The Making of a Duchess (24 page)

   Time was running out, and she could not wait for Valère to come to her. Sir Northrop would not be held at bay much longer. Tucking Sir Northrop's letter into her pocket, she put on a white muslin morning dress with a blue ribbon about the waist. The bodice was
en cœur
with delicate lace edging and short sleeves. A quick look in the mirror told her she should wear her hair tied simply at the nape of her neck, with only a blue ribbon to restrain the chestnut curls. Finally, she examined the full effect in the cheval glass.

   She blinked at the picture she presented. When had she become so pretty? When had she begun to look as though she belonged in this room full of silk and satin? There were moments lately when she could almost forget she had been a governess. She could almost believe she was Serafina.

   Sarah made her way down the curved marble stairs, hardly noticing them now, and was pleased to find the vestibule empty. The duchesse wanted to shop for bridal lace this afternoon, but Sarah had hoped to avoid the excursion. Now she planted herself outside Valère's library.

   She paced back and forth for almost an hour, and finally the door opened, and a small, mustached man scooted out.

   Before the door could close again, she slipped inside. Valère, seated at his desk, spoke without looking up. "Did you forget something Thompson?"

   "No, but perhaps you have."

   His head jerked up, and she had some satisfaction knowing she had surprised him. He rose. "Mademoiselle." He had told her he thought it best if, even in private, he addressed her as Mademoiselle Serafina. Consistency meant there was less chance he would make a mistake in front of the servants or his mother. "I didn't know you'd come in."

   She raised a brow. "You mean you didn't
want
me to come in. You've been avoiding me."

   He sighed and sat back in his chair. "I've been busy."

   "I can see that." She eyed the stacks of papers on his desk but did not move away from the door. "Pray, who was that man Thompson?"

   "No one who need concern you."

   This was not the answer she wanted to hear, and it pushed her over the limit of her patience. "Then what does need concern me, Your Grace? Your hanging? Or perhaps your disembowelment, because that's what's going to happen if you're convicted of treason. You must tell me what progress you have made. The Foreign Office is becoming impatient!" She stood on the opposite side of his desk now and leaned both hands on it as she spoke.

   He frowned at her. "Just hold them off a few more days."

   She spread her arms. "With what? I promised them a cache of documents, and I have nothing. In the meantime, you have a parade of clerks and dour-faced business men in and out, and I don't know what to tell the Foreign Office about any of that either."

   "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 hands 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.

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.