The Making of a Duchess (14 page)

   "God, please," she pleaded. "Please."

   The panel slid smoothly down, and Sarah fell back in relief. A second later she was on her feet and dashing across the room to the couch. She threw herself on it,

arranged her dress, and closed her eyes.

   The library door opened again, and Mrs. Eggers peered inside. "Mademoiselle?"

   Sarah sat up. "Oh, Mrs. Eggers. Where have you been? You've kept me waiting."

   "Are you well?" The housekeeper looked concerned to see her lying on the couch.

   "Not at all, Mrs. Eggers. Help me back to my room."

   "Certainly. Did you find a book to read?"

   "I'm afraid I'm not feeling well enough to read at the moment."

   "I see."

   It was only back in her room that Sarah realized she had left the book on Valère's desk. Perhaps he would not notice when he returned.

   She sighed and lay back on her bed, a real headache throbbing behind her eyes.

   Of course he would notice. She was not that lucky.

as a secret language. A fan touching the right cheek meant yes, while a fan touching the left cheek meant no. There was more, but Julien had not cared to remember it. Besides, he could read a woman's signals well enough. He knew without benefit of a fan handle pressed to her lips when a woman wanted to be kissed, or if she dropped her fan in front of his feet, she wanted to form an acquaintance. Women were not so difficult to understand.

   Until now.

   As he led his mother and Mademoiselle Serafina through the crowds lingering in the foyer, up the plushly carpeted stairs to their choice box overlooking the stage, he wished that Mademoiselle Serafina had a fan. She was still a mystery to him. She had refused his marriage proposal, and yet she truly did not seem interested in other men. She was pleasant but formal in her brief conversations with him, and yet at times he caught her peering at him with undisguised interest. Perhaps he might understand better what she wanted from him if she could show him with her fan. But as she didn't carry a fan, he decided to ignore her. Or at least half of him did. The other half…

   The theater hummed quietly. The rest of the
ton
had yet to fill in most of the other boxes, and for the moment he could see the bones of the old building. It was the shape of a half circle with boxes for the wealthy lining the upper tiers and overlooking the stage. The less expensive seats were on the ground. Those on the ground might have a better view of the stage than many in the boxes, but those in the boxes did not come to see the performance. The boxes provided a much better view of the others in attendance. In addition, each was equipped with heavy blue drapes that could be pulled closed for privacy.

   The drapes in their box were open as he seated his mother then pulled out a heavy blue-upholstered chair for Mademoiselle Serafina. She wore a simple gown of white muslin tonight, paired with a fringed Indian shawl in pale blue. Her hair was piled atop her head and arranged in a wild array of curls. Small flowers created a pretty wreath that wound its way lazily about her head. The current style was a profusion of curls about the cheeks and forehead, but Serafina's face was bare, and the severity showed off her delicate bone structure. She was taking in everything with her usually wide eyes and rounded mouth. What did she see that he did not? "Oh, the ceiling is just beautiful!" she exclaimed.

   Julien glanced up at the painting of a chariot and horses. He had seen it many times, and it failed to impress him now. Perhaps he was becoming too jaded, immune to beauty. But then he looked at Serafina and knew he was not immune to all beauty.

   "It is lovely, isn't it?" his mother answered. "I'm certain you must have stunning theaters in Italy as well. In fact, as this opera is in Italian, you can translate for us."

   Julien was watching Serafina and saw her hesitate before answering. "Of course."

   He frowned. Was Rigby right? Did she really not know Italian?

   "Oh, look! There's Lady Hawksthorn," his mother said, pointing to a box across the theater. "I want to have a word with her. Will you two excuse me for just a moment?"

   Julien fought the urge to say no. He didn't particularly want to be alone with Serafina, but he could not leave her either.

   
"Bien sûr, ma mère."
He rose and held the heavy curtain at the back of the box open for her.

   When he returned to his seat, Serafina was watching him. His mother's vacant chair was between them, and he liked that arrangement. He had avoided Serafina after the ball, not liking the feeling he had when she danced with Rigby. He was not going to call it jealousy, but it had some suspicious similarities.

   And then last night… there had been that dream.

   He shook his head.

   "Are you looking forward to the performance?" Serafina asked.

   Julien mustered up his reserves, preparing for chitchat. He could handle chitchat. That was nothing to dream about. "I'm not even certain what the production is."

   "You don't enjoy opera then?"

   Julien shrugged. "The first two hours are tolerable. After that…"

   She smiled.

   "And you?"

   "I've never been to the opera."

   Julien stared at her. "Never? But Italy has so many opera houses, so many of the great composers."

   She looked away, taking in the scene again. "I think my parents always meant to take me."

   Her face was sad, the first time he had seen it so, and he felt like taking her in his arms, comforting her. He had forgotten that her father was so ill. She must be worried about his health.

   But Julien stopped himself from rising and depositing himself in his mother's chair. That was just the kind of thing that would lead to more dreams. Even now, looking at her face in profile, he could remember how soft her skin had been in the dream. How ripe her lips.

   He closed his eyes and willed the image away.

   
Think about something else.

   "You forgot your book," he said, remembering the slim volume he had found on his desk after returning from his solicitor's this evening. He had been angry with Grimsby, thinking the man had not kept the library locked, but Mrs. Eggers had confessed that she had allowed Mademoiselle Serafina in to choose a book to read.

   It sounded innocent enough, but something about Mademoiselle Serafina in his library made him suspicious. It was ridiculous. People took books out of libraries to read all the time. That was what libraries were for. He had gone over and through his desk and seen that nothing was missing. Nothing looked touched.

   And even if it had been touched, even if she did find the letter about Armand, what did it matter? She was a French émigré, just like him. She would certainly understand.

   And yet… he did not trust her.

   What if Rigby was right about the Italian?

   "What book?"

   "
Botany and Horticulture, Volume One.
Mrs. Eggers

told me you wanted a book but then had a headache and went to bed. You must have left it on my desk."

   "I must have," she said, her eyes on the theater.

   "I didn't know you had an interest in botany."

   She glanced at him, and he tried not to notice those strawberry lips. "Oh, I love plants. At… home, we have a beautiful garden."

   The images from the dream were coming back to him now, too fast to control. He pulled Serafina into his arms, molding her body tightly against his, pressing her breasts against his chest, and cupping the back of her neck, holding her firmly. Those strawberry lips parted in surprise, and he bent to claim them. He didn't sample, he took and took, parting that ripe flesh and delving inside.

   She'd been sweet, so sweet and yielding, and he moved his hands up her sides, cupping those ripe breasts—

   "Is there something wrong?"

   Julien blinked, shifted uncomfortably. "No. You were telling me about your garden? What kind of plants do you have in it?"

   
Plants. That was good. He would not be aroused if they
were talking of plants.

   She proceeded to list some generic flowers and then to describe some of the more exotic flowers she would like to grow. Julien forced himself to think about plants—roses, violets, poppies, lilies.

   "Why don't you grow more exotic flowers if you want?"

   She blinked at him, as though the idea had never occurred to her. Then she nodded. "I hope to. One day when—"

   She paused and stared at someone or something across the stage.

   Julien glanced in that direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

   "I need the…" She rose, looking about for her shawl. He stood, plucked it off the back of her chair, and handed it to her. "Thank you. I need the… ah, ladies' retiring room. I'll be back in just a moment."

   "I'll be here." But Julien did not think she heard him.

   He turned and scanned the theater again. What had she seen? Or rather,
whom
had she seen?

   With a muffled curse, he went out after her.

"Good-bye," Sarah told The Widow fifteen minutes later, then rose from the seat she had occupied. She knew it was dangerous to be seen with the spy, but she paused before exiting anyway.

   Part of her felt like fleeing the theater, fleeing London, and never coming back. The Widow had just reiterated all Sir Northrop had said at Lord Aldon's ball: Sarah was to find evidence, convince Valère to propose again, and she should have done it all yesterday.

   She was not working fast enough, and Sir Northrop was becoming impatient. The Widow was impatient as well, but there was something more. Sarah glanced back at The Widow to confirm her suspicions. The woman was frightened. How else could Sarah account for her strange behavior? Moments ago, The Widow had suddenly clutched Sarah's hand tightly and hissed, "Be careful. Trust no one."

   Sarah had frowned and tried to loosen the woman's grip on her hand. "I understand."

   "No, you don't," The Widow said, still hissing. "Trust
no one
."

   Sarah frowned, her heart beginning to pound in alarm. "What does that mean? What's happened?"

   "I can't tell you here." She peered over her shoulder, checking once more that they were alone. "All I can say is I have reason to be suspicious of Sir Northrop." She said the name so quietly, Sarah had to lean forward to hear.

   "Why? What's—"

   "Shh!" The Widow clenched her hand so tightly Sarah winced. "Meet me tomorrow morning in the square outside the Valère town house. I'll find us a secluded spot to speak then."

   "Very well."

   "In the meantime, work quickly. Do not fail Sir Northrop. More than your position may depend upon it."

   Sarah wanted to ask what else she had to lose, but The Widow released her and shooed her away with both hands. And now Sarah stood at the exit, wondering what had frightened The Widow so much. It was becoming more and more apparent that she could not fail at this mission. But how was she supposed to get the key to the secret drawer from Valère? She had tried to search his room, but his valet had shooed her away. No matter. She suspected he kept it on his person. Which meant…

   Sarah closed her eyes.

   She would have to find a way to steal it off his person.

   Opening her eyes and taking a deep breath, Sarah stumbled out of The Widow's box just as the first strings of the orchestra whined. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark corridor as well as the sudden burst of sound, and then she was engulfed in what felt like warm steel. "What—"

   "Shh."

   She knew his scent. The smells of citrus and wood brought an image of Valère's library to mind. "Your Grace?" Her voice wavered slightly. She pulled back, and the lines of his face became clear.

   "You looked unsteady," he said, but he did not release her.

   "I'm fine." She was trembling from… anticipation? Arousal? She tried to make her body cease shaking and couldn't. His body, on the other hand, was perfectly still. He was solid, big, masculine. She realized suddenly that she had never been this close to a man before, and her trembling increased.

   "I thought you might have gotten lost."

   She knew that was not the case and suspected he had been watching her, following her. That was dangerous.
He
was dangerous.