The Making of a Duchess (11 page)

   
"Ha bisogno di—"

   "Rigby, what are you doing?" Valère, holding the two glasses of lemon water, stood behind the redhaired man. The duc was scowling.

   "Oh, hello, old boy. I was just introducing myself to this enchanting creature. Mademoiselle Serafina, I presume?" He winked at her.

   So he
did
speak English. "Yes. And you are?"

   Rigby looked surprised. He turned to Valère. "She speaks English?"

   "Perfectly. Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, may I present Laurence Rigby."

   Now she understood, and she wanted to groan. This man was a friend of Valère's, and he obviously expected
her
to speak fluent Italian. And with the duc standing right there, she could not exactly tell him that she knew only a handful of phrases. That would give her away for sure. Perhaps this man was also a spy—in league with Valère.

   Belatedly, she realized the men were looking at her expectantly. "Oh!" She held out her hand again, and the red-haired man bowed over it. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rigby."

   He looked up at her, brown eyes twinkling. "And I, you. I've been wanting to practice my Italian."

   Of course he did. "Well, I'm the person for that," she said with as much cheer as she could muster. Here she was, masquerading as a Frenchwoman, at a ball filled with Englishmen, and she had to meet the one Englishman who wanted to speak Italian.

   "
Magnifico!
How is this?
I cammelli sopravvivono nel
deserto senza acqua."

   Sarah blinked. What had he said? Something about camels? "
Benissimo!
That was perfect." But the man gave her a look rife with disappointment. Obviously, he wanted her to answer in Italian.

   "Here." Valère shoved the glass of lemon water at her. Sarah sipped it eagerly. She could not be expected to speak Italian when she was drinking.

   "Where is my mother?" Valère asked, his tone sharp and short.

   "She went to speak with the Duke of York." Perhaps she should suggest they join the duchesse. Only half a glass of lemon water stood between her and the Italian language.

   "Mademoiselle Serafina," Rigby began, "May I have this dance? Or should I say,
Potrei avere
—"

   "No." Valère stood with arms folded over his chest. "I've already claimed the first dance."

   Rigby nodded, turned back to her.

   "And the second," Valère interjected.

   Rigby frowned. "You can't keep her to yourself

all night."

Valère offered his arm. "Watch me."

   Sarah did not really want to take Valère's arm. He made her jittery and he made her angry and he made her feel far too warm for comfort.

   But he did not speak to her in Italian. She supposed she should be grateful for small mercies.

   
"Arrivederci!"
Rigby called after them. Sarah could not help but smile over her shoulder at him. He seemed a sweet boy.

   
"Arrivederci!"
she called back, At least she knew what that meant.

   "Don't encourage him," Valère snapped. He was staring straight ahead, leading her toward the actual ballroom, where she could hear the strings finishing their tuning and see couples lining up for a dance.

   Sarah had always been slow to anger. Her easy temperament and her high level of tolerance was one reason she made a good governess, but she was at the end of her patience with Valère. He might be a duc, and he might be the most handsome man she had ever met, but he could also be exceedingly vexing and domineering.

   "I wasn't encouraging him," she snapped back. "I was simply being polite—a skill,
Monsieur le Duc—
which you have yet to master." She wasn't afraid of him anymore. She wasn't even attracted to him anymore.

   "Is that so?" He turned to face her, his eyes burning into her. Alright, then, perhaps she was still a little bit afraid and more than a little attracted. But she was standing her ground.

   "It is." Unfortunately, her voice hadn't stood her ground with her. It sounded weak and feeble.

   He shook his head, obviously annoyed with her. "Let's dance." He made to pull her forward, but she resisted. Who had been this man's governess? He had appalling manners. He scowled at her. "What's wrong now?"

   She resented the
now
. "I thought Frenchmen were supposed to be charming. Did that skip a generation in your case?"

   He blinked at her, took a moment to process the statement, and then gave her a dry smile. "I'm half English. That's the boorish side of me."

   "Yes, well, even an Englishman can request the pleasure of a dance."

   Surprising her, he made a sweeping bow. "
Oui,
mademoiselle.
May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

   She frowned down at him. He was gazing at her through his eyelashes, his eyes daring her to reject him. People were watching them now. She could not very well say no without causing some speculation among the other guests.

   And of course, now that the music began, she remembered that she was a horrible dancer. Oh, why had she encouraged him to ask her in such a way? She should have pled a headache and hid in the ladies' retiring room the rest of the evening!

   Now she had no choice but to accept. "Of course."

   He rose, made a grand gesture of offering his arm, and escorted her onto the dance floor. They took their place among the other couples, he across from her. She smiled at the others in their set, then leaned over and hissed, "Are you certain you want to dance,

Your Grace?"

   The couple beside him looked from her to Valère. Valère smiled at them, then her, tightly. The dance was already beginning. The first couple moved down the set. "I asked you to dance, and I escorted you here, so yes, I'm certain I want to dance."

   "Oh." She watched the second couple, trying to memorize the forms. Was it a turn to the left and then a step or a turn-step-turn?

   He was looking at her dubiously. "Why do you ask?"

   The couple beside them began to repeat the forms, and Sarah felt her heart pump faster. Oh, how she regretted not having practiced dancing more.

   He reached for her, and she stepped on his toe. "Oh, no reason."

   He turned one way, and she went the other. Oh, how mortifying. But she would keep her chin up and get through this. It was no less than the Academy expected.

   Valère tightened his grip on her hand. "It's a turn and then a step," he instructed. "Just listen to me."

   She did. It was embarrassing that he had to tell her the forms, but she completed them successfully. She even began to smile. She was dancing. With Valère's help, she was actually doing this.

   Despite the Italian and the dancing, she might get through this night yet.

   And then at the edge of the crowds, frowning at her, she saw Sir Northrop. He held up ten fingers then walked away.

   Sarah missed the next step.

"I'm so sorry," Sarah said for the tenth time as the duc de Valère escorted her from the ballroom. "My father has been ill for some time, and I have not wanted to dance. I'm afraid I'm out of practice." It was a clever lie, and she actually said it rather smoothly. But at that moment she would have given anything to be a better dancer than liar. The duc was limping—very slightly, but she noticed.

   "It's fine," he said.

   "No, it's not. You're limping."

   He gave a surprised look. "Old injury. Nothing to do with you." He paused just at one of the doors of the ballroom, not caring that he was blocking the exit. Sarah squeezed into a corner with a potted plant to make more room. "Would you like me to fetch you a glass of champagne?"

   He was still acting the perfect chaperone. Despite the fact that she had tread on his toes half a dozen times, he was going to fetch her a refreshment as was the custom. Obviously the duc could affect good manners when the moment called for them.

"No, thank you. I don't drink champagne."

"Well, I do." And he limped off.

So much for affecting good manners.

   But his departure did give her a moment to think. During the dance, Sir Northrop had held up ten fingers. What could that mean? Ten o'clock? She glanced at the longcase clock across the room. It was quarter of ten now. But how would she know where to meet him?

   If she were a spy—a real spy—where would she plan to meet? The terrace? The library? The conservatory? Did this house even have a conservatory?

   She would start with the terrace. The French doors leading outside were just past the row of potted plants beside her.

   "There you are, Serafina."

   Sarah glanced up and saw the duchesse leading a man and woman toward her. Not now! She glanced at the clock again. Twelve minutes until ten.

   The duchesse stood before her. "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois," she said in French, "may I present the comte and comtesse Poitou."

   Sarah curtseyed and glanced at the clock again. "
Enchantè,
" she answered.

   "The comte and comtesse knew your parents," the duchesse continued in French.

   "Really?" Sarah's French was fluent, but between pretending to be Mademoiselle Serafina, worrying about the time, and wondering what Sir Northrop wanted, she could hardly remember her English much less concentrate on this conversation.

   "We were so relieved to learn that you and your family made it out of France alive," the comtesse said. "As I recall, your father vexed the king mightily. If we'd only listened to Guyenne, we might have been spared that so-called revolution."

   Sarah frowned in confusion. Had Serafina's father said something that could have prevented the revolution? Something bold enough that the king would exile him? Since it seemed she was expected to say something, she smiled and gave a vague,
"Oui, bien sûr."

   It was eight minutes to ten. Surely, Sir Northrop would wait for her.

   "How did you manage to get out?" the comte asked.

   The duchesse nodded. "Oh, yes. Do tell the story."

   "The story?" Sarah took a quick breath. Now she had to make up a story?

   "Delphine gave me a scattering of details in her letters," the duchesse told the comte, "but I'm certain Serafina will tell it better."

   Sarah gritted her teeth to keep from screaming in frustration. Could nothing go right tonight? How was she supposed to tell a story she didn't know?—she glanced at the clock—in five minutes and in French, no less!

   She was going to murder Sir Northrop.

   But the duchesse and her friends were looking at her, their faces rapt with attention. She had to say something. "It began in"—she watched the duchesse—"Paris."

   The duchesse furrowed her brow.

   "I mean, the country outside Paris."

   The duchesse continued to frown. "I thought you were in Marseilles."

   "Oh." Sarah nodded. If the duchesse knew the story so well, why didn't
she
just tell it! "Is that where Mama began the story?"

   "Yes. She said you were in Marseilles, all three of you riding in the carriage. It was Sunday, and you were on the way home from—"

   "Mass," Sarah interjected with a smile. "That's right."

   The duchesse frowned again. "I thought the king sent the news in the evening."

   "Um—it was vespers," Sarah said as though this should be obvious.

   "Ah!" The duchesse nodded. "I see. Go on."

   
Go on?
She glanced at the ceiling and tried to conjure something else to say. If this story was not believable, it might cast doubt on who she was and alert the duc that he was being spied upon. The consequences would be dire. She
had
to be clever now…

   Had not Mademoiselle Serafina been only a toddler at the time of the Guyenne's flight? Yes!

   "I fear my memory of the event is somewhat unreliable," she said with a smile. "I was so young."

   "Of course you were." The duchesse patted her arm.

   "But I believe that after my parents received the king's letter—"

   "Mademoiselle Serafina? Is that you?"

   Sarah whirled to see Sir Northrop coming across the room, a huge smile on his face. The duchesse, comte, and comtesse turned as well. Sir Northrop's eyes bore into her, and she forced herself to speak. "Sir Northrop, I didn't know you would be here."

   He joined their small group, and Sarah introduced him.

   "And how do you know one another?" the duchesse asked her.

   Sir Northrop looked at Sarah, and Sarah looked back. Apparently, he had not come to save her after all. "We met… in Italy."

   "In Italy?" Sir Northrop shot a glare at her.

   "Oh, how lovely. I adore Italy!" the comtesse exclaimed, her accented English thick and difficult to understand. "Where in Italy?"

   Sarah closed her eyes for a moment and said the first place that popped into her mind. "The Piazza San Pietro. Isn't that right, Sir Northrop?" His eyes were throwing daggers, but she did not care. Let him think on his feet for once. He was the one knighted for service.

   Sir Northrop took a long moment to consider then said coolly, "My wife and I traveled to Rome on our honeymoon. We first met Mademoiselle Serafina and her family there. Of course, Serafina was but a child then. Our families have kept up the connection over the years."