it as such a flaw, as so glaringly unattractive. But Julien loved her mouth. Was it possible she was indeed beautiful in his eyes?

  He pulled her closer. "If you want to seduce me, show me you want me with a kiss."

  "I don't think—"

  "Embrasse-moi, chérie."

  "And then we'll stop?" She sounded breathless.

  He raised a brow. "Do you want to stop?"

  She felt her cheeks heat. "No."

  "Sarah." In that one word, he managed to sound pained and aroused all at once.

  Feeling bold now, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. She made her touch feather-light, allowing him to feel the softness of her skin, and then pulling away.

  He took a deep breath. "Une fois de plus." Once more.

  Pleased at his response, even more pleased that she should be the cause, she leaned forward and caressed his lips again, this time lingering longer and kissing him gently.

  His hands on her waist tightened. "You're killing me," he murmured into her ear. "Now really kiss me. Kiss me like I kissed you before."

  She shook her head. "But I don't know how—"

  "Don't think. Embrasse-moi."

  Her heart was pounding now, the blood so loud in her ears it sounded like a roar. She was embarrassed and thrilled and scared all at the same time. Part of her wanted to break free from the safety of his embrace, to resist falling even more in love with him than she already was. For she knew now, without any doubt, that she was more than just infatuated with him.

  Infatuation was admiring how handsome he was, being awed by his title and wealth.

  Love was missing him miserably the last few days, dwelling on all the little kindnesses he had ever shown her—from dancing with her at the Aldon's ball to shielding her from danger in Seven Dials. Love was not ever wanting to be outside his arms.

  She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him gently. He accepted it, returning the kiss but allowing her to take charge. The kiss was tender, but what she wanted was passion. She wanted him to feel the passion he flared in her.

  As he had done, she used her tongue to part his lips, delving inside tentatively, just to taste. He tasted sweet, like brandy and cinnamon. Feeling brash, she explored further, pressing her body to his, liking the feel of his hardness against her softness.

  He kissed her back, his tongue twining with hers until she could not tell who was kissing whom. His hands were on her back, her waist, and then her ribcage. She could feel them inching upward. Her breasts felt heavy with need. She needed him to touch her there, ached for it.

  And then his h
ands were on her, cupping her, stroking the tender peaks of her nipples through the thin material of her stays and gown. She allowed her head to fall back, and he pushed at the edges of lace at her throat, kissing her neck, his mouth and his hands stroking her until all she could think of was how much she wanted him.

  "Julien?" There was a tap on the door. "Are you in there?"

  The door opened, and he jumped away from her, but it was too late. Even had his mother not seen the two of them wrapped in each other's arms, Sarah knew that one look at her flushed face would tell all.

  The duchesse blinked then nodded briskly. "Excuse me. I didn't realize."

  She turned and walked out, the train of her light blue gown trailing after her.

  ***

  "Damn," Julien swore again, then gave Sarah an apologetic look. "Sorry. I need to go after her." "Of course." She was almost breathless, and her

  face glowed with desire. Her lips, those lips that kept him awake at night, were swollen and red, and all he wanted to do was claim them again.

  But he wouldn't.

  Thank God his mother had entered when she had, because he had already gone too far, and nothing, short of a fire or flood would have induced him to stop. When he was touching Sarah, he could not get enough of her. Her body fit with his, and even now his hands ached to span her waist, dive into her thick hair, or cup those ample breasts.

  He could not stop his eyes from straying to her bodice. The lace was so delicate he could easily tear it away. Then there would be mere inches of material between his mouth and that soft flesh.

  He almost groaned aloud at the image and took another step back. "I'd better speak with my mother."

  "Yes."

  "You wait here," he said in case she thought to go with him.

  She did not argue, just walked slowly to the couch and sank down on it.

  He found his mother in the parlor. This was obviously where all the wedding preparations were being made, and the small rosewood desk she used for correspondence was covered with sheets of parchment. His mother was seated at that cluttered desk, scratching out another list of tasks to be completed before the wedding.

  Julien stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. She glanced up and then down at her list again. "Yes, Julien?"

  He was not used to coldness from her. "Am I interrupting?"

  She did not look up. "No more than I interrupted you a moment ago."

  "I know how that must have looked—"

  "It was exactly how it looked," she said, dipping her quill in ink and continuing to write. "That's why I'm moving up the date of the wedding."

  "That's not necessary."

  She glanced at him, brows raised. "It looked necessary a moment ago."

  "I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

  "I certainly hope it will happen again—just not until after the wedding vows." She set down the quill. "Do you know what surprises me the most, Julien?"

  He shook his head.

  "I didn't think you liked her."

  He ran a hand through his hair and considered, took his time choosing the words. "She's not what I expected."

  "Nor I. She's nothing like her mother. Delphine is lively and vivacious. Serafina is quiet and unassuming, and her beauty surpasses that of Delphine." She held up a hand before Julien could protest. "But her beauty would be nothing to me if I did not see the way she looks when she speaks of you. Then, well, she's absolutely stunning."

  Julien froze and felt his heart clench. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, it's obvious she's completely smitten with you. Her face lights up when she mentions your name."

  At her words, all the air in his lungs dried up. Could it be possible she felt something for him? That all of this was more than simply the work of a spy, that she truly cared for him? He did not know if he could trust her, but he knew he wanted to. Desperately.

  "I wasn't certain about this match," his mother was saying, "but now that I see you return her passion, I think we had better proceed quickly. You'll need to get a special license."

  "That's not possible right now." He took a seat in the small, curved-back chair opposite the desk. It was so dainty, he feared he would break it with his weight.

  "It had better be possible, if we're going to have the wedding in two weeks."

  "I may not be here."

  He allowed the words to hang between them. He had made no mention to his mother of the letter he had received with news of Armand or his planned voyage to France. They had traveled this road before, and it only brought her great pain. She preferred to believe her youngest sons were dead. Believing them still alive was too painful. And even more painful was hoping Julien would find them, only to be disappointed again and again.

  By implicit agreement, he had not mentioned his plans to travel to France, but he knew his mother was extremely astute. She knew what went on in her home, could guess why businessmen came in and out in a steady stream for the last several days.

  "I was afraid of this," she said quietly.

  "Perhaps it's best if we don't talk about it."

  "We haven't talked about it for years, and that hasn't yet stopped you from pursuing this foolish quest."

  Julien clenched his hands around the arms of the chair. "You wouldn't think it so foolish if you had access to the information I do."

  "A letter from Gilbert, our former butler, saying he knows where Armand is? That information?"

  Julien stared at her. "How did you—"

  "He sent me a letter as well, probably hoping one of us would believe it."

  "Why would he lie? He was always a loyal servant."

  She stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. "Were you there that night, Julien? Do you remember our loyal servants hacking down our doors, assaulting us with candlesticks and brooms and"—she looked down at his foot, and he felt a twinge of pain at the memory—"pitchforks."

  "That wasn't one of ours."

  "Don't be deceived. Our servants wanted us dead and gone."

  "Not all of them."

  She ignored him. "And do you know what Gilbert will do once he has you in France? He'll send you to the guillotine, his revenge complete."

  "Ma mère, I don't believe that."

  "Fine, then he'll threaten to reveal your identity or turn you into the authorities unless you give him money. Or perhaps he hopes to blackmail you into bringing him to England. I don't know."

  Julien rose and went to her, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands. "And what if, just possibly,

  Armand is alive?"

  She shook her head. "I cannot believe that, Julien. I know he's dead."

  "And if he's not? If there's even the slightest possibility, shouldn't I go and investigate it?"

  "That's not your responsibility!"

  "Then whose is it?" He rose and turned away from her, stalking across the room. "Who's going to save him if not me?"

  Damn it! He had raised his voice and was fighting to keep his temper under control.

  She came up behind him, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. "It's too late to save him, Julien. And it was never your responsibility. If it was anyone's, it was mine. I failed him and Bastien, not you."

  "Father failed them." The words were out before he even knew what he was saying. Belatedly, he remembered Sarah's argument that he was not his father. Was she right? Was he trying to right his father's failures?

  His mother turned him around, put her hands on his cheeks. "Your father gave his life to give us a chance, Julien. He fought with everything he had so I might escape, so I might save you boys. I'm the one who failed."

  Julien sighed. "We're a family of failures." She smiled ruefully at the sarcasm. "It's none of our faults, ma mère. But I could never live with myself if I didn't respond to that letter. I have to go to France. I have to try once more to find Armand."

  She shook her head sadly. "He's dead, Julien."

  "How do you know?" He said it gently, seeing the

  te
ars in her eyes.

  "I would have felt something if Armand or Bastien was still alive. I would have felt something, and I don't, Julien. I'm just dead inside."

  "Ma mère." He took her in his arms, holding her as she wept silently.

  A long time later, she parted from him, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "I don't want you to suffer the same fate I have, Julien. You don't have to die inside. Stay here, marry Serafina, start a family. Put this search for your brothers aside. It will only bring you grief. I know."