The Making of a Duchess (17 page)

   And then, suddenly, he drew back. She could not open her eyes for a long moment, and when she did, he was staring at her, looking out of breath as well.

   "I shouldn't have done that," he murmured, now speaking in English. She wished he would go back to French. English seemed far too cold and rational a language for what she was feeling at the moment.

   "Why?" she breathed.

   "Because now I want to do it again."

   She let out a short laugh that ended in a moan when he reached for her again. This kiss was just as penetrating, just as deep, and even more intoxicating.

   When he pulled away this time, it was to remove his coat. "I'm too warm after all," he muttered, and the words were like ice poured down her back.

   The key.

   She had come in here to pilfer the key, not to be swept off her feet by Valère's skillful kisses. But she could not concentrate with his mouth on hers, could not think of anything but kissing him back.

   And yet, if she stopped kissing him, he would put his coat back on and leave.

   They should both leave. How long had they been missing from the ball?

   He laid the coat on the chaise longue behind him and reached for her again. "Your Grace—" she began in a halfhearted effort to dissuade him.

   "Julien."

   He nuzzled her neck, and the hairs on her arms tingled. "Julien," she whispered.

   "Yes."

   And then his lips were on hers again, plundering her, robbing her of any thought except that she never wanted him to stop. She felt his hands stroke her back, her neck, curl in her hair. And then he broke the kiss again and dipped to kiss her neck. "Serafina," he whispered.

   She jumped and pulled back.

   "What's wrong?"

   Now that she was out of his arms, she could see that his hair was tousled and his eyes were hazy with passion. She probably looked just as disheveled.

   But her head was clear now. She was Serafina to him, not Sarah. He had been kissing Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, not Sarah Smith.

   She wanted to hit herself for being such a fool. He would never want her if he knew who she really was. She needed to end this charade once and for all. But she couldn't do that without the key.

   "Serafina, what's wrong?" he asked again.

   "I-I just think we should pause for a moment. I mean, what are we doing?"

   He smiled. "Would you like me to show you again?"

   She did. Oh, how she wanted him to show her, but she needed to get that key.

   "I think we should return to the ball." Perhaps she could help him put his coat on again and pilfer the key while his back was to her.

   "Are you feeling better?"

   "Much."

   He gave her a half smile, then rose and offered his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up and into his arms.

   This time the kiss was her fault. She did not know if she would ever feel this way again, if she would ever meet another man who wanted her this way. A man who wanted her as his wife, the mother of his children.

   Desperate for one last taste of what she would never have, she kissed him with all the passion and ardor she had saved for almost twenty years.

   And so she was firmly in his arms, his lips solidly on hers, when the door opened.

   In the next moment, she was thrust behind him, away from the eyes of Lord Vichou and—

   Sarah wanted to groan.

   There was Sir Northrop.

   "It appears we have interrupted something," Lord Vichou said, taking in the scene with one glance.

   "It was only a kiss," Valère said stiffly. "The lady did not feel well and wanted to get away from the crush of the ball."

   Sarah felt her cheeks heat and wanted to climb under the chaise longue. This was so humiliating. Who would believe they had only been in here kissing?

   No one. And that was precisely what Sir Northrop wanted. She had no illusions their discovery had been an accident. Obviously the man would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. In this case, her engagement.

   Well, she wanted out of this so-called mission. With Valère's back to her and him shielding her from view temporarily, she scooped up Valère's coat, patted it down, and pulled a small gold key out of an inside pocket.

   Finally!

   "And who is the lady in question?" Sir Northrop asked. Sarah wanted to disappear. She knew exactly what was coming next.

   "That's none of your concern, Sir Northrop," Valère said, his voice stern. "If you'll give me a moment to retrieve my coat"—Sarah handed it to him—"I'll fetch my mother, and we'll be on our way."

   "That looked like Mademoiselle Serafina Artois," Sir Northrop said. "If that's the case, I must insist you make some restitution for the harm you've done her."

   Sarah felt Julien tense and chose that moment to step out from behind him. Oh, dear. The crowd at the door had grown considerably larger. "Sir Northrop, thank you for your kind concern," she said, her voice wavering. "But I assure you that what you witnessed was nothing more than an innocent kiss. I've been in no way harmed."

   Sir Northrop's steely gaze met hers, and she willed him to walk away.
I have the key. Forget the engagement.

   Lord Vichou nodded. "Well, if the lady says no harm was done—"

   "The lady's reputation is harmed," Sir Northrop growled. "As a friend of her family, I must insist His Grace do the honorable thing."

   Sarah held up her hand. "My honor has not been compromised. There's no need—"

   Valère stepped in front of her again. "I won't have anyone challenge my honor." His gaze locked and held with Sir Northrop's. Sarah saw the duchesse in the back of the crowd, her face pale and her eyes wide.

   "I assure you, on my honor, that nothing improper happened here. But"—he locked eyes with several of the guests, including Sir Northrop—"for those of you who question that, I am prepared to marry Mademoiselle Serafina. It's been my intention all along."

   He turned back to her, his blue eyes hard as cobalt. "Mademoiselle Serafina, will you consent to be my wife?"

   She sighed, feeling as trapped as he probably did. Perhaps more so as her heart was now involved. Why could nothing be simple or easy?

   "Yes, of course I'll marry you," she said and clutched the small gold key in the palm of her hand.

He was engaged. Julien lay in his large four-poster bed and stared at the ceiling.

   
Engaged.

   He could still hear the shouts of well-wishers at the ball, the clink of champagne glasses as toasts were made, and the waver in Serafina's voice as she accepted him.

   She didn't want him. She had told him that once before and had tried to escape her fate tonight.

   Perhaps he could win her over. Perhaps he could make some grand romantic gesture. He had no idea what that might be, but Rigby was probably the fellow to help him out there. Rigby was always popular with the ladies.

   Julien was not so popular. Rigby said his scowls scared women away, but Julien had never been interested in those timid creatures anyway.

   Serafina was not timid. Or at least not as timid as he had first thought. When she had kissed him tonight, he had to pour every ounce of self-control into resisting the urge to push her down on that chaise longue and take her right there.

   But he had resisted. He had been truthful when he said nothing inappropriate had happened between them. Yes, he had kissed her, but neither his hands nor lips had strayed. There was no reason he should have to marry her.

   And yet he was not sorry. He wanted to marry her, wanted her in his bed, wanted to allow his hands and lips to stray over every inch of that long, lithe body.

   He groaned at the image, then turned over, pulled a pillow on top of his head, and tried to go to sleep. He lay there for what seemed an interminable length of time, debating the merits of persevering or giving up, going to his office and getting some work done.

   His office.

   Julien threw off the pillow and sat. Had he locked the door when he had come to bed? He had already dismissed Grimsby for the night, so the butler would not have undertaken the task.

   Julien shook his head and lay back. It didn't matter if the office was locked. His papers about Armand were secure in the secret drawer in his desk. Still… he felt uneasy.

   With a sigh, he climbed out of bed and pulled a robe on over his nakedness. He would just lock the door and then go back to bed.

   The house was quiet as he padded downstairs. He carried a candle, and the flame cast long, flickering shadows. He hated shadows. When he had been younger, he had nightmares where the shadows in his room turned from gnarled trees into old women brandishing pitchforks. He would close his eyes, only to remember the gurgling sound his nanny had made when she had been murdered. Thank God the smoke had prevented him from seeing that horror.

   But he was a man now. He was too old to jump at shadows.

   He continued down the wide staircase, liking the feel of the cold marble on his bare feet. He had bought that marble. He had paid for it, and it was a reminder of his success. A reminder that though the peasants may have tried to kill him, he was far from dead.

   Julien stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turned toward his office, and stopped.

   His office door was ajar.

   Not by much. But he could see a minuscule glimmer of light through the sliver of space between the door and the casement.

   Julien blew out his candle and set it on one of the side tables. Silently, he moved toward the door, stopping outside and listening. He heard nothing. Perhaps no one was in there, and it was he who left the library this way.

   But he knew it wasn't so. He would never leave a light burning in the library. He would have shut the door securely.

   He reached out and pushed on the door with two fingers, gently easing it open. The hinges were well-oiled and silent as the widening gap revealed the room.

   There at his desk, oblivious to his presence, sat Mademoiselle Serafina. She was writing furiously, and from the way she glanced from one document then back to her own paper, he surmised she was copying something.

   She still wore her ball gown, but her hair was down about her shoulders. It gleamed in the light from her candle and pooled about her face, her expression stern with concentration. In that long moment, Julien noted something else—Mademoiselle Serafina was wearing spectacles.

   Casually, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the door jamb. "What are you doing?"

   She started, her pen flying out of her hand as she jumped to her feet. "Your Grace!" She put a hand to her heart, and he could see the thoughts rush across her face. How long had he been there? What had he seen? How could she escape?

   He took a step forward. "Answer the question."

   "I-I was writing a letter to my mother."

   He moved closer. "Why not do so in your bedroom?"

   "It was more comfortable in here." She leaned toward his desk in an effort to cover the papers spread there, but he hurried forward and grabbed her hand. He held it tightly as he first lifted the letter about Armand and then the copy she had been making.

   "What the hell is going on here?"

   "Nothing. I was—"

   He yanked her around the desk, adjusting his grip so he now held her wrist. "Do not lie to me." He moved around the desk so he could see his secret drawer. It was open, his small gold key glinting in the lock.

   He looked up at her, anger like he had never felt before churning through him. He wanted to throttle her. "How did you get my key?" Before she could fabricate another lie, he yanked her close and stared directly into her eyes behind the spectacles. "And think long and hard before lying to me again."

   She swallowed and looked away.

   "Serafina, tell me."

   She whipped her head back to stare at him. Angry. Defiant. "Fine. You want the truth? I'm not Serafina."

   He frowned. "What?"

   "I'm not Serafina Artois, daughter of the comte de Guyenne. There is no Serafina. She died as a child. The whole family was killed when they fell out of favor with the king."

   He stared at her, trying to comprehend her words. "But there were letters—"

   "Fabricated." She must have seen something in his eyes because she quickly raised her hand as a shield. "Not by me, Your Grace."

   "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" A knot had formed in the pit of his stomach, and those shadows he had always feared as a child crept in again.

   She shook her head. "I can't tell you more. I've told you too much already."

   Fury surged in him, and he gripped both of her arms tightly, pushing her back against the desk. "You're going to tell me everything I ask, and if you don't I'll—" He didn't know what he'd do.

   She shook her head. "Go ahead. I'm doomed now anyway. And so are you."

   "What the hell does that mean?"

   "They're on to you, Your Grace. Do what you want to me, but you're the one who'll be drawn and quartered."