Her long brown hair swept dramatically away from her face. Coiling on top of her head like a dark serpent, it sparkled with what looked like jewels. With her hair pulled away, her fine bone structure was apparent. She had elegant cheekbones, a straight nose, and large eyes.
And then there was the mouth. Someone had
rouged her lips, and now they looked moist and ripe as a strawberry. She was watching him, that mouth slightly parted, and he wondered what she would do if he strolled up to her, swept her into his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.
He was tempted to find out.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, glancing down at her gown then back up at him.
"No." He clenched his jaw, annoyed at himself. He was not supposed to be thinking of her anymore.
She smoothed her hands over the pink gown she wore, drawing his attention to it again. It was an interesting choice, as the colors and the style made her look young and innocent. But one look at the neckline and the display of soft, porcelain flesh, and Julien was in no doubt that this was no child. He tried to focus on something else—the way the gown cinched in just beneath that roundness, the perfect lines of the train, the quality of the material.
No. None of that drew his attention as much as that low neckline. Unfortunately, she seemed aware his gaze was locked on her bosom. She lifted a hand, fingering the small diamond necklace she wore. Besides the necklace and dainty earbobs, she wore no other jewelry, which was not the fashion. That was to her credit, as he liked her simplicity. He liked it all—too much.
"I was just going downstairs." She reached down and adjusted the fingers of one glove, her face flushed now, her eyes not meeting his.
"I'll escort you." Before he could think his actions through, he held out one arm.
She looked at it reluctantly, and he wanted to kick himself. Why was he electing to spend time with her? He had done his duty, asked for her hand, and— except for a turn around the ballroom and a dance or two—he could be done with her. If only he could stop imagining his hands freeing that silky hair and watching it cascade over her bare back.
"Thank you." She took his arm, and he moved forward, escorting her down the marble staircase. "Are you anticipating the ball?"
He knew this was idle chatter, something polite to say to break the tension. Something to assure him that she was not going to bring up details of the night before.
But he didn't feel like excusing her that easily.
"I doubt I'm anticipating it as much as you, my lady."
She glanced at him, those milk-and-tea-colored eyes wide with confusion. Was she really that guileless?
"I'm actually not anticipating the evening at all," she said, and he could see it was the truth—not some carefully crafted rejoinder. "I told you I preferred not to attend."
"Ah, but there's no romance here."
He saw her chin hitch up a notch. "Oh. This is about last night."
They reached the vestibule, and she released his arm, moved away. His mother was still preparing for the ball. Now was the time to go to his office, look at those papers. He should leave Mademoiselle Serafina Artois to entertain herself until it was his duty to do so.
He glanced at the library door, closed and locked— as he had instructed Grimsby to keep it from now on—but he didn't move in that direction. Instead, he turned back to her, clasped his hands behind his back. "Marriage is my duty," he said. She had been studying a painting, and he saw her form go rigid at his statement. "I don't expect you to understand this, but I take duty seriously."
She turned to face him. "So your proposal last night was purely a matter of duty. A business arrangement." Her eyes flashed, and he thought he saw a hint of annoyance in her face.
"It's not romantic. Though it is fitting."
She stepped forward. "How so?"
"The goal of the revolution, of Robespierre and his ilk, was to snuff us out. If you and I were to marry, produce offspring, we'd defeat that. We'd beat them."
"You sweep me off my feet, Your Grace."
He could not help but smile at that. The chit had some backbone. "You want to be swept off your feet, you'll find plenty who'll try at Aldon's ball. They may not know much about duty, but then that isn't your concern."
Her eyes flashed at that. Oh, yes, she definitely had some backbone.
"I see. So because I turned down your… business proposal, I now have no sense of duty?"
He shrugged. "It's not generally something women concern themselves with."
Her head snapped up, making her stance regal and indignant. And annoyed. "Oh, really? Why you—" She stopped, making him wonder just what epithet she would have used. "You know nothing about me or my sense of duty."
He crossed his arms over his chest, enjoying the
repartee. "I know you want romance."
She stalked closer to him. "And I know you're relieved to be free of the
duty
of marrying me. However, I must point out, Your Grace, were this matrimonial duty truly so important to you, you might have tried just a tiny bit harder to accomplish it."
He stiffened. "Are you that shallow?"
She blinked, close enough now that he could see what looked like gold flecks in her brown eyes. "I'm afraid not. The truth is that no matter how you'd proposed, the answer would still have been no."
He opened his mouth to say he knew not what, and his mother called, "What's this? Is anything wrong?"
Mademoiselle Serafina jumped back as though burned, but he took his time. Deliberately, he turned and nodded to his mother. "
Bon soir, ma mère.
You look lovely." He extended his arm as she reached the landing. She took it, but her eyes were darting from him to Mademoiselle Serafina.
"Were you quarreling?" She addressed Mademoiselle Serafina, who was looking at the same painting again.
Mademoiselle Serafina turned, pretending she had not heard. "
Excusez-moi?
Oh, Your Grace, you look beautiful.
Trés magnifique."
"Merci—"
"What is that material? Satin?" Mademoiselle Serafina moved closer to admire the dress.
"Why, yes, it is satin. Do you like it? I was afraid the color might not suit me."
"Oh, no. I love burnished copper. It's perfect." Mademoiselle Serafina shot him a sidelong look, and he had to give her credit. She evaded the question
better than any barrister might.
That didn't mean he wasn't still annoyed. And after their exchange tonight, he might even notch that up to aggravated. But he would have to put all of that aside for the moment. The ball and duty called.
***
Sarah had been at the ball for a good quarter hour before she stopped staring and was able to form a coherent statement. It was not so much that she was impressed by the ballroom or the titled guests, but she could not believe the way in which some of the crème de la crème behaved. The low necklines of the gowns, the men's leering stares, the blatant flirting with anyone other than one's spouse. It was quite a departure from the Puritan values she'd been taught at the Academy.
"Are you feeling well, Serafina?" the duchesse asked for what must have been the third time. "Julien, fetch her a glass of lemon water,
s'il vous plaît
."
Sarah did not think lemon water would fix this dissolute gathering, but she let the duc go. She could breathe more easily when he was not standing beside her.
"I'm fine. A little overwhelmed, I'm afraid."
The duchesse nodded. "These things are always a bit of a crush. Come, let's commandeer those chairs." She pointed to a matched pair of exquisitely carved straight-backed chairs upholstered in what looked like velvet. Behind them the wall was painted to resemble the heavens. The blues and whites were startling, as were the images of half-dressed angels or gods—she
was not sure which—who frolicked there.
The ballroom, if not the guests, was exquisite. Sarah had not imagined there were rooms of such size in London. The city she knew was cramped and dirty, but this room was airy and immaculate—or at least it had been until half of the
ton
had descended. Now the polished wooden floors were covered with satin slippers and men's pumps. The huge French windows that overlooked extensive, sculptured grounds were blocked by forms dressed in every shade, from the whitest white to black as dark as midnight. The orchestra was seated in the balcony overlooking the spectacle, and they were just beginning to tune their instruments, causing the already noisy crowd to elevate the volume of their conversations.
No wonder the duc had not objected to fetching her a glass of lemon water. The refreshment room was probably quieter and less crowded. Sarah sat dutifully beside the duchesse and surveyed the enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. She did not think that one year of her wages would pay for a single crystal on that chandelier, and there were hundreds of crystals and three large chandeliers!
"Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire."
Sarah's head snapped around as the Devonshires were announced. Amazing that she, a simple governess, was at a sumptuous ball with the likes of the Duke of Devonshire! Who would be announced next? One of the princes? The King?
Oh, she did not belong here. She did not belong at all. Any moment, someone—perhaps the Duke of Devonshire himself—would see her, point, and say,
"What's
she
doing here?"
Sarah closed her eyes and tried to calm down. Of course she wasn't going to be exposed. She knew no one here, and even if she had known any of these fabulously wealthy people, they wouldn't have recognized her. She recalled the picture of herself in the glass before she had gone downstairs. She knew her pink silk gown, the color of a baby's lips, was perfectly appropriate for the evening. The modest diamond necklace and earrings she had chosen to wear with it showed wealth without being ostentatious. Madame Leroix—she had not been able to convince the duchesse that her hairdresser was not needed—had done wonders with her hair and cosmetics.
Even Valère had given her an admiring look—or two—when he had first seen her. She felt her cheeks heat now as she remembered the caress of his gaze over her body.
"Are you certain you feel well?" the duchesse asked again. "You're quite flushed."
"I'm fine." She must stop thinking of him! But Valère had looked at her in a way she was not used to. The honest approbation in his eyes made her feel beautiful. And in these clothes and with this hair and these diamonds, how could she not feel beautiful? Perhaps she actually looked as though she belonged at this ball and among these members of the peerage.
"Good. Then come with me," the duchesse said. "I want to introduce you to the Duke of York. He's just arrived."
Sarah balked. "Th-the Duke of York? The prince?"
The duchesse nodded. "Yes. Have you met before?"
Sarah shook her head, eager and nervous at the same time. "No. I-I…" Her mind raced for something to say when she met the duke.
Hello
seemed far too banal.
At the far side of the room, Valère was returning, two glasses of murky liquid in his hands. Sarah seized the opportunity to put off the introduction until she had thought of some witty bon mot. "I think I had better wait for the duc to return with the lemon water. I find my throat is parched."
The duchesse gave her a look, and Sarah wanted to shake her head. No, no, no. She knew what that look meant, and that was not why she wanted to wait for Valère at all.
"Of course. You wait here for Julien. I'm certain you two would like a few moments alone."
"No. That wasn't what I meant."
But the duchesse was already walking away, threading through the crowds toward a distinguishedlooking man in military uniform.
Sarah took the opportunity to sink down again into one of the plush chairs. The ball was exciting and spectacular, but in her heart she knew, even if she woke up a duchess tomorrow, she would not belong here. She was a simple girl with simple dreams. She dreamed of a husband and, one day, children. She wanted love and laughter and a happy, uncomplicated life. She did not need jewels or expensive gowns; she just needed a man to know and love her for who she was—Sarah Smith, governess and orphan.
"Buona sera, signorina."
With a frown, Sarah looked up at the tall,
red-haired man standing before her. He was dressed impeccably in evening attire. His cravat was a little too large and frilly, and his hair overly styled, but he had a friendly smile.
Why was he speaking Italian to her? Was this some strange aristocratic custom she did not know?
"Buona
sera,"
she answered. She held out a hand, and he took it, kissed it.
"Bella. Molto bella."
He did not release her hand.
She smiled, hoping whatever he had said was positive. Strange—with his red hair and fair skin, the man did not
look
Italian.