Read The Making of a Duchess Online
Authors: Shana Galen
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
The Making of a Duchess (15 page)
He was still holding her pressed against him, and the feel of him made it difficult for her to think. She should push him away, should demand that he release her, but his arms felt so good around her waist. His hands on her back were soothing, and the whisper of his breath on her forehead was sweet and warm.
She wanted him to kiss her.
She realized it suddenly. Realized as well that she did not want to be soothed at the moment. She wanted him to push her against the wall, press his lips to hers, and kiss her until she forgot all about letters and keys and spies. She wanted his two days' growth of beard to scratch the sensitive skin of her neck, his large hands to pull her tight against his hard body. She needed something to numb her mind and arouse a feeling in her other than worry and fear.
Heat rushed through her, making her lightheaded. Surprised at the ferocity of her thoughts, she lifted her hands to push him away.
But something went amiss. Somehow when she brought her hands to his chest to push him away, she found herself clutching at him and drawing him nearer. His warm breath brushed against her cheek.
"Embrasse-moi,"
he whispered.
"Embrasse-moi,"
he whispered.
Kiss me.
She did not know how it happened, did not know how it was that suddenly she was flush against him, but before she could protest, his mouth was on hers.
Of course, truth be told, she was never going to protest. This was what she wanted. His lips felt exactly as she had imagined—cool and firm. Coaxing. They wanted more from her, and she wanted to give it. If only she knew how. Her head was spinning so fast that all she could think about was his lips slanting over hers, making her body feel heavy and warm.
Yes.
Could the duc de Valère really be kissing her? A plain governess? But she was not a governess at this moment; she was a spy. And he was a traitor. She had to be smart now. She could not succumb to the desires he aroused in her. Using the scant willpower she still possessed, Sarah pushed the duc away.
"You followed me," she said as soon as there were a few inches between them. She did not want to speak of this kiss, too afraid she might succumb once again.
"You're my responsibility," he said, voice husky. "A young attractive woman shouldn't be left unattended."
She melted for an instant, forgetting her good intentions. He thought she was attractive? He—the duc de Valère and one of the most handsome men she knew—thought
she
was attractive?
she
was attractive?
No, she told herself, fighting to reclaim control. He thought Serafina was attractive. He did not know Sarah. He would not care about Sarah.
That grounded her. All the swirling in her head slowed, and the heat zinging through her cooled and froze. She could think clearly again.
"Thank you, sir. That's very thoughtful. I was only visiting with a friend. Perfectly safe."
She moved forward, indicating she was ready to return to their box, and he held out his arm. She took it, forcing herself not to remember the feel of that arm around her, pulling her close, molding her body to his—
Drat!
"Who was your friend? She didn't look familiar."
Oh, no. She would
not
venture into this discussion with him. "Oh, no one you would know," she said vaguely.
not
venture into this discussion with him. "Oh, no one you would know," she said vaguely.
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.
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
."
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."
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."
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.
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?"
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 duc 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
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.
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