The Making of a Duchess (16 page)

   He watched her move diagonally to take Rigby's hand and turn; then he moved to do the same with Miss Wimple. Serafina was hardly a ballet dancer, but she was improving.

   Julien shook his head. He was wasting his time at this ball. He should be making a greater effort to meet the smuggler Stover had told him about. He should be amassing the necessary papers and making preparations for a trip to France.

   And he would. He was leaving after this dance.

   He took Serafina's hand again, turned toward her, and noticed that she put her hand on his chest. His gaze flicked to hers quickly, but she was not looking at him. Rigby and Miss Wimple stepped forward, and he had to cross in front of Serafina to meet Miss Wimple. As he passed her, he could have sworn he felt her hand on his side.

   What was she doing now? Feeling his chest?

   He darted a glance at her again, but—again—she was not looking at him. Had it been an accident? Was it a sign?

   He finished turning Miss Wimple and went back to his place beside Rigby. Serafina was looking past him, her cheeks flushed and pretty and her breathing quick enough that the swell of her breasts rose and fell above her modest bodice.

   He watched the rise and fall of that swell, watched the pink ribbons that ruffled as she breathed.

   Damn. He needed a drink.

   The dance ended, and out of rote, he moved forward and took her arm, leading her around the dance floor. Neither spoke, though half a dozen times Julien considered telling her he was leaving. But the words would not come. Finally, he managed, "I'll fetch you a refreshment."

   "Thank you."

   She released his arm; he bowed then headed for one of the footmen carrying trays of champagne before he remembered she had said she did not care for champagne.

   Well, she was going to drink it tonight. He snatched two glasses and almost ran into Lord Melbourne. He had attended school with Melbourne, and they belonged to the same club. They were on friendly terms, though Julien had never liked the man.

   "So, Valère, when is the happy day?"

   Julien frowned at Melbourne. "Good evening to you, too, Melbourne. What are you going on about?"

   "Your engagement. Shall we wish you happy?" He motioned to his wife, a silly blond watching him beside several others of her ilk.

   "Are you on a reconnaissance mission?"

   "Perhaps."

   Julien smiled tightly. "Sorry. No scandal broth for the gossips tonight." He waved to Lady Melbourne and turned back toward Serafina. But he took only one step before he paused.

   Serafina was talking to the same man with whom he had seen her on the terrace at Lord Aldon's ball. The man was watching him now, and Julien intended to find out why.

"He's coming this way," Sir Northrop said, but Sarah forced herself not to turn and look. Truth be told, she wanted to run to Valère. The way Sir Northrop was looking at her terrified her. "I won't tolerate further failure," he growled. "Get that key. Tonight."

   With a glare, he walked away, and Sarah stifled a sob. What had he done to The Widow? When she asked about her, Sir Northrop had said, "She is unavailable."

   The vague answer only made Sarah worry more. But she could not show that to Valère. She had to acquire that key. She turned to him and smiled.

   "Who was that?"

   She tried to ignore his demanding tone and took one of the glasses of champagne. She did not care for the taste, but right now she wanted a drink. "I told you at Lord Aldon's ball." She tried to make her voice sound light. "That's Sir Northrop, a family friend."

   He did not answer, just stared at her, his look dubious.
Oh, please believe me.
If Valère figured out who Sir Northrop was, and what her mission was now, she was doomed. Sir Northrop had just spent five minutes castigating her for her slow progress. She had apologized, tried to explain, but he would have none of it.

   "Make progress tonight, or you'll be out on the streets tomorrow," he'd said. Sarah had wanted to grab his sleeve and plead with him to give her more time, but she knew it would do no good. And she feared losing her position was the least Sir Northrop would do to her.

   So now here was Valère, and she had to get that key.

   She took a large swallow of champagne and tried not to panic.

   "Thirsty?"

   She nodded. "I…"
Think!
She had to get that key. Her efforts to pick his pocket during the dance had been—not surprising—unsuccessful, which meant she needed him to remove his coat.

   How was she going to do that?

   Seduce him? The idea was laughable—and required another large swallow of champagne.

   "Don't drink that too quickly," Valère cautioned. "You'll get sick."

   She stared at him. That was it!

   "Oh, dear." She felt ill as it was and did not think she would have to do too much more to look the part.

   He narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"

   "I think I need to sit down. I'm not feeling well at all."

   Anxiety flitted over his face. "Do you need the ladies' retiring room?" He looked about frantically. "Or perhaps I could fetch a potted plant?"

   She sighed. She had tossed up her accounts once.
Once!
Was he never going to forget that?

   She put her hand on his arm. "I feel… dizzy. I need to sit down."

   He looked relieved, and then he glanced down at her hand on his sleeve. Sarah thought his eyes would sear through her skin, and she fought the urge to break contact. After all, she was supposed to convince him to propose again.

   Somehow she doubted her hand on his arm would be quite enough. But it was a start.

   He pointed to a series of chairs at the side of the room. Most were occupied by wallflowers, but there were several available. "You can sit there, and I'll fetch my mother."

   Among the wallflowers was exactly where she belonged, but it was not what she needed. He led her forward, but she stopped him, this time with a hand on his bicep.

   Oh, my.

   He glanced at her hand, then at her.

   "Oh, Your Grace, I do so need to get away from some of these people. The ball is such a crush." This was not true. Compared to Lord Aldon's ball, the Vichou ball was empty. But she was going to ignore that point for the moment. "Do you think we could go somewhere more private?"

   She had not meant it as a romantic invitation, and if he took it that way, she could not tell. His azure eyes betrayed nothing, but he nodded and escorted her out of the room. The vestibule was hardly private, but he soon led her toward another door. Trying the handle, he found it open, and then held her back as he peered inside. "It's empty," he said, holding it wider so she could enter.

   She stepped inside, glanced around at the darkened parlor, where only a low-burning fire shed light. Behind her, the door clicked closed, and she gasped in a breath. She should not be here. She should not be alone with a man in a dark room. Reverend Collier, the minister who had come to preach at the Academy every Sunday, would be so disappointed in her.

   But, she reminded herself, she was not here for illicit reasons. She just needed that key.

   She turned toward Valère, who was still standing at the door, watching her. "Is this better?"

   "Yes, thank you." She took a seat on the chaise longue and tried to think. The fire was warm. Perhaps if she could lure him close to it, he would remove his coat.

   "I'll go fetch my mother," he said, pushing away from the door. "I'll return in a moment."

   "
No!
" It was a yell, and she immediately lowered her voice. "I mean, just wait with me for one moment, please. I don't want to take your mother away from her friends."

   "Alright." But he looked uncertain.

   She closed her eyes and forced herself to speak. "Why don't you come sit beside me?" She indicated the section of the chaise longue closest to the fire.

   Opening her eyes, she gauged his reaction, and panic stabbed through her. He was going to say no. She could see it. And why wouldn't he say no? After all, she had refused his proposal, refused him.

   Then, to her shock, he crossed the room and sat

at the edge of the chaise longue. She smiled at him, but now she had no idea what to say. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, so she knew she had better say something. She had to keep him here until he was warm enough to remove his coat.

   "So do you like being a duc?" It was stupid. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth, but she did not know what else to say to him.

   He furrowed his brow, obviously surprised by the question. "I suppose. Of course, I wish my father were still alive. He was a far better duc than I'll ever be."

   "And your father died in the revolution."

   "Guillotined."

   "I'm so sorry." She put a hand on his arm, truly horrified.

   "So am I. I was only thirteen when he was murdered. I wish I'd known him better."

   She nodded, understanding. All her life she had wished she knew something of her mother or father— known anything about them. At least a name.

   Sarah realized she was leaning close to Valère, her hand still on his arm. And he was looking at her, his eyes darker and bluer than she could remember seeing them.

   "Are you feeling warm?" she breathed.

   "Yes." His voice was a murmur, his eyes intent on hers.

   "Would you like to take off your coat?"

   Surprise flashed over his face, and then he reached for the buttons. "Would you like me to take off my coat?"

   Oh, Reverend Collier would definitely
not
approve of this.

But she needed that key.

"Yes."

   He inclined his head and slowly unfastened the buttons. Then he stopped. "Perhaps you could help me."

   "Oh?" She had been watching his hand undo the buttons, anticipating how he would look sliding the coat off his shoulders. Would she see the muscles of his chest flex under that stark white shirt? And what if she skimmed her hand over that shirt, loosened that cravat, slid her hand—

   "Come closer," he said.

   She could not seem to resist the lure of those eyes. She moved toward him.

   Then her cold hand was in his warm one. She looked down at their joined hands then up and into his eyes. With a slight tug on her wrist, he brought her closer, so close she could see the flecks of indigo in his dark blue eyes, so close she feared he could hear her heart pounding.

   "Put your hand here," he instructed, laying it on his shoulder. "And then pull."

   She knew he meant for her to pull the fabric off his shoulder—it really was a tight-fitting coat—but instead of tugging on the fabric, she tugged him, bringing him a whisper from her lips.

   His hand came up behind her, cupped her neck, and he closed the distance.
"Ma belle,"
he whispered.
My beauty.

   His lips were light and feathery on hers, making her mouth tingle. She had not expected that sensation. It was different from what she felt at the opera. Then she had felt warm and heavy; now she felt heady and breathless.

   And she did not expect that she would want so much more. She wanted more of his mouth, more of his hands, more of his body. He seemed to sense her need, and the feel of his mouth on hers changed. The light, teasing pressure ended, and his lips became firmer, more insistent. Her whole body blazed alive at this new touch. Every sense was awakened. His citrus and wood scent engulfed her; the warmth of his hands on her neck and back fired her blood; the sound of her heart pounding in her ears drowned out everything but the feel of his lips, his body.

   And the feel of him. She was wantonly clutching his shoulders, her hands caressing the tightly corded muscles there.

   His mouth left her lips and drifted to her chin, then to her ear. She shivered, feeling the light whisper of his breath against that virgin flesh. Until him, she had never been kissed, never been held, never been wanted. All of this was simply too much, and yet she could not make herself release him.

   "Open for me,
chérie
. I want to taste you."

   Sarah did not know what he meant, but his words made her quiver. Then before she could speak, could protest, his lips were brushing against hers again. "Open for me,
mon ange
." He was speaking in French now, his words like thick warm cream.

   "I-I don't know what you mean," she stammered in French.

   He pulled back, looked at her with those azure eyes. They were dark, so dark. His thumb caressed her chin gently. "Are you that innocent?"

   She looked down, embarrassed, but he lifted her chin with a finger. "Don't be ashamed,
chérie
. I wouldn't dream of ruining you. Let me kiss you.
Laisse-moi te toucher.
"
Let me touch you…

   Yes, this was what she wanted—his hands, his fingers, his lips… everywhere. He slanted his mouth over hers again and, with gentle, insistent pressure, he opened her lips and swept inside.

   Sarah held on, gripping his back to keep from sinking. Her head spun, her heart slammed against her breast, and her body was a furnace. He explored her slowly, gently, but oh so thoroughly. He tasted of champagne and raspberries.